It was so lovely to be so desired. To have someone want her so desperately. Her. Not some pretty little governess one could back into a corner and paw at. Not the companion of some lady whose nephew thought she ought to be grateful for the attention.
Not even some young girl who was really just an easy mark.
Lord Winstead wanted her. He’d wanted her before he’d even known who she was. That night at Winstead House, when he’d kissed her . . . For all he’d known she was the daughter of a duke, whom he’d be honor bound to marry just for being alone with her in a darkened hallway. And maybe that wasn’t so meaningful, because it wasn’t as if they’d shared more than a few sentences, but he still wanted her now, and she didn’t think it was just because he thought he could take advantage of her.
But eventually sanity settled upon her, or maybe it was simply the specter of reality, and she forced herself to pull away from his kiss. “You need to get back,” she said, wishing her voice was a bit steadier. “They will be waiting for you.”
He nodded, and his eyes looked a little wild, as if he didn’t quite know what had just happened within him.
Anne understood. She felt precisely the same way.
“Stay here,” he finally said. “I will send a maid to show you to your room.”
She nodded, watching as he headed across the gallery, his gait not quite as purposeful as she was used to seeing in him.
“But this—” he said, turning with one outstretched arm. “This is not over.” And then, in a voice that held desire, and determination, and more than a little bewilderment, he added, “It can’t be over.”
This time she did not nod. One of them had to be sensible. Over was the only thing it could be.
English weather did not have a lot to recommend it, but when the sun and air got it right, there was no place more perfect, especially in the morning, when the light was still slanted and pink, and the dew-topped grass sparkled in the breeze.
Daniel was feeling particularly fine as he headed down to breakfast. The morning sun was streaming through every window, bathing the house in a celestial glow, the heavenly aroma of bacon wafted past his nose, and—not that there had been much of an ulterior motive to this—the previous night he had suggested that Elizabeth and Frances take their breakfast with the rest of the family rather than up in the nursery.
It was silly for them to eat apart in the mornings. It was extra work for everyone involved, and of course he did not want to be deprived of their company. He had only just returned to the country after three long years away. This, he told them, was the time to be with his family, especially his young cousins, who had changed so much in his absence.
Sarah might have given him a sarcastic look when he said that, and his aunt might have wondered aloud as to why, then, he was not with his own mother and sister. But he was excellent at ignoring his female relations when it suited him, and besides, he could hardly have responded what with the whooping and cheering coming from the two youngest Pleinsworths.
So it was settled. Elizabeth and Frances would not take their breakfast in the nursery and instead come down with the rest of the family. And if the girls were down, then Miss Wynter would also be there, and breakfast would be lovely, indeed.
With an admittedly goofy spring in his step, he made his way across the main hall to the breakfast room, pausing only to peek through the sitting room at the large window, which some enterprising footman had pulled open to let in the warm, spring air. What a day, what a day. Birds were chirping, the sky was blue, the grass was green （as always, but it was still an excellent thing）， and he had kissed Miss Wynter.
He nearly bounced right off his feet, just thinking about it.
It had been splendid. Marvelous. A kiss to deny all previous kisses. Really, he didn’t know what he’d been doing with all those other women, because whatever had happened when his lips had touched theirs, those had not been kisses.
Not like last night.
When he reached the breakfast room, he was delighted to see Miss Wynter standing by the sideboard. But any thought of flirtation was dashed when he also spied Frances, who was being directed to put more food on her plate.
“But I don’t like kippers,” Frances said.
“You don’t have to eat them,” Miss Wynter replied with great patience. “But you will not survive to dinner with only one piece of bacon on your plate. Have some eggs.”
“I don’t like them that way.”
“Since when?” Miss Wynter asked, sounding rather suspicious. Or perhaps merely exasperated.