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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

T eresa’s eyelids fluttered shut at the first graze of his kiss, her grip on his lapels tightening as if she might keel over without the fabric to anchor her.

She had always assumed, being a consummate devourer of romantic novels, that she would know precisely what to do when the day came that she had her first kiss. As it turned out, she had no notion whatsoever of what to do.

But it is better than fiction…

She smiled against his mouth as he kissed her again, his lips warm and soft, moving in a slow ebb and flow.

All she had to do was settle into the rhythm, as she had done when he danced with her.

Indeed, she realized it was probably better if she did not overthink it, but let her instincts take over.

A moment later, guided by the tender press of his mouth, she finally kissed him back… and the thrill of it was unlike anything she had ever imagined, even in her wildest dreams.

She clung to him, pouring all of her hopes and sympathy and sorrow and affection into her kiss, learning with each electric touch, guided by his confidence until she felt her own begin to flourish.

As her nerves began to fade, boldness blooming from that former soil of uncertainty, she let her hands smooth up his muscular chest and over the broad ledge of his shoulders, until her arms were looped around his neck.

Her fingertips slipped into his silky hair, her mind on fire, unable to believe that this was actually happening.

Kissing her more deeply, with the sort of hunger she had seen in his eyes before, but had never gotten to experience, Cyrus wrapped her up in his arms. He pulled her closer, but when that was not enough, he suddenly slid his arm beneath her legs and scooped her up.

She yelped at the unexpected movement, the shock forcing her to break their kiss for a moment. But as he settled her in his lap and held her tightly, smiling at her with the most beautiful smile she had ever seen, she could not resist.

Her lips found his, her hands holding his face as she kissed him with a vengeance, letting go of the very last of her anxiety. And though the carriage jostled and bounced, Cyrus held her steady throughout, his kiss never faltering, only growing stronger, more intense.

Everything she had ever dreamed of.

“I am glad I did not kiss you when we first met,” she whispered, breathless.

He paused. “Oh? Why is that?”

“Because I do not believe it would have been anything like this,” she confessed, sinking into his kiss once more, melting into his embrace and hoping that the carriage journey would not end too soon.

The castle had always been gray and cold to Cyrus. He had assumed it was just its natural state, or that it was the home he deserved, but something had changed. Had been changing for a while, though he had tried to ignore it.

It was not just the bright flowers in the hallways or the addition of tapestries and unearthed paintings, it was in the air… and it came from Teresa.

After returning from town, they spent the afternoon wandering the gardens together, shyer than they had been before.

He kissed her hand, perhaps her brow, but he did not dare to kiss her lips again.

Still, he found he could not put distance between them now, when what he wanted was to be at her side.

“What do you think about a ball, husband?” Teresa asked at dinner, where they sat closer for once; his chair beside hers.

He had noticed her testing new names for him, slipping in the occasional “my dear” or “dear husband.” It was not yet comfortable for him, nor had he attempted to use an endearment in return.

“Here?” He took a sip of his wine.

She nodded. “The moment I arrived, I knew it would be the most wondrous place for a ball. Not that I have any talent for organizing such things. But I am certain that Beatrice would help; she has a rare gift for parties.”

She looked so enthusiastic, her eyes so bright, that he did not want to disappoint her. But just because something had begun to shift between them did not mean that he was prepared to turn his entire existence upside down.

“I think not,” he replied, offering a look of apology. “I do not care for other people’s gatherings, so I doubt I could abide one of my own.”

She pushed a piece of partridge around the plate. “No, of course. A silly notion.” She raised her gaze and smiled with such warmth that it knocked the air out of him. “I have not the faintest notion why I suggested it when I also abhor balls! Goodness, I must have a fever or something.”

He reached over and rested his palm against her forehead. “You are not warm.”

“Then, I have taken leave of my senses,” she said, chuckling.

Perhaps we both have, he longed to say, but he held his tongue. Until he could figure out if this was safe, if this was something that would not end in tragedy, he would not relinquish control to the feelings that were budding inside him.

After all, reality was not like the books she adored so much, that he had read in secret until he was almost at the same part of the story as her. There was not always a way to avert disaster, there was not always a means of escape, and, sometimes, a couple had no choice but to be separated.

“Thank you for inviting me to town with you,” she said, removing his hand from her brow, keeping hold of it.

“It was my pleasure,” he replied softly, drawn in by her touch and the way she looked at him, with no fear whatsoever. She never flinched; she merely gazed as if he were quite wonderful.

I do not deserve this.

Leaning in, he kissed her once—gently—on the lips. He could not resist. She was a flame and he was a moth, helpless to do anything but fly closer to the scorching heat, even if it burned him up to ash. And it would, if anything were to happen to her.

“Was that dessert?” she whispered, laughing quietly. “One should not leap ahead to the sweet course.”

He smiled. “Quite right. Eat your partridge.”

They spent the rest of dinner talking of gloriously mundane things, and when they were not talking, they were sharing a companionable silence. Once dinner was done, they took another stroll in the gardens together, making the most of the mild weather.

Outside the Tea House, looking out over the beautiful roses, inhaling their perfumed scent, Cyrus put his arm around his wife’s waist and held her to him.

He would never forget how she leaned into him, molded herself to him, resting her head on his chest as they gazed out together.

It might have been the most peaceful moment of his life, everything quiet in his mind. No ghosts, haunting.

He could have stayed out there forever, but with the darkness and the first spits of rain, they had no choice but to head back inside.

“Shall I come to fetch my chapter?” Teresa asked, her voice faltering slightly.

They stood in the entrance hall together, the servants making themselves scarce. Although Cyrus got the feeling that they were being watched.

She is asking to share your bedchamber…

A lump gathered in his throat. “I will bring it to you.”

“As you prefer,” she said, her smile nervous.

“I will see you in a short while then.” He dipped his head to her, and walked off in the direction of his study.

There, he would decide whether or not he was going to visit her chambers or not, though he knew one thing for certain: there would still be no wedding night.

He was not yet ready for that, and sensed he never would be, not when it carried the risk of children.

For Darnley Castle was no place for children and, after him, there would be no Duke of Darnley.

Indeed, the title had never been anything but cursed.

Arriving at Teresa’s door with the promised pages in hand, Cyrus had not known what to expect. He raised his knuckles and rapped on the door, taking a polite step back as he waited for her to answer.

“Come in!” she called, her voice odd. A note too high.

With a breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.

Goodness…

He halted sharply at the sight of her, standing in the center of the room in nothing but her nightdress. It was not quite history repeating, but he forced himself to keep his attention upon her face, despite her figure being exceptionally lovely.

“I… did not know if you would come,” she said, shaking a little though it was not very cold.

He lifted the pages, waving them. “I had a promise to keep.”

She is terrified. Oh, my darling, you have nothing to fear from me.

Making a decision, he crossed the room with purpose and swiftly swept her up into the bridal carry she had likely waited for, considering how often the Captain did it with Miss Savage.

She gasped at the gesture, her eyes wide, her body trembling in his arms as he carried her over to the bed and set her down.

Leaning in to press a chaste kiss to her cheek, he went around to the other side of the bed and climbed in.

Propped against some pillows, he slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side, patting his chest so she would know that it was her pillow, if she wanted it to be.

He heard her soft sigh of relief and smiled. “Have you ever noticed when bumblebees are carrying lots of pollen that they look like they are wearing breeches?”

She peered up at him, a bemused laugh upon her lips. “I cannot say that I have.”

“I would urge you to observe them.” He smiled. “Bees are incredibly fascinating.”

For the better part of half an hour, he spoke of the merits of bees and heard her thoughts in return.

They lay side by side, so close there was no gap between them, but with his continued talk of those curious creatures, any ‘expectation’ disappeared.

He was not trying to bore her into forgetting about wedding nights, but he was not sorry that he was lulling her into slumber.

“Tell me about your mother,” Teresa asked sleepily, the pages of the most recent chapter clasped against her chest.

Cyrus pulled her closer, holding her to him. “You still have not finished the chapter,” he said, smiling against her hair.

“There will be time enough for that,” she murmured, yawning.

He turned his gaze upward to the canopy of the bed. “I told you; I never knew her.”

“But you must have heard about her,” she replied. “And you said you saw her in your dreams.”

He closed his eyes, trying to envision her.

“I saw her portrait once. She was beautiful—an angel, really. It was the servants who told me the most about her. Stories of her kindness, her merriment, her humor, her generosity. Funnily enough, they used to tell me of the balls she would arrange; how they were the most magnificent in England. I think there might have been some exaggeration, but I relished hearing about them.”

“I wish I could have met her,” Teresa mumbled, her breaths slowing.

“So do I,” he sighed in reply. “But the woman in my dreams was always kind, tending to me when I was in such pain. I like to believe it was her, even now, even knowing how impossible that is. I sometimes like to imagine what my life would have been if she had lived—what sort of man I might be. The difference it could have made if?—”

He glanced down and realized that Teresa was asleep. Her hold upon him had slackened, her arm now draped loosely over his stomach, her chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm against his side. Meanwhile, her head rose and fell with his breaths, still using his chest as her pillow.

“I could not lose you the same way,” he whispered, his throat catching. “But… I think I can prevent that.”

Lightly brushing the hair out of her face, gazing at her sleeping form, he understood that he was already in love with her.

And it was up to him to resist temptation, to keep her safe.

That was the only way, in his mind, that everything would be all right, that he would be allowed to have and keep his love.

This will be enough, he told himself, pressing a gentler kiss to her hair.

He wanted to believe it, more than anything. He wanted to believe that he could love her and keep her safe, keep her alive. As long as there were no children for her to bear and birth, she would survive his curse; he was convinced of that.

Indeed, all he had to do to keep what his heart desired was ensure that history did not repeat itself.