Page 6 of Forever Her Bachelor

Her breath caught as she stared up at him, removing her hand from his. “You’re in your cups.”

St. Clara chuckled at the obvious. He stepped closer, needing to close the space between them both figuratively and literally.

“Are you all right, Miss Price?” Heartford’s burly coachman asked.

St. Clara glared at him, wanting the man to mind his own business.

“She’s fine,” St. Clara snapped, his eyes never leaving the man.

Pippa looked up, giving the coachman a small smile that had jealousy raging through St. Clara. He wanted her smiles, her laughs; he wanted everything.

“I’m fine, thank you, Winston,” she said. When her hazel eyes turned back to St. Clara, his heart thumped wildly in his chest.

Her look was full of heat and anger. He loved when she was like that with him.

“Go to bed, Chaun—” Pippa slammed her mouth shut as if his given name were a curse on her lips.

The carriage left, leaving Pippa and St. Clara alone in the dark, deserted street. He noticed that the Wayford’s butler had the door slightly ajar, waiting for her to come in. He appreciated that her safety was of the utmost importance to them.

St. Clara stood still, craving to hear his given name from her lips. She was the last person to use his name. Every syllable would slip off her tongue, slow and sensual. It had always pleased him when she chastised him or teased him when they were children.

“I hear congratulations are in order.” He gritted the words out, trying to hide what the news of her engagement had actually done to him.

A piece of him, the innocent side that once believed in friendship and in love, had died. Hearing confirmation of her engagement to the Duke of Summerset of all people had gutted him.

“They are.” Pippa’s face lacked emotion. He could not tell if marrying Summerset was something that she had chosen for herself.

One of St. Clara’s hands slowly reached for her as if she was a wild animal. He cupped her soft cheek, the feel of her skin against his after all this time bringing him the peace he had desperately missed for nine years. He could feel the tremors in her body, could see her bottom lip as it quivered. It was pink and lush, begging for him. Her hazel eyes were blazing with fire, and he wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.

“Is that what you want? To marry Summerset?” As he stepped closer, his hand traveled to the nape of her neck, tightening. Tilting his head down, he waited for her answer. Whatever she said would forever change him. He knew that as sure as he knew he needed air.

As she licked her lips, wide hazel eyes stared up at him, and for a moment, he saw a hint of the girl he first met under a tree. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It matters to me.” And it did, it always had. Her opinion, her thoughts, her needs had meant everything to him.

The late night surrounded them with the sounds of the wind howling and the crickets singing. It was then that he noticed how much smaller than him she still was. It was something he used to tease her about when they were children. Tilting her head back, St. Clara bent slowly, closing the distance between them.

Pressing her hand against his chest, Pippa took a step back, stopping his descent. “It shouldn’t matter to you.” She swallowed, raising her chin high, proud as always. “I am no concern of yours, Your Grace.”

She was right; she was no concern of his.

St. Clara stood helplessly as she glided up the stairs. “Sweet dreams, Kitten,” he called out just before she was safely ensconced inside her townhouse, away from him, away from their past.

CHAPTER 3

Dear Chauncey,

London is exceptionally dull with you away at Eton. Tell me every detail about school, even the wicked things.

Yours,

Kitten (The Chemist)

There was nothing more comparable to Pippa than losing herself in work. It freed her mind, made her feel useful, and allowed little time for self-reflection. Those were precisely the reasons she diligently worked away in her laboratory. If she stopped working, the events of the previous night would surely consume her, and she would not allow that to happen.

The small four-walled structure with dilapidating wood and an insufferable breeze that always seemed to linger had long been her own personal piece of heaven. When the world failed Pippa—as it often did—she would always find comfort surrounded by the chemicals she had loved since she was a girl. Surrounded by her father’s old equipment, a strange senseof being home wrapped around her. The logical part of Pippa’s brain told her that in order for her own skills as a chemist to prosper, she would need new instruments; however, she could not find it in herself to replace her father’s well-loved tools.

Stilling her shaking hands, she tried to focus on measuring out the exact amount of citrus she needed for a new fragrance. Pippa had spent years creating and perfecting formulas, taking pleasure in enhancing alluring scents to become more vibrant. What began as a hobby, a way for her to remember her late father, had become everything she needed.