Miles's reaction was instantaneous, if not quite what Henrietta had hoped for. Recoiling backwards, he blinked several times, shook his head like a wet dog, and held Henrietta away from him.
"Did I do something wrong?" asked Henrietta huskily.
Miles's eyes had a distinctly wild cast, and his hair was even more disarranged than usual. Henrietta gave in to the impulse to smooth a lock back. Miles shied like a nervous horse. "Hell, no — er, I mean, no! That is, oh blast it, Hen — "
Since he didn't seem to have anything particularly incisive to say, Henrietta decided to put an end to the conversation by the simple expedient of kissing him again. Miles's arms closed around her with enough force to knock any remaining air out of her lungs, but breathing really seemed quite a minor consideration under the circumstances. Who needed to breathe, anyhow? Lips were much more interesting, especially when they were Miles's lips, and they were doing such clever things to the sensitive hollow next to her collarbone. Henrietta hadn't realized before that the hollow was a sensitive one, but she was quite sure she would remember in the future. Miles's lips drifted even lower, following a slow path along her collarbone, down to the hollow between her breasts, and Henrietta stopped thinking in full sentences altogether, or even recognizable words.
Miles was dimly aware that his brain had ceased working in concert with his body several moments since, but the worst of it was that he had ceased to care. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew there was a very valid reason that he wasn't supposed to be undressing Henrietta, but whatever insubstantial objection his conscious mind might urge upon him dissipated beside the far-more-compelling reality of Henrietta herself, warm and glowing in his arms, a thousand forbidden dreams made flesh.
And what attractive flesh it was.
Miles made one last effort to restrain his baser desires, one last effort to push Hen away into the little box in his head marked "best friend, sister of." But her hair whispered wantonly against his arm, and her lips were swollen with kisses — his kisses, thought Miles, with a fierce surge of pos-sessiveness. His, his, his. All his, from the long lashes that curved against her cheeks to the hint of a dimple that only appeared when she smiled or frowned very deeply, to the absolutely irresistible expanse of bosom revealed in agonizing detail by her position reclining against his arm.
Even so, Miles might — it wasn't likely, but he might — have set her to her feet, tucked back her hair, and given them both a firm talking to, if, at that very moment, Henrietta hadn't sighed. It was just a little sigh, hardly louder than the brush of silk against skin, but it carried with it, an entire world of amorous innuendo. So might Heloise have sighed in the arms of Abelard or Juliet for her Romeo, begging night to gallop apace and veil their pleasures, Miles was undone.
So was Henrietta's bodice. One gentle pull drew the fabric down to reveal the rosy aureoles, blushing above their fine veil of silk. Miles ran his tongue around first one, then the other, as Henrietta arched in his arms and dug her nails into his back.
He eased the fabric the rest of the way, enjoying the way Henrietta squirmed in his arms as the silk brushed over her nipples. Miles was just lowering his head to replace the fabric with his mouth, when a voice with an edge like cut glass, a voice from very far away, cut through his consciousness.
"What in the hell is going on here?"
Chapter Twenty-Six
If there were formal gardens at Donwell Abbey, we weren't in them. Clutching my borrowed pashmina around my shoulders, I stumbled along after Colin through a landscape pitted with potholes and littered with killer twigs. The bulk of the house loomed behind us, craggy and featureless in the dark night. Just the equivalent of a city block away, the noises, voices, and lights from the front of the house were completely obliterated, leaving only a landscape that would not have come amiss in a Bronte novel, or one of the wilder creations of Mary Shelley.
We were crossing something that I had no doubt Joan would describe as "the park," conjuring up images of stately oaks and Little Lord Fauntleroy. At the moment, I would have happily traded all the grandeur of the park for the neon grime of Oxford Street, with loud music blasting out of storefronts, chattering pedestrians bustling past, and, most importantly, firm pavement beneath my feet. My shoes, designed for city wear, did not react well to the ground, softened by yesterday's rain and today's thaw. They sank.
So much for a romantic stroll in the garden by moonlight.
Even the moonlight wasn't obliging. Forget the trope of the moon as chaste goddess. A hopeless flirt, she was too busy playing peek-a-boo with the clouds to attend to illuminating the landscape. Instead of the scent of flowers, we were surrounded by the forlorn tang of November, compounded of decaying leaves and damp earth. A graveyard sort of smell. I cut that thought off before it could burgeon into the territory of Grade B horror movies, complete with zombie hands poking through the crumbling earth and vampires on the lookout for a midnight snack.
It was all Henrietta's and Miles's fault, I ruminated darkly as I pried my heel out of the mud and hopped after Colin. I had been forced to leave off reading just as Henrietta and Miles kissed in the moon-silvered garden, and had dressed for Joan's party pursued by hopelessly romantic images of trellises and patterned garden paths, the song of the nightingale and the sigh of the gentle summer breeze. If the characters in that perfumed garden tended to assume features other than those of Henrietta and Miles… who was to know but me and the mirror in Colin's guest bedroom?
I had neglected to take into account that that had been June and this was November.
And then there was the fact that Miles had been rather madly attracted to Henrietta, while Colin… I snuck a glance at the shadowy figure next to me. I don't know why I even bothered with the sneaking; there was no way he could make out my expression any more than I could discern his, even if he were one of those annoying people with a cat's ability to see in the dark. Both his eyes and his flashlight were trained firmly forward, not at me.
He hadn't said anything since that comment about chaperonage.
Of course, neither had I, but that was immaterial.
It wasn't that the silence was uncomfortable. Quite the contrary. It was the peaceful sort of silence that attends long acquaintance, the comfort that comes of knowing you don't need to say anything at all. And that very lack of discomfort made me profoundly uncomfortable.
I pinned down that thought, and followed it, writhing and slippery, to its source. It was the sham of instant coupledom. That was the problem. That indefinable aura of being with someone when you know you're not. It's something that anyone who's been single for a time will recognize, the pretense of intimacy that comes of being the only two singles at a couple-y dinner party, or, in this case, sharing a house for a weekend. It's an intensely seductive illusion — but only an illusion.
I wondered if Colin had picked up on that, too; if he had been as besieged with "So… you and that American girl?" as I had with "So… you and Colin?" The arriving together; the knowledge that we'd be leaving together; the little checking-up glances across the room, all lending themselves to the fiction of togetherness.
A fiction, I reminded myself, maintained for Joan's benefit. Was he trying to warn me off, remind me that I was only a guest under sufferance? I cast my mind anxiously back over the day, totting up points on both sides of the ledger. The walk in the garden could just have been to get me away from the tower. In fact, Colin had showed no interest in accompanying me anywhere until I started to lurk around potentially actionable bits of his property. I winced at the memory of that terse note on the kitchen table. "Out." That leant itself so well to other curt phrases, such as "stay out" and "keep away."