penetrating gaze. “As I said, sir, you flatter well.” And you, she scolded herself halfheartedly, are playing coy games. She pushed herself a little farther away.
“You dislike flattery?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“The Welsh are direct.”
“The Welsh,” she said, “know the value of words.”
She knew she was on the edge of drunkenness, and suspected Flint was teasing her for it. But a gust of wind chased away her renewed caution, and when she felt him lay a solicitous hand against the small of her swaying back, she found no strength to protest.
Raucous laughter rang out from the ballroom, distracting her briefly just as his face closed in on her neck. A momentary panic pushed her away, though not far enough to break off his touch. More guests had begun to wander into the garden— couples with their heads close together in shared secrets, men taking out long-stemmed clay pipes, women rapidly fanning their bosoms and necks against the heat of the ballroom and the exertions of their dancing. A guard shifted noisily at his station in a far comer. On the battlements above, two soldiers met, saluted, turned in about-face, and marched on.
The music swelled, and the night deepened.
She realized she was still holding her goblet, emptied it in four swallows, and felt nothing at all.
“My lady,” Flint said, “have you done much exploring?” She blinked slowly as she looked his way, and put a hand to his cheek to prevent his face from slipping away. He covered it quickly and, before she could stop him, turned her palm upward and placed a gentle kiss in her palm. On the inside of her wrist. And then on the inside of her elbow before her wits returned and she drew her arm away.
“Yet again I apologize,” he said. But his hand remained on her back, penetrating the layers of silk and cotton, sending warm waves along the length of her spine. “Perhaps another brandy?”
She tried and failed to wave a dismissing hand. “No,” she said at last. “I’m really… Nothing more, thank you.”
His breath caressed the side of her neck, spilling over the hollow of her throat to the swell of her breasts.
Oh, dear, she thought, and backed up against the wall. A glance behind her, and she nearly lost all the wine at the whirling sight of the valley spinning slowly under the moon.
“Lean on my shoulder,” he whispered, taking the goblet from her hand and setting it on the ground. “I shouldn’t want you to fall.”
Fall? She had no intention of falling, yet she felt unsteady on her feet. She felt as if a feathered veil had been drawn over her senses; she could not concentrate. The brandy, the music, the laughter of the guests befuddled her and made her giddy.
“My lady, there’s a bench just over here—”
She allowed herself to be led away because suddenly she felt she couldn’t stand on her own.
The bench was in the shadows, away from the torchlight. Flint sat beside her, a hand on her knee, his chin brushing her shoulder.
“My husband…” she began, licking her lips, frantically searching for words.
“A fine man,” he told her. He kissed her neck once, then drew away and waited.
“I don’t think—”
“Neither of us should, not on a night like this,” he said. “That’s the trouble with the world these days, you see. One thinks and another disagrees, and the next thing you know they’re bashing away at each other like children at a fair.”
She giggled into her palm. “Mr. Flint, I don’t think my husband would approve your description of battle.”
“A fine man,” he repeated, and kissed her neck again.
This isn’t happening, she thought wildly, as panic and unnerving desire began to mingle disturbingly. Lord, I can’t let this—suddenly, the world began to draw away from her, and her head began to reel. No, she cried silently; I can’t faint now. Oh, God …
“My lady,” Flint said. “Are you all right?”
She wanted to nod, but when he grasped her hand, another
“You dislike flattery?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“The Welsh are direct.”
“The Welsh,” she said, “know the value of words.”
She knew she was on the edge of drunkenness, and suspected Flint was teasing her for it. But a gust of wind chased away her renewed caution, and when she felt him lay a solicitous hand against the small of her swaying back, she found no strength to protest.
Raucous laughter rang out from the ballroom, distracting her briefly just as his face closed in on her neck. A momentary panic pushed her away, though not far enough to break off his touch. More guests had begun to wander into the garden— couples with their heads close together in shared secrets, men taking out long-stemmed clay pipes, women rapidly fanning their bosoms and necks against the heat of the ballroom and the exertions of their dancing. A guard shifted noisily at his station in a far comer. On the battlements above, two soldiers met, saluted, turned in about-face, and marched on.
The music swelled, and the night deepened.
She realized she was still holding her goblet, emptied it in four swallows, and felt nothing at all.
“My lady,” Flint said, “have you done much exploring?” She blinked slowly as she looked his way, and put a hand to his cheek to prevent his face from slipping away. He covered it quickly and, before she could stop him, turned her palm upward and placed a gentle kiss in her palm. On the inside of her wrist. And then on the inside of her elbow before her wits returned and she drew her arm away.
“Yet again I apologize,” he said. But his hand remained on her back, penetrating the layers of silk and cotton, sending warm waves along the length of her spine. “Perhaps another brandy?”
She tried and failed to wave a dismissing hand. “No,” she said at last. “I’m really… Nothing more, thank you.”
His breath caressed the side of her neck, spilling over the hollow of her throat to the swell of her breasts.
Oh, dear, she thought, and backed up against the wall. A glance behind her, and she nearly lost all the wine at the whirling sight of the valley spinning slowly under the moon.
“Lean on my shoulder,” he whispered, taking the goblet from her hand and setting it on the ground. “I shouldn’t want you to fall.”
Fall? She had no intention of falling, yet she felt unsteady on her feet. She felt as if a feathered veil had been drawn over her senses; she could not concentrate. The brandy, the music, the laughter of the guests befuddled her and made her giddy.
“My lady, there’s a bench just over here—”
She allowed herself to be led away because suddenly she felt she couldn’t stand on her own.
The bench was in the shadows, away from the torchlight. Flint sat beside her, a hand on her knee, his chin brushing her shoulder.
“My husband…” she began, licking her lips, frantically searching for words.
“A fine man,” he told her. He kissed her neck once, then drew away and waited.
“I don’t think—”
“Neither of us should, not on a night like this,” he said. “That’s the trouble with the world these days, you see. One thinks and another disagrees, and the next thing you know they’re bashing away at each other like children at a fair.”
She giggled into her palm. “Mr. Flint, I don’t think my husband would approve your description of battle.”
“A fine man,” he repeated, and kissed her neck again.
This isn’t happening, she thought wildly, as panic and unnerving desire began to mingle disturbingly. Lord, I can’t let this—suddenly, the world began to draw away from her, and her head began to reel. No, she cried silently; I can’t faint now. Oh, God …
“My lady,” Flint said. “Are you all right?”
She wanted to nod, but when he grasped her hand, another
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