Seacliff by Felicia Andrews

she discover her husband abed with the queen and call it the act of a sublime patriot.”
    Caitlin hiccuped and giggled, nearly spilling the wine over her dress. She turned to lean back against the wall. Lifting her goblet she studied the ballroom’s glow in the faceted glass. It was mesmerizing. The wine sparkled, and stars seemed to be entrapped in the liquid. She sipped, sipped again, and did not move aside when Flint stood closer to her. He gestured then to the garden, to the castle, to the valley behind them. “It’s all rather lovely, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice faintly rasping.
    “There are no words for it,” she agreed with an emphatic nod. “I take it, then, you’re enjoying yourself?”
    “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, excitement welling once again in her chest. “I don’t think I ever want to leave, Mr. Flint. It’s as if I’ve fallen asleep and found some fairyland. I…” She caught herself babbling, and flushed with embarrassment. My goodness, Cat, she thought, you’d think you’d never been to a party before.
    He moved still closer. “I know what you mean. It’s not often someone like myself finds a place in these proceedings, and I confess I find it rather hard to breathe.”
    “Birds of a feather,” she said. “I’m not exactly a member of the English family.”
    An abrupt, elaborate fanfare shattered the peaceful evening, and she looked anxiously toward the castle.
    “It’s nothing,” he assured her, a restraining hand on her arm. “The queen is leaving, that’s all. She doesn’t much care for these things and goes to her rooms as soon as she dares. The king will leave in an hour, unless he keeps ‘tasting’ his wine.”
    “Mr. Flint,” she admonished, “that’s hardly the way to talk about him, you know.”
    His smile grew into a sardonic grin. “My apologies—and I do seem to be doing that a lot this evening, don’t I? But I had assumed, your being Welsh and all… Well, I’m sure you know what I mean.”
    “And you’re right,” she said, stifling a laugh. Her head felt giddy. “But there is such a thing as discretion.”
    “Quite.” His smile softened, and his hand began to stroke the lace on her arms lightly. “You must be tired.”
    “A little,” she admitted.
    “Sir Oliver can be demanding.” And to her questioning look he lowered his gaze. “I have worked with him several times over the past years. Not in the army, directly. In other things.” She frowned, trying to recall mention of James Patrick Flint, but nothing formed in her mind. Oliver never spoke of business except when he’d completed a particularly lucrative transaction. And then he spent the evening gloating, more often than not drinking himself to sleep in his hearthside chair.
    Hint spoke again, his lips near her ear: “Do you see the way the light is caught in the windows? Stars, I should think, aren’t nearly as fortunate. And the perfumes of these flowers, even after sunset—they reach the senses like warm wine. You can almost feel them settling into your soul.”
    Caitlin’s eyes closed against the man’s softly droning voice, and she could almost feel the course of the wine as it lit slow fires in her veins. She squirmed, without moving away from him; her shoulder shifted under the warm weight of his palm as he continued to whisper the words and gild the images. Sighing when he paused, she turned in the hope that he would continue in that lullaby voice, ignoring the warning chime in her head.
    “I should hasten to add,” he said suddenly, “that none of this holds a candle to you, Lady Morgan.”
    She smiled almost shyly. “You know how to flatter, sir.” And she thought, Would that Oliver did, too.
    He grinned. “I don’t consider myself glib, my lady. But I do feel an obligation as a gentleman to expound upon beauty wherever and whenever I am blessed to be near it.”
    For a moment she thought he was mocking her, yet she could find no evidence that he was in his