LITMIR.BIZ

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were in England. Then he would have had twenty-three years of wedded bliss instead of years of solitude, of lonely nights reading by the fire—or, worse, slinking up inn stairs, taking his ease with women he didn’t love.

      If he had taken Kate to Scotland, he’d have sons now…daughters…a family.

      But no, he was the responsible brother, the thoughtful, cautious, sensible one—and look where the hell it had got him.

      Of course daring had gotten Luke dead.

      Should he pretend he’d come this way out of nostalgia—pass by, continue through the garden and back up the steps to the terrace, polite, gentlemanly, a pattern card of proper behavior?

      No, damn it. He hadn’t come all the way to London to be proper. He’d come to misbehave—and he bloody well would do so now. With Kate. He’d woken up hard and aching more times than he cared to count, thanks to her.

      He ducked under a low hanging branch to move deeper into the shadows. Kate followed without hesitation or even a whisper of protest.

      He held her hand to guide her over the tree roots and down the thin path, a line worn in the grass by other couples. Was anyone else here? He paused, put his finger to Kate’s lips when she would have spoken, and listened. He heard snatches of distant music from the ballroom, laughter from the terrace, the rustle of a small animal scurrying through the bushes, but no sound of lovers stealing a kiss in the bower, thank God.

      He moved around the high hedge to the small hidden pocket of privacy. Best take no chances. He guided Kate to stand so he blocked the opening in the hedge. If anyone stumbled in, they would see only his back—and hopefully take themselves off immediately.

      He didn’t want anyone to see them. He didn’t want anyone to interrupt them. Hell, he didn’t want the party, the ton, the whole damn world to exist. He wanted life to be limited to this little patch of greenery, to him and Kate. No time—past or passing; no memories. Just now. Just here.

      “We’re alone.” He barely breathed the words, half afraid anything louder than a whisper would break the spell.

      “Yes.” She whispered, too. Her head was down; she was staring at his waistcoat.

      Moonlight sifted through the tree branches, sliding over Kate’s shoulders, over the tops of her breasts, making her skin glow.

      He closed his eyes briefly. She was so beautiful, she made his heart—and other organ—ache. He studied the delicate curve of her neck, the soft wisps of hair that had slipped free of their pins. He wanted to hold her close, to protect her from all life’s pain—and love every last inch of her perfect body.

      He had never thought to stand here with her again. He’d never thought to stand anywhere with her again. When he’d got word she’d married Oxbury, something in him had died. Now it was stirring back to life.

      “Kate.”

      She finally looked up. The tip of her tongue slid out to moisten her lips.

      He had to touch her, to feel her skin under his. He shed his gloves—he’d like to shed more than his gloves, ofcourse, but not in Alvord’s garden—and brushed his fingers over her lips. He felt her breath sigh out, and her eyelids closed. Her face tilted up, her mouth just slightly—but so invitingly—open.

      Not yet. He wouldn’t kiss her yet. Soon though—very soon.

      He traced the swell of her breasts—and watched them swell more as she inhaled. Her top teeth caught her bottom lip. Her hands came up to grip his arms—to steady herself, not to stop him.

      He cupped her elegant neck, smoothing his thumbs over her jaw. A small, breathy moan escaped her. Her skin felt hot.

      “I’ve missed you, Kate.”

      “Ah.” Her eyes opened. They were slightly out of focus. “I-I’ve missed you, too.” She swallowed; he felt her throat move. “Terribly.”

      He traced her mouth with his finger, pulling her lower lip gently down. “Shall I kiss you?”

      “Yes. Please.”

      He bent his head.

      How much had she learned from her husband?

      He pulled back slightly. No. He would not think of Oxbury. That was the past, and there was no past here. He had left the past behind when he’d slipped into this bower. Here there was only now, only Kate and Alex.

      “Please,” she whispered. “Please, Alex.”

      He touched his mouth to hers gently, as he had when he’d been so much younger. Her lips stayed quiet. He brushed over them, moved to her cheek, her forehead, her eyelids. Her skin was so soft.

      The scent of lavender teased him, mixing with the rich scents of the garden just as it had before.

      He wanted to thread his hands through her hair, but he couldn’t. He was still cautious. They had to go back to the ballroom. She could not look as if she’d been doing what they were doing.

      He followed the line of her jaw with his lips. She tilted her head back to give him room to explore, and he took the invitation. He brushed aside a tendril of hair, kissed her throat from just below her ear to her collarbone and then down to the delicate mounds of her breasts. She gasped—and then made an odd little noise, a cross between a moan and a breathy pant. He moved back to the pulse in her throat. It fluttered beneath his lips.

      He had dreamt for so long of just this—of having Kate back in Alvord’s garden, in his arms, kissing her. The dream always ended with her naked under him—that wasn’t an option now, of course, but there was one detail he could enact.

      He touched his mouth to hers again, but this time he didn’t just brush her lips with his. This time he slid his tongue deep into her warm depths.

      She stiffened briefly as though startled, and he paused. She wouldn’t push him away, would she?

      No. She relaxed, letting her body rest against his. Her tongue touched his tentatively, as if she had no notion how to go on.

      He cupped her jaw and proceeded to show her. She tasted of mint and lemon and wine. Sweet and tart. Perfect.

      He was hard with need. He wanted to free her from the confines of her stays, strip her of her shift, explore her breasts, her belly, her thighs. He wanted more than his tongue deep in her moist warmth.

      She was a widow. He was unwed. There was nothing—no one—keeping them from doing what they should have done years ago. They wouldn’t even need to fly to Gretna.

      He withdrew, rested his cheek against her hair, tried to marshal his thoughts and his breath to ask her to marry him.

      She found her composure first.

      “Alex, I…” She paused.

      “Kate—”

      She put her finger on his lips, shaking her head slightly.

      “No, I…” She paused again and seemed to gather herself. A smile wavered over her lips. “Come tonight, to Oxbury House.” Her voice was breathless, nervous. Her gaze dropped to consider his chin. “Will you?”

      She couldn’t mean…? “You wish me to escort you and Lady Grace home from the ball?”

      “No.” She jerked her head in a short, negative motion. “No, I wish you…I want you…to come…later.” She glanced up to meet his eyes briefly, and then addressed his chin again. “I wish you to come to my room.” She was whispering so low he could barely hear her, but her next words were crystal clear. “To my b-bed. I wish you to come to my bed.”

      “What?!”

      “Shh! Someone will hear you.” Kate bit her lip. Alex’s eyes had widened and his mouth had dropped open. He was shocked.

      She was shocked herself. A hot wave of embarrassment flooded her. Had she actually just invited a gentleman to her

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