All he knew was that with her, for her, he burned.
And not by one inch did she retreat. She encouraged him, not with the eager urging of a younger woman but with the mature, self-assured, almost blatant invitation of a lady who knew what she wanted, who knew she wanted him.
As he wanted her. Hers was the perfect counterpart to his need, the perfect match for his hunger.
The urge to let his hands roam, to take the next step they both clearly wished for, burgeoned and grew…but they were in the open, with the folded laundry beside them. Anyone who walked down the garden past the trees edging the lawn would see them. Some maid might come to see if Clarice needed help…
Stopping, calling a halt, drawing back from the depths of her luscious mouth was one of the hardest things he’d ever done.
He managed to lift his head an inch, immediately felt the loss of the connection keenly. His wits were still locked, still focused on her. Her lashes fluttered, then rose. Her dark, dark eyes met his.
“I didn’t thank you for restoring my mother’s garden.”
Excuse enough to dive back into her mouth, to take one last, long, lingering taste of her, of the passion within her, simmering, very feminine, precisely the right mix of haughty will and heady promise to sate him.
But…he drew back from the flames, from her scorching temptation. Eased her back, eased back himself until there was air between them. He had to force his fingers to release her, to let her go.
She drew breath, stepped back, opened her eyes, blinked once, then studied him; she seemed as puzzled as he, and beneath that, as curious.
Looking into her dark eyes, to his soul aware of the rising of her breasts as she drew in a huge breath, he felt…not as assured as he usually was in such situations.
Presumably because she was who she was—Boadicea. A point he’d do well to bear in mind.
His gaze fell on the washing basket piled high with folded linen. He stooped and hefted it up. “I’ll carry this up to the house for you.”
She met his eyes, but other than a pretension-depressing, amused quirk of her lips, made no response. She fell in beside him, her long-legged stride keeping pace easily as they passed beneath the trees and headed across the lawn.
By the time they reached the back porch, their usual roles had reclaimed them; their customary polite distance had returned. He set the basket on the wooden table by the back door, then faced her. “Jones. I told him to come back tomorrow afternoon. I think it would be best if you were present when I meet with him. Perhaps if you would join me for luncheon tomorrow, we could discuss how best to deal with him?”
She held his gaze, her own steady and direct, then nodded. “Very well.” She hesitated, then said, “As usual, the other growers have given approval for the manor to strike the price for the valley. Griggs should already have estimates from the other orchards—he’ll have a tally of the expected crop.”
He nodded equably. “I’ll get the details from him.”
Again, she hesitated, then asked, “The young man from the phaeton?”
He grimaced. “Still unconscious.” He didn’t add that the longer the man remained so, the more worrying his condition became. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any revelation over why he seems familiar?”
She shook her head. Frowned. “I’ll…look in on him tomorrow.”
Jack suspected she’d intended looking in on their patient that afternoon, but that would mean stopping in at the manor, thus chancing another meeting with him…and that, he accepted, was too soon.
Too soon for her; too soon for him, too.
With a graceful bow, he took his leave of her. He strode away, conscious of her gaze on his back. Passing through the archway in the hedge, he consoled his suddenly uncertain self that, over the matter of whatever was burgeoning between them, at least Boadicea was as uncertain as he.
The next day, Clarice spent what she would normally consider an inordinate amount of time dressing for lunch at the manor. She told herself her filmy apple green muslin with its heart-shaped neckline would distract Jones, and wondered at such self-deception.
She knew precisely whom she wanted to distract, and why. She was amazed at her interest in the hunger she stirred in Jack and in the answering response he drew from her.
“Pure curiosity,” she told her mirror as she checked her plaited chignon. It lay heavy on her nape; she thought of his strong fingers sliding beneath the heavy mass, across her sensitiv
e skin…and shivered.
“A temporary madness—no doubt it’ll pass.” With that firmly stated verdict, she rose and headed for her bedchamber door.
With a wide-brimmed hat shading her white skin, a light shawl draped over her elbows, she walked down the rectory drive and turned into the road.
A form of madness. Her assessment of their state was undeniable; they were walking a tightrope on two planes, and both knew it. That last only seemed to heighten the exhilaration.