Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(44)

They both gasped as her cool fingers touched the burning skin of his back. Fascinated, Beatrix explored the curvature of deep intrinsic muscles, the tight mesh of sinew and bone, the astonishing strength contained just beneath the surface. She found the texture of scars, vestiges of pain and survival. After stroking a healed-over line, she covered it tenderly with her palm.

A shudder racked his frame. Christopher groaned and crushed his mouth over hers, urging her body against his, until together they found an erotic pattern, a cadence. Instinctively Beatrix tried to draw him inside herself, pulling at his lips and tongue with her own.

Christopher broke the kiss abruptly, panting. Cradling her head in his hands, he pressed his forehead against hers.

“Is it you?” he asked hoarsely. “Is it?”

Beatrix felt tears slip from beneath her lashes, no matter how she tried to blink them back. Her heart was ablaze. It seemed that her entire life had led to this man, this moment of unexpressed love.

But she was too frightened of his scorn, and too ashamed of her own actions, to answer.

Christopher’s fingertips found the tear marks on her damp skin. His mouth grazed her trembling lips, lingering at one soft corner, sliding up to the verge of a salt-flavored cheek.

Releasing her, he stepped back and stared at her with baffled anger. The desire exerted such force between them that Beatrix dazedly wondered how he could maintain even that small distance.

A shaken breath escaped him. He straightened his clothes, moving with undue care, as if he were intoxicated.

“Damn you.” His voice was low and strained. He strode out of the stables.

Albert, who had been sitting by a stall, began to trot after him. Upon noticing that Beatrix wasn’t going with them, the terrier dashed over to her and whimpered.

Beatrix bent to pet him. “Go on, boy,” she whispered.

Hesitating only a moment, Albert ran after his master.

And Beatrix watched them both with despair.

Two days later, a ball was given at Stony Cross Manor, the manorial residence of Lord and Lady Westcliff. It would have been difficult to find a more beautiful setting than the ancient dwelling built of honey-colored stone, surrounded by extensive gardens. The whole of it was situated on a bluff overlooking the Itchen River. As neighbors and friends of Lord and Lady Westcliff, the Hathaways were all invited. Cam in particular was a valued and frequent companion of the earl’s, the two having been closely acquainted for many years.

Although Beatrix had been a guest at Stony Cross Manor on many previous occasions, she was still struck by the beauty of the home, especially the lavish interior. The ballroom was beyond compare, with intricately parqueted floors and a double row of chandeliers, two of the long walls fitted with semicircular niches containing velvet upholstered benches.

After partaking of refreshments at the long buffet tables, Beatrix entered the ballroom with Amelia and Catherine. The scene was profligate with color, ladies dressed in lavish ball gowns, the men clad in the formal ensemble of black and white. The sparkle of the crystal chandeliers was very nearly matched by the bountiful displays of jewels on feminine wrists, necks, and ears.

The host of the evening, Lord Westcliff, approached to exchange pleasantries with Beatrix, Amelia, and Catherine. Beatrix had always liked the earl, a courteous and honorable man whose friendship had benefited the Hathaways on countless occasions. With his rugged features, coal-black hair, and dark eyes, he was striking rather than handsome. He wore an aura of power comfortably and without fanfare. Westcliff asked Catherine to dance with him, a mark of favor that was hardly lost on the other guests, and she complied with a smile.

“How kind he is,” Amelia said to Beatrix as they watched the earl lead Catherine into the midst of the whirling couples. “I’ve noticed that he always makes a point of being obliging and gracious to the Hathaways. That way, no one would dare cut or snub us.”

“I think he likes unconventional people. He’s not nearly as staid as one might assume.”

“Lady Westcliff has certainly said as much,” Amelia replied, smiling.

A rejoinder faded on Beatrix’s lips as she caught sight of a perfectly matched couple on the other side of the room. Christopher Phelan was talking with Prudence Mercer. The scheme of formal black and white was becoming to any man. On someone like Christopher, it was literally breathtaking. He wore the clothes with natural ease, his posture relaxed but straight, his shoulders broad. The crisp white of his starched cravat provided a striking contrast to his tawny skin, while the light of chandeliers glittered over his golden-bronze hair.

Following her gaze, Amelia lifted her brows. “What an attractive man,” she said. Her attention returned to Beatrix. “You like him, don’t you?”

Before Beatrix could help herself, she sent her sister a pained glance. Letting her gaze drop to the floor, she said, “There have been a dozen times in the past when I should have liked a particular gentleman. When it would have been convenient, and appropriate, and easy. But no, I had to wait for someone special. Someone who would make my heart feel as if it’s been trampled by elephants, thrown into the Amazon, and eaten by piranhas.”

Amelia smiled at her compassionately. Her gloved hand slipped over Beatrix’s. “Darling Bea. Would it console you to hear that such feelings of infatuation are perfectly ordinary?”

Beatrix turned her palm upward, returning the clasp of her sister’s hand. Since their mother had died when Bea was twelve, Amelia had been a source of endless love and patience. “Is it infatuation?” she heard herself asking softly. “Because it feels much worse than that. Like a fatal disease.”