Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways, #5)

by Lisa Kleypas

She was pining for a man she could never have, and she didn’t want to be told how ridiculous it was. She didn’t even want to stop pining. The desperate strength of her wanting was her one frail link with Christopher.

When Christopher’s tall form entered the front receiving room, Beatrix was instantly covered with a full-bodied flush. Stop this at once, Beatrix Hathaway, she told herself sternly. If you insist on being idiotic, you will have to go home and drink an entire bottle of sorrel tonic.

The dark smudges of sleeplessness beneath his eyes made him even more appealing, if that was possible, lending a human texture to the hard contours of his face.

Stunned, she found herself pinned to the carpet and covered by a heavy masculine weight. Dazedly she tried to take in the situation. Christopher had jumped on her.

His arms were around her head … he had instinctively moved to shelter her with his own body.

For a moment, the blank ferocity of his face frightened Beatrix. This, she realized, was how he had looked in battle. This was what his enemies had seen as he had cut them down.

The scent of him was clean, summery, like hot sun and saffron.

For the rest of her life she would remember lying alone with him in a bright square of sunlight from the window … the delicious weight of him, the intimate heat of his breath collecting against her neck. She would have lived in that moment forever, if it were possible. I love you, she thought. I am madly, desperately, permanently in love with you.

She shook her head, unable to speak. Oh, the way he was looking at her, really looking at her … this was the Christopher of her dreams. This was the man who had written to her. He was so caring, and real, and dazzling, that she wanted to weep.

“I thought …” Christopher broke off and drew his thumb over the hot surface of her cheek. “I know,” she whispered, her nerves sparking at his touch. “I didn’t mean to do that.” “I know.”

His gaze went to her parted lips, lingering until she fel...

Her heart labored to supply blood to her n...

Every breath caused her body to lift up against his, a teasing friction of firm fle...

Possibilities entered the quietness, like sun breaking through forest canopy.

She wondered if he were going to kiss her. And a single word flashed through her mind. Please.

He had to help her up, offer an apology. Instead he watched as his exploring fingertips went to her throat, stroking a tiny pulse. Holy hell, what was he doing?

It had been a long time since a woman had held him. It felt so good that he couldn’t make himself release her just yet.

Christopher tried to remember the reasons why he shouldn’t want her. He even tried to summon thoughts of Prudence, but it was impossible.

He felt her everywhere, with his entire body, her scent in his nose and throat, her warmth sinking into him.

It seemed as if all the months and years of need had distilled to this one moment, this slend...

He was actually afraid of what he mig...

all he could do was gather in the sens...

Her gaze provoked him, invited him closer. He could feel the force of will in her, radiant as heat, and everything in him responded to it.

Fascinated, he watched a blush spread over her skin. He wanted to follow the spreading color with his fingers and mouth.

“Oh, yes. Dogs, children … everyone leaps on me.” Christopher could well understand that. Leaping on her was the most pleasurable thing he’d done in years. “Being neither a dog nor a child,” he said, “I have no excuse.”

Did he have any right to go to Prudence, when his behavior was so unpredictable? He couldn’t put her at risk. He had to gain control over himself. But how? His reflexes were too strong, too fast.

“I can help him,” Beatrix said softly. “I know I can.” “The master or the dog?” Mrs. Clocker asked, as if she couldn’t help herself. Her tone was wry and despairing. “I can start with the dog,” Beatrix said in a low undertone.

“This household doesn’t seem like a place where anyone could get better. It feels like a place where things wane and are extinguished.”

“I offer no miracles,” Beatrix said with a smile. “Merely persistence.”

“God bless you, miss. He’s a savage creature. If dog is man’s best friend, I worry for Captain Phelan.” “So do I,”

I’ve always thought there’s a fair amount of dishonesty involved in politeness.

“You’re very good at organizing your feelings, aren’t you?” Christopher had asked dryly. “I suppose I am. I wish I could organize yours. At present they seem to resemble an overturned drawer of neckcloths.” “Not neckcloths,” he said. “Flatware, with sharp edges.” Audrey had smiled. “I pity those who find themselves in the way of your feelings.”

If another woman—say, Beatrix Hathaway—and Prudence Mercer were to exchange appearances, and all that you esteemed in Prudence was transferred to Beatrix … would you want Beatrix?” “Good God, no.” “Why not?” she asked indignantly. “Because I know Beatrix Hathaway, and she’s nothing like Pru.” “You do not know Beatrix. You haven’t spent nearly enough time with her.”

“I know that she’s unruly, opinionated, and far more cheerful than any reasoning person should be. She wears breeches, climbs trees, and roams wherever she pleases without a chaperone. I also know that she has overrun Ramsay House with squirrels, hedgehogs, and goats, and the man unlucky enough to marry her will be driven to financial ruin from the veterinary bills.

Christopher pulled out the letter from Pru, the one he carried with him always. It had become a talisman, a symbol of what he had fought for. A reason for living.

He looked down at the bit of folded paper, not even needing to open it. The words had been seared into his heart. “Please come home and find me …”

Until those letters. The sentences had looped around him with a spirit so artless and adorable, he had loved it, loved her, immediately.

His thumb moved over the parchment as if it were sensitive living skin. “Mark my words, Audrey—I’m going to marry the woman who wrote this letter.” “I am marking your words,” she assured him. “We’ll see if you live up to them.”

What madness had inspired him to marry into such a family? It was the eyes, Christopher decided, looking closer, unwillingly fascinated. Hathaway blue, heavily lashed. Exactly like Beatrix’s.

The medals had been intended as badges of honor. To Christopher, they represented events he longed to forget.

The extent of his own need stunned him. The sight of her, along with the luminous echo of her words, gave him a sense of something he had not felt for a long time. Hope.

“What moved you to finally make your appearance in society?” He replied in a low voice. “I followed my lodestar.”

Christopher had read her letters a thousand times, until every word had been permanently engraved on his soul. But he could hardly expect that she would have done the same.

Her life had gone on much the same. His had changed in every regard.

The woman he loved was in his arms. It should have been the finest night of his life. But in a matter of minutes he began to realize that the long-awaited relief was no more substantial than a bridge made of smoke. Something was wrong. Something wasn’t real.

It was a lovely kiss. But it did nothing to satisfy him, nothing to ease the angry ache of need. It seemed that his dreams of kissing Prudence had somehow eclipsed reality.

He kept expecting to feel something … but the region around his heart was locked in ice. Somehow he had thought … but that was unreasonable. No woman on earth could have fulfilled such expectations.

His dreams led him into dark forests, where he searched through bramble and bracken, pushing through the narrow spaces between the trees as he followed the pale form of a woman. She was always just ahead of him, always out of reach. He woke gasping and enraged, his hands clutching on emptiness.

“I’ve missed you,” Christopher commented in a tone of mild surprise. “Though I can’t decide why. It must be the glare—it brings me back to my childhood.”

“If I was heroic, it was purely accidental. I was only trying to save my own skin.”