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She would be lying to herself.

The only surprise was that she felt this way at all. For so long she had given herself to various other purposes. Now, standing before him, there seemed to be one that was more present than all the others, more demanding, more urgent.

Would his lips be as soft as a petal, or would they sting her like a thorn?

There was only one way to find out, she supposed, even it was she who had established the rule about no kissing. Because rules were the farthest thing from her mind in this intoxicating moment. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she felt the gentle warmth of his breath caressing her lips. So close… so close…

And then footsteps clattered near the door as a servant arrived with yet more flowers. The sound was enough to disrupt the moment. Clara turned her head away at the last, almost choking as she did so. She placed a hand on a nearby chair to steady herself, while Gerald drew back. Clara watched as he placed the white rose back onto the table, and then she breathed deeply as he moved away.

She closed her eyes as she tried to compose herself. Why was this happening? Why was she losing her resolve for something that was, in the long run, merely a pretense?

Why was he doing this to her?

And, more importantly, why was she allowing this to happen?

Chapter Eighteen

“Good day, Clara,” Gerald said, nodding in greeting to the fair, lovely, beautiful… oh, there were so many superlatives and none of them seemed to do her justice, although he kept these words silent in the hope of choking the life out of them.

He was unsuccessful, however. He stared at her big eyes and long lashes, the rosy cheeks and individual strands of hair that were drawn together, joining to make a beautiful whole. He studied her chin and the way her neck swept down to her collarbone, a smooth, pale surface like a distant snow-capped mountain.

This was supposed to be an illusion, a trick designed to distract the people of the ton so attention could be thrust upon Eleanor. He was doing all of this for his sister, not for himself, and yet it seemed to be he who was winning, although what a poor winner he was.

For the only trophies he had were two near-kisses and a blood-stained handkerchief.

“How is your thumb today?” he asked.

“Much better, thank you,” Clara said.

They were standing in the ballroom again, where the flowers were being arranged. This spacious, vast room suddenly seemed cramped. Gerald adjusted his collar and shifted his weight between his feet. He couldn’t help but notice how closely he and Clara were standing, yet surely moving would only draw attention to it? He wrestled with himself until so much time had passed that any decision he made seemed like the wrong one.

He had to keep better control of himself, he thought. Two times now he had allowed himself to fall into the allure of her beauty, to reach out for something that had clearly been denied to him.

The rules… he must think of the rules, else she would likely think him a cad. Flouting her wishes like this. It was beneath him. It was utterly scurrilous, and he was not going to lose sight of all the values he held dear for her. No, not he.

And yet she was there, in front of her, her slender arms waiting to wrap around him, her waist waiting to twist, her back waiting to arch, those lips that were softer than dew-covered petals waiting to…

Gerald clenched his fist tightly, immediately, pressing his fingers deep into his palm, hoping that the discomfort would be enough to distract him. If not, the next step would be to snatch up a handful of rose stems and hope the thorns would do the job.

“Will you be staying to help arrange the flowers?” Clara asked.

“I…” he paused, unsure if she wished him to stay or if this was an invitation for him to leave. Everything was so complicated with her. Even the simplest questions were wrapped in an enigma that he simply didn’t have the wherewithal to solve.

Before he could offer a reply, Eleanor burst into the room and offered her customary affectionate embrace to Clara.

“Is Agatha not with you today? I was so looking forward to hearing more of her stories.”

“She intends to stop by later. She enjoyed your company as well. I daresay you have made a firm friend in my Grandmother.”

“I am glad. She has such charming stories,” Eleanor said.

Perhaps if you have heard them only once. “That is a lovely thing to say about my grandmother,” Clara said. “I should begin arranging the flowers. Gerald, if you would like to be of help then perhaps you could start clipping the stems, and try to make sure that you get rid of all the thorns as well. It wouldn’t do for any of our guests to inadvertently get their clothes caught on one.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Gerald murmured. Clara turned her back. They moved to opposite ends of the table. He glanced up, watching her tuck an errant strand of hair behind her ear. It kept falling loose, teasing him, goading him to march around the table and take care of it himself, but then he would be placed in that impossible position again where he was gazing into her melting eyes and feeling as though he was falling into a chasm without end.

He snipped the stems sharply, letting the unwanted ends fall to the table in a chaotic pattern. Eleanor gathered them up carefully, using a letter opener rather than her fingers to bring them closer to her. She then scooped them in a box that the servants had left for such a purpose.

“Look at all these thorns. It seems impossible that something possessing such beauty could also wound so harshly.”