The Secret of Pembrooke Park(128)
Yes, Gilbert had certainly changed toward her. But would his feelings for her last once his disillusionment and anger with Louisa faded? She said, “He’s asked to court me, but I’m not certain how I feel.”
William squeezed her hand. “Well, I am quite certain how I feel about—”
She met his gaze, hope rising in her breast, but William winced and looked away. “But unfortunately, I am not in a position to do anything about those feelings.” He expelled a ragged breath. “You are so appealing, Miss Foster, every bit as beautiful as your sister—more so, to me—that I almost lost my head. I want nothing more than to let this romantic current sweep us along. This chance meeting. This moonlit night. Your tantalizing bare toes . . .”
He managed a grin, but it fell away nearly as soon as it formed. He shook his head. “But that would be unfair to you. Dishonest even. For the truth is, my current income barely supports me. And with Mr. Morris’s nephew waiting in the wings, I cannot realistically hope my situation will improve anytime soon. If ever. It would be wrong of me to ask you to wait without a clear hope of a future. Especially with Mr. Scott in your life once again—waiting in the wings as well.”
Her hope plummeted. Yes. How much better for him to marry a wealthy widow like Rebekah Garwood. And she could marry Gilbert. That should make everyone happy. Then why did she feel like crying instead?
His eyes widened as he watched her. “You look so sad.”
“Do I? That’s . . . silly. I’m fine.” She forced a smile, which only served to push a hot tear from each eye.
“I’m fine too,” he whispered. He leaned near and touched a finger to her cheekbone, tracing the tear. Then he leaned nearer yet and brushed his lips against her cheek.
Abigail’s heart pounded. Her chest tightened until she found it painful to breathe. Every particle of her being longed to reach for him. To lift her face. To press her mouth to his. Dare she? Was this her last chance? Would she regret not doing so for the rest of her life?
She turned toward him. He stilled, inches away. She slowly raised her eyes to his, willing him to see all she felt but could not say aloud.
“Abigail . . .” he breathed, his eyes lowering to her mouth.
She reached up a shaky hand and laid her palm against his face, her finger brushing his earlobe. The skin smooth above his cheekbone and beginning to bristle near his jaw. She lifted her thumb, caressing the groove along his mouth, then traced his upper lip.
He half sighed, half groaned.
“William,” she whispered, liking the feel of his given name on her tongue.
He stared at her. “Say it again,” he whispered back, voice tight.
“Wi—” But she had no more puckered her lips to form the W than his mouth pressed to hers. Firmly, warmly, deliciously. She tentatively returned the pressure, and he angled his head to kiss her more deeply.
Her pulse raced, every nerve quivering to life. Her first kiss. Not with Gilbert Scott, as she’d always dreamed and hoped. But with William Chapman, a man who had just said he could not marry her.
He broke the kiss as if reading her thoughts, and rested his forehead against hers, catching his breath.
“Miss Foster, forgive me. I—”
“Shh . . . I know.”
She heard distant footsteps crunching on gravel and sucked in a breath, afraid to be discovered alone with a man at night. She looked past his shoulder, and what she saw frightened her even more.
A figure in a long hooded cloak furtively crossed the drive carrying a lantern, its flame turned down low.
William turned to follow her gaze and instantly stiffened. He began to rise, but Abigail grasped his arm. She didn’t want him to go rushing headlong into danger, to confront whomever it was without a weapon, not to mention without shoes or coat.
He looked at her in question, seeming torn, but allowed her to stop him. “You’re right. I would never want to expose you to scandal.”
That wasn’t what she was most worried about. But she did not correct him, glad he was safe.
They watched the figure disappear around the side of the manor. Headed where? Finally, he could restrain himself no longer and rose, pulling her easily to her feet. “You slip back inside through the front. I’m going to follow him around back—make sure he isn’t on his way to the cottage.”
“William, be careful.”
He gave her one last regretful look and said very gently, “Perhaps you ought to call me Mr. Chapman from now on.”
He didn’t say it to hurt her, she knew. But it hurt, just the same.
Pausing long enough to make sure Miss Foster entered the manor safely, William then ran around the corner. Brutus started barking in the distance, increasing William’s alarm. He ran all the way to his parents’ cottage and found his father already at the front door, lantern in hand, hollering at the dog.
Seeing him, Mac asked, “What is it, Will?”
“The man in the hooded cloak . . .” William panted to catch his breath. “I saw him coming this way.”
His father’s jaw clenched. “Here. You take the lantern. I’m getting a gun.”
Thus armed, the two men searched the area, the cottage itself, and the outbuildings. They found the door to the old gamekeeper’s lodge ajar but no evidence of anyone lurking about. Eventually, they ended their search and called it a night, Mac taking extra ammunition into the cottage with him, and double bolting the woodshed, where he kept his rifle and fowling pieces. He offered a gun to William as well, but he declined. However, then and there, William decided that the next time Miss Foster was out, he would pay a quiet visit to Pembrooke Park. Just to be safe.