The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(33)

“Perhaps. But perhaps not. And neither of us wants to take that chance.”

“So our first kiss is our last kiss,” Alice said, her stomach tumbling at the thought.

“I’m afraid so.”

No. The word exploded in her head. She had to have one more kiss. “Before you leave for good, would you kiss me one more time, Henny? For old time’s sake?” He stiffened, and Alice immediately regretted her words. “Just a kiss on the cheek,” she said with forced cheer. “Right here.” She dimpled her cheeks and pressed an index finger into the small indent.

Henderson took a step toward her and she held her breath. Slowly he brought one hand up, index finger extended. He hesitated before placing the pad of his finger gently against her lower lip. Alice looked up into his eyes, but he was concentrating on where he pressed that finger against her, his eyes dark and hooded. “Or I could kiss you here. Now.”

Alice swallowed. “Henny,” she whispered.

He drew her lip slowly down, his body so close to her she could feel the heat of him, feel his light, brandy-tinged breath against her face. His expression grew hard, the muscles along his jaw bunching, and Alice swore she’d never seen him look so handsome. Her body swayed slightly, bringing them closer, putting a bit more pressure on her lip, and the very tip of his finger slipped into her mouth. Alice couldn’t have said why, but she touched her tongue against his flesh, and he drew in a quick, harsh breath. “God, Alice.”

He slowly trailed that finger from her lip, down her chin and to her sensitive neck, stopping at the white lace of her nightgown. For one breathless moment she thought he would push further, but instead he brought his hand behind her neck and pulled her toward him until their lips were nearly touching. And then he was kissing her, tasting her, and Alice brought her hands up to his shoulders, clinging, for she wasn’t certain her legs could hold her. His breathing was harsh against her cheek and it seemed as though every inch of her body was filled with the need for something she didn’t fully understand. She only knew she wanted more and more and more. Her breasts ached, and it felt so good to press against him, to relieve some of the tension that was building. When his hand moved from her back to brush lightly against one breast, she moaned and he deepened the kiss. Lost was any cognizant thought that what they were doing was wrong. The only thing she could think was Yes, this is what I want. This is how I want to feel.

He pulled at her erect nipple, and Alice felt a flood of heat and warmth between her legs. His clever tongue began a subtle rhythm against her own. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to press her center against the hard ridge of his arousal, seeking to take away the edge of her desire, to do something to give her body relief. And so when he abruptly pulled away, stepping back four full paces, she stumbled toward him before she realized with every step she took, he retreated.

“Alice, if we don’t stop now, I don’t know if I’ll be able,” Henderson said harshly.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “No, don’t be. This was my fault. I should have just gone upstairs and gone to bed. I knew… I knew I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Why?”

Henderson dipped his head and stared at the floor. “I have no right to touch you, not like that.”



*



At breakfast the next morning, Henderson found he could hardly look at Alice. He feared everyone at the table, including Mrs. Hubbard, would know he was thinking not so pure thoughts about the elder Hubbard daughter. It was difficult enough to hide his love for Alice; he would likely be even less adept at hiding his lust. He was thankful, then, when a footman quietly delivered a note scrawled on thick vellum bearing the Berkley crest. Saying a silent prayer, he opened the note and smiled grimly. The new Lord Berkley would see him that afternoon. If the meeting was successful, something he had little hope for, he would work with Berkley to gather more support. If it was not, Henderson had no idea what he would do. Without someone like Berkley behind him, he had little influence over the great men who could make a difference. He knew he’d been lucky even to gain an audience with all eight men on his list.

“Good news, I hope,” Elda said, before taking a sip of their very fine tea.

“Indeed it is, Mrs. Hubbard. I have gained an audience with the new Lord Berkley.”

“Ah. Alice did mention something about him being at Costille. Of course I knew the old earl quite well, but his son is a stranger to me. He hasn’t been in St. Ives in years, from what I gather.”

Christina put her fork down, and Henderson had a feeling she was about to impart some great gossip. “Isn’t he the one who murdered his wife? Threw her from the castle’s tower?” Her eyes lit up as if murder were the most wonderful breakfast topic.

“Christina, really,” Elda said, frowning heavily at her younger daughter, who had the good grace to dip her head, though Henderson had a feeling she didn’t feel particularly contrite about spreading such gossip.

“The truth of the matter is,” Elda said, sliding her gaze to Henderson, “that his wife did die from a fall during a house party. Several witnesses vouched that Lord Berkley was in an entirely different part of the castle when she died.”

“Suicide.” This quiet and devastating word came from Alice, said more into her plate than to anyone at the table. She lifted her head, and a slight tinge of red marred her pale cheeks, as if she hadn’t meant for everyone at the table to hear her. “They said it was suicide.”