After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(65)

He swallowed.

She sashayed toward Adrian, one step at a time. “The whole thing was a ruse. Half-Price Camilla? The rector simply didn’t want anyone to take me seriously.”

“Well.” He tried to get into his role as—who was Albert again? It didn’t help that he knew almost nothing of the man, save a vague memory of brown hair. “Why would he do that?”

“Did you not notice that he called me into his office to consult, occasionally, on serious matters? I’ve been in communication with other members of the church, of course.”

She came next to Adrian and sat on the arm of his chair. She seemed so absolutely in control, so utterly right and perfect in the role. Adrian could hardly bring himself to breathe.

“Don’t tell me you actually believed any of that. I thought you smarter than that.” She reached out and set a finger on the top button of his coat.

“Camilla.” His voice came out hoarse.

“He wanted the bishop to think me discredited so I could go assist with some other matters. But here I am.” She tilted her head in an inch, so close that he could almost taste her. “I’ve returned. Did you miss me?”

And in that moment, he did. It made no rational sense; he’d talked to her every day for weeks; he could not possibly miss her. But he felt the distance between them, that bare inch, so keenly that he almost vibrated with it.

“Cam…” Her name came out almost a groan. She swayed toward him, not quite completing what he wanted, and he reached out. Maybe it was to steady her in place. Maybe it was just to touch her. His hand found her waist.

She exhaled, and he could feel her breath—on his lips, in his heart.

“One of my favorite duties,” she whispered, “used to be starting the morning fires. Our room was cold, coal being too dear to waste on servants who would warm themselves in labor. So I’d dress in the morning, my hands too numb to do my buttons, and rush downstairs. There was pride to be had in adding kindling, bit by bit. Blowing on the banked coals. Encouraging them to catch flame in a blast of heat.”

He could almost taste her words. He could feel the picture she painted, that warmth of the fire.

His hand was on her waist. She leaned in a little more, so her forehead touched his.

“I always dawdled as much as I could about the job, letting my hands grow warm. I’d find some excuse—I needed to make sure the fire caught everywhere, so that it burned evenly. I wouldn’t leave, even if I threatened to bake through.”

“Cam.” He felt almost hoarse.

“I have always been susceptible to flame,” she told him.

He wasn’t sure if his lips found hers first, or if hers found his.

God. Oh, God. He couldn’t think; he couldn’t let himself. If he thought, this couldn’t happen, and it had to happen. He could not have let himself stop, not for a thousand rational arguments. The gentle pressure of her mouth on his felt like a promise. Her lips whispered against his, wiping away his concerns one by one.

It will all work out. You have nothing to fear from me. We are in this together.

He had thought at first that he could simply get the annulment and walk away, unchanged. Then she’d worked her way inside him, with her smiles and her impulses and her strength. Now she was fire itself, and he wanted to be burned.

Her lips stroked his in tiny little kisses—almost chaste, despite the heat in them. His other hand slipped around her waist, bracketing her in place.

He felt full, so full. His mouth devoured hers, and she opened another inch to him, blooming in the incandescent heat of his kiss. Her lips burned him, and oh, he desired. He wanted more—her on top of him, not sitting to the side; her opening to him fully, not this chaste embrace.

But he couldn’t take anything else, not after what had been done to her. All he could do was stand here and wait, wait for her to give.

Their lips touched briefly, parted for a second, then came back together in a symphony of perfection. It was too much. He wanted her too much. He wanted to take hold of her and pull her down onto his lap. He wanted to lick her lips and slide his tongue inside, if she’d let him. He wanted to take her upstairs to his bed, no questions asked, not a moment of hesitation, and damn the fact that it would doom any chance of annulling the marriage.

He wanted her and nothing but her, her forever.

She brought one hand up tentatively, setting her fingers against the fabric of his shirt. For one moment, she didn’t move; then, ever so slightly, she stroked downward, sending a spiral of electric want through his nerves. Her hand slid down his ribs, a delicate brush against his flesh. I want you. I care for you. I see you.

He let out a gasp, and encouraged, she shifted her hand farther down, letting it catch on the waistband of his trousers.

Yes, he thought wildly. Yes. Don’t stop. Don’t—

She pulled away first. Her eyes were suspiciously bright; she jumped to her feet, leaving him feeling cold and alone.

“Oh, look at that!” She did her best to come up with a smile. “It worked, I can’t believe it worked! You knew it was an act, and still I fooled you!”

It took a moment for reality to set in. Right. They’d been play-acting. He almost reached for her; his protest almost came out. What was that he felt?

Disappointment? Surely he could not be disappointed. He’d been on the verge of letting go of the entirety of his future; he should be delighted that she had called a halt to the endeavor.