In an effort to calm himself, Harry drew a deep, slow breath. It turned out to be a mistake. Her honeysuckle scent flooded his senses, and he felt himself lured like a bee. His whole body buzzed with hunger.
She fidgeted with the ribbon trim of her gown. “I’ve spent years dreaming of my debut. You cannot imagine. I’ve filled whole folios with sketches of silk gowns, and I’ve scribbled fanciful invitations on countless scraps of paper. I plan to drink champagne and dance every set with a different gentleman. And yes, to spin and twirl”—she smiled charmingly—“until I’m dizzied. It will be my night. My triumph, after years of watching life pass me by.
“But if I valued that dream above my sisters’ happiness, why would I be here right now? You’re more dangerous to me than nightshade, Mr. Wright. The worst sort of man. Scandalous, immoral. Utterly without conscience or scruples.”
“Don’t forget ancient,” he said wryly. “And penniless. We all know poverty’s my worst failing in most ladies’ eyes.”
“Not in my view.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s your presumption I can’t bear. The way you look at me, the way you tease me. The way you touch me.”
“The way you enjoy it.”
He wanted to touch her at that moment. Very, very badly. His hand actually trembled with the force of his wanting. He made a fist at his side.
Not now. Not yet.
“Do you understand?” Her voice was just a whisper now. Intimate. “I’m risking my dreams, every moment I spend with you.”
She had no idea. No idea the danger he could pose to her right now. Right here on this bench, thorny hedges and frigid stone be damned.
“So you see, it’s not self-interest. I truly care for Philippa. She cares for Lord Brentley. If he returns her affections, there’s no reason they shouldn’t be together.”
Philippa and Brentley? Not those two poetic fools again.
He shook his head, staring rapt at her soft, pink lips. “You’re still telling yourself you came out here to help Philippa?”
“Why else would I come find you?”
“For this, Eliza.” He cupped her face in one hand and caressed her cheek. “Just this.”
She slid sideways, putting a space between them on the bench.
He closed the gap. “You spent years dreaming of that perfect debut. It’s time to wake up. Be honest with yourself. You don’t want twelve toadying gentlemen with perfect cravats queuing up for the pleasure of a dance. You want one man. A man who knows you, challenges you. A man who goes after what he wants, even when it’s not proper or right.”
“There you go again, presuming to know everything about me. It makes me so…” She made a growl of frustration.
A slow grin curved his lips. “There’s my tigress.”
This woman didn’t know what she wanted from life. She couldn’t possibly. She’d been prowling that cage for so long, her greatest dream was a romp in the tiny garden she could glimpse through the bars. But beyond it, there were adventures she’d never known to imagine. Vast rivers and mountains and jungles she was born to explore.
When he looked at her, Harry saw a brave, beautiful, passionate woman in the making. Even if she didn’t yet see herself.
He rubbed his thumb over her lips. Pink as petals, and just as soft as he remembered. God, he wanted to taste her.
But he didn’t want to steal that taste. He wanted an invitation.
He watched for the slightest signal of assent. If she only moistened her lips, or swayed toward him a fraction… He would even accept a gentle tilt of the head.
She touched his lapel.
Hallelujah. That would do.
His pounding blood rejoiced as he drew her close. He forced himself to go slowly despite the mad, juvenile frolic in his loins. He’d waited too long to rush this now.
“Mr. Wright, I…” Her brows pulled together in a slight frown, and he found it adorable. “I can’t call you Mr. Wright. Everything about you—everything about this—is so very wrong.”
“Then call me Harry,” he suggested, tilting her face to receive his kiss. “Like my lovers do.”
“Harry!”
Harry froze, his lips mere inches from pink-petal paradise. Eliza went rigid in his arms.
From some distance away, the female voice floated over the garden hedges. “Harry, are you out here?”
Damn.
Damn and deuce and blast.
“Again?” Eliza pushed out of his embrace, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You scoundrel. What’s the matter? Doesn’t Alderfield Lodge have a morning room? You’ve expanded to trysts in the garden now?”
“It’s not like that,” he told her, inwardly cursing. “Not this time. I swear it.”
“Go.” She shoved at him. “Go to her, before she finds us here.”
He stood, pushing both hands through his hair as he stepped out from the shadows. “Yes, Lady Alderfield?”
The lady in question halted in the path. “You wanted to know if Brentley made his way to the card room. Well, he has.”
Damn it. He’d been hoping to avoid this tonight. There went the evening.
Harry muttered his thanks.