“Elizabeth.”
The warning in her name thrilled her.
“I have wanted you to kiss me since the supper set at Matlock House.”
His control broke with tenderness. He bent slowly, giving her every chance to refuse. Their lips met once, softly. Then she rose upon her toes and kissed him again.
The second kiss was no experiment.
His hand tightened at her waist. Her fingers slid into his hair. He tasted of wine and restraint, and when her lips parted beneath his, a low sound escaped him that made heat rush through her. The locked greenhouse door was twenty feet away. For one breathless instant she imagined turning the key.
Richard drew back first, forehead resting against hers.
“If we continue,” he said roughly, “your footman will be obliged to shoot me.”
“Harris likes you.”
“He likes his wages more.”
They returned to the concert flushed and five minutes late. Lady Matlock looked at the crushed orange blossom caught in Elizabeth’s skirt and said nothing at all.
Across the room, Hartley sat beside Jane. He had not kissed her. His courtship was quieter, but no less deep.
“If you could alter one expectation placed upon a countess,” he asked her, “what would it be?”
Jane considered. “That kindness means agreement.”
“Explain.”
“A woman may disagree without being cruel. She may refuse without being cold. I have spent much of my life softening every truth until no one could hear it.”
Hartley lifted her gloved hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.
“I hear you.”
Jane believed him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bingley Returns
Charles Bingley learned that Jane was in London from a drunken man at White’s.
Darcy had avoided him for days. When Bingley finally found him, his friend was seated alone with a nearly empty decanter.
“You never drink like this.”
“I proposed to Elizabeth Bennet.”
Bingley stared. “Miss Elizabeth?”
“Lady Elizabeth.”
The story came out in fragments: the inheritance, the ball, the proposal, the refusal, Richard’s anger.
But Bingley heard only one fact.
“Jane is in town?”