man she’d never had a chance to meet and marry.
Over the years, she’d had local suitors aplenty, yet although they’d wooed her, their eyes had been on her supposed inheritance and the status an alliance with her family would bring. In the area, the Hinckleys had always been considered well-to-do, a financial and social step up from most of the surrounding gentry. Although they held no title, their very longevity in the area lent a certain cachet, and the size and age of the house and the assumed prosperity of their lands only further consolidated their position.
That position hadn’t been a help; for her, all it had done was attract gentlemen she was then forced to discourage.
Yet for once, here and now, that wasn’t the case. Godfrey Cavanaugh was a lord, a nobleman, and a wealthy one to boot. While he appreciated the Hall for what it was, he had absolutely no designs on the place.
He did have designs on her—they were attracted in a way she’d never encountered before. Mutually drawn to each other by a complexity of feelings and urges that constantly demanded her attention.
Her consideration.
She was considering now.
Considering the likelihood that tomorrow, after he wrote his report on the painting, with the roads clear again, he might well opt to take that report to Eastlake personally and leave for London.
Tomorrow.
She—they—might only have tonight. This night, if they wanted to see what might be. If they wished to explore what the magic of that kiss on the snowy bridge portended—where the sensations that had stirred might lead them.
She didn’t need to think to know he wouldn’t come to her; he wasn’t that sort of man. The sort a woman needed to discourage.
He was the sort of man who waited for a lady to make up her mind.
Arms crossed, she stared at the myriad stars twinkling, bright and brilliant, against the backdrop of the night-black sky.
Like those previous decisions, this one, too, would be hers.
Godfrey was pacing before the fire in his room, debating the best order in which to lay out the facts of the situation for Eastlake, when a tap fell on the door.
He halted and blinked. He recognized that tap.
His feet had him at the door before he’d even thought. Grasping the knob, he opened the door—and stared as his eyes confirmed who was on the other side.
He blinked again. “Yes?”
To his increasing surprise, Ellie raised her hand, pressed her palm to his chest, and pushed, urging him backward.
His senses leaping at the pressure of her palm over his heart, he obliged and took two steps back.
Keeping her hand where it was, locking her eyes with his, she stepped into the room. With her other hand, she reached behind her, caught the door, and pushed it closed.
Hopes rising even while he told himself this would be about something else, he arched his brows at her.
She held his gaze. “I’m here to explain something.”
She was in his room alone with him, and the rest of the household was already abed. He raised his brows even higher. “What?”
Her gaze remained rock-steady. “This.”
She stepped close, raised both hands, framed his face, and drew it down as she stretched on her toes, tipped up her face, and pressed her lips to his.
He was…captured. In that instant, he was caught by her, snared by her directness, her boldness, for her kiss was no mere brush of the lips. This kiss burned.
His response was instantaneous. His own heat and passions flared, surging in accord with hers, and that immediate attunement only deepened the wonder, the irresistibly potent lure that the pressure of her lips had become.
He wanted more. Much more. His arms locked about her—then seized her, held her, pressed her to him. His lips fought hers for dominance, and on a sigh, she melted into his embrace and surrendered.
Her lips parted in welcome, and he surged into the sweet haven of her mouth and laid claim.
The caress and press of her hands at his nape urged him on.
He angled his head, deepened the kiss, and obliged.
Ellie thrilled at his mastery, at the understated assurance with which he made her senses sing. His lips and tongue branded and seduced, tempted and tantalized. She couldn’t get enough; splaying her fingers, she sent them raking through his thick hair, glorying in the silky texture, then she clutched and held him to her and wrestled once more to take as well as give.
The kiss settled into a rhythm, almost a dance, one taking the lead