The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,47

making his throat tight and his eyes burn, and so he’d kissed her. Except now he’d only made matters worse because she melted into his arms without a murmur of protest and with a good deal of enthusiasm. Oh, and she was sweet, so much damned sweeter because he knew how strong she was and how no one else—barring perhaps the children—ever got to see beyond the prickles and strength, because she had to keep going, she had to hold them all together. She was doing it, too, with nothing more than string and sealing wax, and the sheer force of her will.

Desire was a searing ache in his chest and, damn, that was a strange thing because desire did not usually feel this way. Lust, he understood, but this was an uncertain blend of want and need and pain, and he did not know why or what to do with it.

He let her go, a little more abruptly than he had meant to, and she staggered, clutching at his arms. Her eyes were still bright, her cheeks flushed, and her lips reddened and swollen by the force of his kisses. He wanted to do it again. Hellfire, he wanted to haul her upstairs to his room and not let her leave until he’d made her understand just what manner of man he really was. Oddly, he wanted to protect her, too; he wanted for her to never know what kind of man he was, because he did not want to lose the look that was in her eyes now, as foolish as it was. Foolish of them both.

“Oh, my,” she gasped, staring up at him. “Th-That was a practical lesson, I take it?”

He gave a jerky nod and tugged at his waistcoat. “Quite.”

“Y-Yes, I thought that must be it.”

“We’d best go in before someone sees us.”

She nodded again, still staring at him. There was an unfocused, glassy look to her eyes now he could not help but feel a little smug about. Well, a fellow had his pride, dash it all! He couldn’t be the only one who was feeling half seas over when he was more sober than he’d been in his life.

“When shall we go a-rifling?” she asked, a mischievous twitch to her lips that made him want to kiss her all over again.

“Rifling?”

“Yes. You promised to come and rifle Ceci’s gowns with me, remember?”

“Ah, yes, rifling it is. Well, I don’t know. When will she be the farthest from her wardrobe?”

“I believe she is going with Charlie to pay a call on Mr and Mrs Treloar over at Widemouth Bay. They ought to be gone at least a couple of hours. You’ve put Harry in such a good mood I’m sure he’ll mind the children if I ask nicely.”

“Very well. As soon as they’re gone, then.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding, but making no move to return to the house.

“Well… we should….” He gestured awkwardly at the side door he’d ushered her out of.

“Oh, yes. We should.”

King supposed he ought to be pleased by the reluctance with which she turned and went back into the house, but all he could hear were alarm bells ringing so loud his head was pounding, or was that his heart? Perhaps he was coming down with something. His hands were clammy and still not as steady as he’d like. Gods, he wanted a drink. Except he couldn’t have a drink. I am not drinking, he reminded himself, but now it was not just because he didn’t want to send himself to an early grave with nothing to show for his miserable existence, but… but because Livvy was proud of him. Damn her eyes! What business had she being proud of him? The next thing he knew she’d say she cared for him or… or that she….

He sucked in a sharp breath and clutched at his chest, wondering if perhaps he was about to turn up his toes after all.

“King? King! Are you sure you’re quite well? You’ve gone the ghastliest shade of white, like a milk pudding.”

King blinked and gave Livvy his haughtiest look of disdain, the one he reserved for presumptuous upstarts. “Quite well, I thank you. If you would excuse me, Miss Penrose, I… I must…”

His mind blanked. He didn’t have the least idea of what was so pressing he must do it at once, and besides, she knew damn well he was an idle wastrel. He panicked, knowing only that he had to get away from her before he