"I thought you might need some air," he said, his low, gravely tone hitting her in the chest. "You seemed tense."
Her eyes widened. "I did? Oh, I assure you, I wasn't."
He arched a brow. "I have a little talent, Celia-would you like to know what it is?"
Celia caught her breath. She could name a dozen talents she would guess he had, but none of them were appropriate to list, especially when they were alone together.
"C-certainly," she managed to stammer.
He moved a little closer. "I can read people. When I asked you what you and Rosalinde talked about, I saw your response."
Celia ducked her head. "Oh. Well, I certainly wasn't trying to drag you into my petty troubles. You needn't have gone out of your way to save me."
He took another step closer, and suddenly he slipped a rough finger beneath her chin. He lifted her face toward his and her heart pounded at how near he was.
"You couldn't stop me from saving you," he said softly. "Do you need to be saved?"
She could hardly breathe at all now. He was really so very handsome and he smelled like pine and the world spun when he touched her. She'd never felt anything like this, even when she'd tried so hard to find it with Stenfax.
This was something magical.
"My-my sister and I were simply disagreeing on something to do with my grandfather," she admitted. "It wasn't serious."
"But if it were, if you felt threatened or unsafe, you know you could tell me."
She blinked, confusion at his statement momentarily trumping her body's reactions to his touch. "Unsafe? Why would I feel unsafe?"
His face went dark, and for a brief moment pain crossed over it. "There are many reasons a person might feel unsafe in their own home."
She swallowed. "It sounds like you might be the one who needs saving, Your Grace."
His eyes went a little wider at that statement and his stare grew wild and unfocused. It only lasted a fraction of a second and then it was gone, replaced by the calm and collected gentleman he normally displayed. But the flash made her wonder once more why he had hidden away for so long. What had kept him in the country?
"Are you offering, Celia?" he asked, his voice softer, rougher. "To save me?"
Her mouth and lips suddenly felt very dry, and she licked them before she spoke. "If I knew how, I would," she whispered.
He nodded slowly. "I believe you would."
The finger on her chin slid farther and he cupped her cheek in one big palm. His fingers spread over her skin and her heart stuttered with the action. He filled up everything in her sight, made her only aware of him and the fact that he was inching in closer, consuming all the space around her.
"I might even believe you could," he said, bending his head.
His lips brushed over hers. She had been waiting for this without even acknowledging it to herself. Waiting for him to touch her in a way no other man would dare do. And now he did and it was … perfect.
He was gentle in the kiss, his full lips only feather-light as they moved over hers. Until Celia let out her breath in a sigh. When her mouth parted, his tongue darted out and he tasted her, just as gently.
She was surprised by the deepening of the kiss, but even more surprised by her body's reaction to it. His arms folded around her and she didn't resist, he drew her closer and she didn't fight it. She fit against him like she was meant to do so, and opened further for his explorations. He tasted faintly of port, sweet and intoxicating, and he moved his tongue over hers, stroking and teasing.
Her body went almost boneless with the caress, but she didn't need its support-he was holding her now. Keeping her from falling. But also coaxing her to fall in a whole different way.
Warmth spread from where he kissed her and cascaded through her body, settling in the most wicked of places. Her nipples grew hard and sensitive beneath her silky gown, and between her legs there began a constant, pulling throb.
She'd never felt anything like it, and yet she was absolutely aware that this was need. This was desire. This was being swept away by passion.
Only she wasn't swept far. In an instant, he released her, steadying her carefully before he stepped away. His breath was short, his face flushed as he stared down at her.
"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head. "That was wrong of me."
"Why?" Celia asked, her voice cracking. "I liked it."
He squeezed his eyes shut, mouthing some unspoken curse. "As did I," he said at last. "But I should go before I do something I can't undo."
Her eyes went wide. Before her engagement ended, she'd been told a little about making love. Since Rosalinde and Gray's marriage, she'd gleaned far more. That was what he was talking about. He feared he would lose control and go too far with her. Right here. On the terrace.
Because he wanted her.
Her body thrilled at that fact and she took an involuntary step closer, reaching for this thing she had long denied herself, until the desire for it had changed her so entirely. This man personified the risks she'd never dared take, the feelings she'd declared were not meant for her.
"You told me I should call you Celia in private," he said, his voice still rough and needy. "You may call me-"
He broke off, as if he were searching for the name. She supposed she couldn't blame him. He was a duke, so he had likely been Clairemont and nothing else for many years.
"Aiden," he said at last.
She smiled. "Aiden," she whispered, letting it roll on her tongue. She loved the gift of it, though when she said it she didn't really feel like it fully fit him.
He nodded. "Goodnight, Celia."
"Goodnight, Aiden," she replied.
He bowed to her slightly, then moved back toward the house. She followed, her mind still spinning and her heart still racing. She'd gone into this night uncertain if this man liked her, if he judged her.
She ended it knowing the flavor of his lips and the intensity of his stare when he wanted something. And also knowing her own reaction when her body called for pleasures most ladies shunned out of propriety. Shunned out of fear of the unknown.
But she refused to do that. After that kiss, the unknown still seemed frightening, but it also felt like something she wanted. Something she refused to accept she would never have. She would have it.
One way or another.
Chapter Seven
Clairemont paced the parlor at Stalwood's home, waiting for the earl to join him. They had planned to discuss his meeting with Grayson Danford, so he should have been gathering his thoughts and impressions of the man. He wasn't.
Instead it was thoughts of Celia that kept pushing their way in. Over and over, he relived his conversation with her when he first arrived at the Danford home. She'd been shockingly straightforward in her worries about her past. And he couldn't help but think of later, when Celia's mouth had finally touched his. He could still hear her soft sigh when his tongue breached her, and feel her innocent and yet powerful reaction to a kiss that never should have happened in the first place.
But mostly his errant mind turned ceaselessly on what had happened after that stolen kiss.
He'd almost given her his real name. John, he'd almost said to her when he told her what to call him. John, a name he never went by or gave to anyone. John was a man who didn't exist, a ghost he wanted to forget had ever existed.
And yet that name had been on his tongue to give to her. He had almost surrendered some real and dark and hidden part of himself.
If he had done it, it could have been devastating to his case. He wasn't John Dane. To her and to the world he was currently Aiden Alexander Charles Morland Waring, sixteenth Duke of Clairemont. Just a hint of the truth could unravel the elaborate fiction he was telling and put himself and his case in great danger.
He'd never slipped up like that before on an assignment. He'd always fit himself perfectly into any role he was given and never once thought to bring any part of the real him into the light.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he asked out loud, slamming a hand down on one of Stalwood's side tables hard enough that his palm stung.
"The night didn't go well?"
He turned to find his mentor at the door, a smoking jacket around his shoulders, a pipe in his hand and a worried frown on his face.
Clairemont straightened and pulled at his coat to smooth it. "I-no, it was fine. Good evening, Lord Stalwood."
"Good evening," Stalwood replied, but he didn't look convinced of Clairemont's assertion as he pulled the door shut behind him. "Fine? You're here very early and you're beating on my furniture, so forgive me if I have a hard time believing you."
"I'm sorry for my outburst," Clairemont said, working hard to calm himself. "I know I'm early, but the night was truly fine. I merely excused myself with a slight headache in order to join you with my report."
Stalwood lifted both eyebrows, but didn't argue. "And your report is?"
"I met with Danford, just as we planned."
"And what do you think of him?" Stalwood asked as he poured Clairemont straight scotch and handed it over.
Clairemont frowned. He must look a terror if Stalwood was trying to appease him with the good scotch. He drew in a few breaths to center himself further and took a drink, hoping to erase Celia's sweet flavor from his lips. The liquor burned, but did nothing for his memories. He'd likely need four or five more to do that.