There was something in the plea that stopped her. She turned to face him once more, searching his grey eyes, finding something there—pain. Gone so fast she was almost unsure it had been there to begin with. Almost.
She placed one hand on his forearm, feeling the muscles beneath his sleeve flinch at the touch, and whispered back, “Jasper.”
She had no idea where the given name came from; she did not think of him as such. But for the rest of her life, she would remember the way his beautiful grey eyes went wide, then shuttered, as though she’d delivered him a powerful blow. He stepped back, out of her reach, and she couldn’t stop herself from following, coming out of her chair and moving toward him, wanting to take it back—whatever it was she’d done.
For she had absolutely done something.
Something that would change everything. “Wait,” she said, not caring that half of London was in earshot.
He stopped, his hands coming to her shoulders, holding her at a distance. “Go home. Your research is finished.”
Pain shot through her, even as she knew that it was for the best. He had been right, of course. It wasn’t research. It never had been. It had been fear and panic and frustration and nerves, but it had never been research.
And then it had been desire. Temptation. Want.
More.
And if it did not end soon, she might never be able to end it.
Except, she did not want to end it. She wanted it to remain. She wanted to talk and laugh and share with him. She wanted to learn from him. To teach him. She wanted to be with him.
She wanted the impossible.
She shook her head, refusing his request. “No.”
“Yes,” he said once more, the word like ice, before turning and plunging into the crowd. Leaving her. Again.
Infuriating man. God knew she’d had enough of that.
She followed him, tracking his movements above the crowd, where his marvelous hair stood out against the rest of London. Where he stood out against the rest of London. She pushed and elbowed and knocked and strained to catch him, and finally, she did, reaching out for his hand—adoring the fact that neither of them wore gloves, loving the way their skin came together, the way his touch brought wonderful heat in a lush, irresistible current.
He felt it, too.
She knew it because he stopped the instant they touched, turning to face her, grey eyes wild as Devonshire rain. She knew it because he whispered her name, aching and beautiful and soft enough for only her to hear.
And she knew it because his free hand rose, captured her jaw and tilted her face up to him even as he leaned down and stole her lips and breath and thought in a kiss that she would never in her lifetime forget.
The kiss was like food and drink, like sleep, like breath. She needed it with the same elemental desire, and she cared not a bit that all of London was watching. Yes, she was masked, but it did not matter. She would have stripped to her chemise for this kiss. To her skin.
Their fingers still intertwined, he wrapped their arms behind her back and pulled her to him, claiming her mouth with lips and tongue and teeth, marking her with one long, luscious kiss that went on and on until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it. Her free hand was in his hair then, tangling in the soft locks, loving their silky promise.
She was lost, claimed, fairly consumed by the intensity of the kiss, and for the first time in her life, Pippa gave herself up to emotion, pouring every bit of her desire and her passion and her fear and her need into this moment. This caress.
This man.
This man, who was everything she had never allowed herself to dream she would find.
This man, who made her believe in friendship. In partnership.
In love.
Shocked by the thought, she pulled back, breaking the kiss, loving the way his breath came harsh and heavy against her cheek as a collection of whistles and applause sounded around them.
She didn’t care about the onlookers. She cared only for him. For his touch. For this moment.
She hadn’t wanted to stop him—to stop it—but she hadn’t a choice. She had to tell him. Immediately. And she couldn’t tell him while he was kissing her, though she did hope to get back to kissing as soon as possible.
She moved to doff her mask, thinking of nothing but him. “Cross—”
He grabbed her hands, holding them tight. “You’ll be ruined.” He shook his head, urgency coming off him in waves. “You have to leave. Now. Before—”
He was utter confusion—pushing her away even as he held her close. She started to deny him. To tell him what she was feeling, to explain these strange, brave, new emotions. It was there, on her tongue.
I love you.
She was going to say it.
She was going to love him.
And in the wake of her confession, she would resolve the rest.