“Kissing you made me feel the most like myself that I have in years,” she admitted softly before she could think better of the revelation. “Thank you, my lord. Thank you for rescuing Lady, and thank you for some much-need distraction this evening.”
She should go before she embarrassed herself any further. The champagne’s effects upon her waned. Or perhaps it was the reality, forever crushing, threatening to overwhelm. Whatever the source, whatever the reason, she could not shake the effect he had upon her.
What was it about Tom, Lord Sidmouth? Surely other men were handsome and breathtaking. There were far more gentlemen in London awaiting her, men who would seduce her with sweetness and who would be nothing like Southwick. A veritable bevvy if Lottie was to be believed. Why did she not give a damn about meeting any of them after tonight?
“Your gratitude is unnecessary,” Sidmouth said, still rubbing that well-defined jaw. “And from next door, it seems to me as if you have an ample supply of distraction.”
Sadness washed over her—the same sorrow she could never seem to banish, no matter how hard she tried. “Not all distraction is enough, my lord. Sometimes, distraction is not…improving, shall we say?”
He inclined his head. “I can agree with that wholeheartedly. But still, some distraction is…more than expected. Rather a lot more.”
His voice was deep, low, intimate.
A frisson skittered through her. Not fear. Not trepidation. This was different.
He was different.
But she did not know yet how. Or why. Or if her instincts ought to be trusted. After all, she had found herself married to Southwick, had she not? She had no wish to repeat that outrage.
Once was enough, thank you.
Never again. There was the new voice once more, the one she ought to listen to. The one which could drown out the old voice.
“Some distraction is more welcome than others,” she agreed, swallowing against a rush of sudden, painfully intense longing.
She scarcely knew anything of the man she had just kissed in the moonlight. He could be cruel. Possessive. Jealous. He could be little different than Southwick had been.
He rescued Lady, whispered that same voice inside her.
He had saved her from the rosebushes and likely earned himself a few thorns in the process, it was true. Blast. She had not thought about any injuries he might have sustained in freeing Adelaide from the flora.
“This distraction was most welcome to me, Hyacinth,” he told her softly. “I bid you good evening.”
He swept into a bow that would do any ballroom shame.
She swallowed down a rush of emotion. This was all so very new. These feelings, this man.
Freedom.
“Good evening, Lord Sidmouth,” she said, his title feeling terribly formal and odd on her tongue after his mouth had just been upon hers. “Lady thanks you. I thank you as well. Perhaps we shall meet again in the light of day.”
“I have no doubt we shall.” He rose, inclining his head.
Heavens, he was so tempting.
Hyacinth turned and fled back into the house. Before she did something truly foolish.
You already have, said the old voice in scathing fashion.
She told the old voice to go to Hades. For she was a new woman now.
Or, at the very least, she was trying to be.
Chapter Three
Someone was tapping his shoulder.
“Go to the devil,” Tom growled, nettled. His gut lurched.
Oh God, was he going to be sick? He groaned.
“My lord?” More prodding ensued. “Mildred, do you think he has cracked his skull?”
He recognized the voice, above the pounding in his head. It belonged to his redoubtable butler, Trenton. But why was the butler shaking him, and who the devil was Mildred?
Tom’s mouth was dry and tasted like a sour oak barrel. His brain hurt. His back hurt worse. Even his nose—the break not entirely healed—was thumping as if to spite him.
“And how would his lordship have cracked his skull, Arthur?” asked a sturdy female voice, no-nonsense.
Mrs. Brown’s, he thought. His housekeeper.
Was her Christian name Mildred? Hell, Tom had not known. Revelations, all before he had opened his eyes. The bright light seeping through his eyelids promised further pain. Mayhap if he feigned sleep, his domestics would go away and leave him to his misery. He had no wish to face the sun, not now.
Possibly not ever.
“Over-imbibing,” elucidated the masculine voice, speaking slowly. “He stinks of it. He could have fallen and hit his head upon the corner of his desk.”
“Arthur!” Mrs. Brown’s tone was scandalized. “Bite your tongue! Shame on you, speaking thus of