More Than a Stranger: A Sealed With a Kiss Novel (21 page)

She looked up at him, nibbling on her perfect little bottom lip. He could see the hurt in her eyes, despite her matter-of-fact tone. Lord, he wanted to kick himself.

He pressed his eyes closed, taking a deep breath. Before everything went to hell and there was no turning back, was it really so horrible to have wanted a moment of true happiness? He exhaled and pressed his forehead to hers. She stiffened but didn’t pull away. “Evie,” he said softly, “I will be leaving very soon. I’ll be starting a new life, and you have all of your plans. Knowing that, it was wrong of me to kiss you. Can’t we just be friends?”

She was quiet for a moment, and he wished he could know what she was thinking. Had he hurt her? Finally, she said, “Actually, I think it was a good idea for us to kiss for exactly those reasons.”

What? He released his hold on her shoulders and stepped back. “What on earth are you talking about?”

She looked to her hands a moment, her brazenness of moments ago seeming to ebb away. “I don’t plan on marrying, Benedict. But that doesn’t mean . . . That is to say . . .” She paused and took a deep breath. “That was my first kiss. When else will I have the opportunity to . . . enjoy someone’s attentions? I have made a commitment to my path in life, and with you leaving in a few days, well, I think you are exactly the right person for me to kiss.”

He knew he looked like a simpleton, standing there with his mouth hanging open, but he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. She wanted him to kiss her? To be together specifically for the reason he thought to keep his distance? Gathering his wits, he snapped his mouth shut and swallowed. It was tempting—absurdly tempting.

“Evie, I would like very much to agree with you”—she had no idea just how much—“but I could never take advantage of you like that. What kind of gentleman would I be?”

She appeared almost fragile in the moonlight as she looked up to him, the white light bathing her face in a way that made her skin pale yet luminescent. “I am trying to be honest with you, Benedict. I enjoy your company, despite the rather spirited nature of some of our conversations. Set aside what you think others expect from you for a moment, and tell me if you enjoy being with me as well.”

There were so many lies between them, he couldn’t bring himself to lie about this. “Yes.”

She took a small step toward him. “Tell me if you want to spend
more
time in my company.”

She held his gaze, unblinking and earnest, and he answered her honestly. “Yes.”

“Tell me you want to kiss me again.”

He drank in the sight of her, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the bow of her lips, the starlight in her eyes. He knew he shouldn’t say it; he knew he should turn and leave her, leave this house, and never look back. And even as he knew these things, the truth tumbled from his lips.

“Yes
.
”

Relief spread over her face, and she took the last step to close the distance between them. His arms snaked around her waist and pulled her against him, hard and decisive. His lips crashed onto hers, and he poured everything he felt into the kiss. She groaned and dug her hands into his collar, pulling them even more tightly together, if that was possible.

She was his, if only for the moment, just as she had always been. He knew everything about her spirit, her irrepressible personality, and now he wanted to know everything about her body—her beautiful lips, which fit against his exactly right; her tiny waist, nearly spanned by his hands; and the sweet swell of her hips. He wished there were nothing between them—no secrets, no lies, no clothing, no impossible realities. Her hands slid up and settled around his neck, and he groaned with the pleasure of her touch.

In the distance, a scraping sound caught his trained ears. He tensed and pulled away—someone had opened the terrace door. Evie gave a small mewl of protest and leaned toward him once more.

“Shh,” he breathed, putting a finger to his lips. “Someone is coming.”

Evie’s eyes widened, and she looked toward the house. The last thing either one of them needed was to be discovered alone together in the garden. “It’s Richard,” she whispered, nodding toward her brother’s form outlined against the glow of the glass door behind him.

Richard strode across the terrace and paused at the top of the stairs. “Hastings, are you out here?”

Chapter Sixteen

Richard and I were discussing the end of term yesterday. I can hardly believe these five years have gone by so quickly. Neither my parents nor my brother are planning to attend the ceremony, not that I am surprised. I do hope, however, there will be someone in the audience who shall smile for me when it’s my turn.

—From Hastings to Evie

E
vie turned to stone in Benedict’s arms as her brother’s words fell over them like a blanket of ice. Her eyes snapped to Benedict’s, utter confusion pushing out all rational thoughts. “Hastings?” she repeated numbly.

He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t have to. The look of complete horror in his eyes spoke louder than any words he could have said. “Evie, wait—”

She shook her head, holding her hand up to stop him. No. It simply couldn’t be. Dread wrapped cold fingers around her heart, stealing her breath. “Are you or aren’t you Hastings?”

She wanted him to deny it. To laugh and tell her what an absurd notion it was. Instead, he released her and blew out an aggravated breath. “I am.”

They had lied to her? They had both lied to her? The sound of boots hitting the pebbled path punctuated her rising panic, and she looked back toward the house. She couldn’t be caught with Bened—this
man
, alone in the darkness.

She stumbled backward, suddenly desperate to get away. Gravel crunched angrily beneath her feet as she struggled to keep her footing.

“Benedict?” Richard called louder. He must have heard her.

“Answer him,”
she hissed, anger and hurt bubbling up like acid in her throat. “He knows you’re here.”

Benedict balled his hands at his side and muttered a black curse. “Coming, Richard. Just getting some air.” His voice sounded remarkably steady. If it weren’t for the tautness of his shoulders and his clenched jaw, Evie would have never known anything was amiss. She shouldn’t be surprised—he was a damned good actor, it would seem.

He looked back at her, a myriad of emotions playing over his moon-kissed features. “Please, let me explain—”

“No,” she snapped, cutting off his whispered plea. God, he must have thought her such a fool, blithely accepting his every word as truth. She wanted to shout at him, slap him for the deceit. But there was nothing she could do now. Now, more than ever, she couldn’t be discovered with him. “Go, now, before he comes and finds me.”

He hesitated, staring at her with stricken eyes. Her own eyes pricked with tears, but she’d die before she let a single tear fall. Crossing her arms tightly across her chest, she glanced to Richard. Panic swooped through her—he was walking toward them! She turned pleading eyes to the liar before her. “Please,
hurry.
”

“This isn’t over,” he threatened, his voice hushed but vehement. “We
will
have a proper talk.” With a growl of frustration, he spun on his heel and stalked away. The panic from the fear of being discovered eased within her, but that only made room for the other, equally unwelcoming emotions roiling within her to come to the surface. Betrayal seemed to fill her lungs, suffocating her.

She collapsed onto the stone bench and dropped her forehead to her palm.
Hastings.
Her Hastings, the one she had considered to be one of her closest, dearest friends, a boy she had even imagined herself in love with, only to have the rug so cruelly pulled from beneath her. Her confidant of all those years; a person who knew her backward and forward—
this
was the man who had been staying with them these past few days? The man who had changed everything about how she viewed the world when he had blithely sent her that last letter, pulling the wool from her eyes on the true nature of men. The ground suddenly seemed to spin, and she squeezed her eyes closed, fighting for breath.

He had lied to her—lied to her
face
.

Disbelief nearly paralyzed her. He had been here all this time. He knew who she was. He knew her through dozens, perhaps hundreds of letters. Yet he had not revealed himself to her. After he had kissed her right here in the garden, looked into her eyes, and spent days conversing with her—all of it was a lie?

Up on the terrace, Benedict greeted Richard with a slap on the shoulder before herding him inside. She narrowed her eyes. She’d deal with Richard’s part in this later. It was more than enough to attempt to handle Benedict’s betrayal, especially with the taste of him still fresh on her tongue.

She couldn’t face him. She couldn’t face
anyone
. The thought of sitting across from him at supper and attempting to maintain small talk as if nothing had happened was enough to nauseate her. Maybe tomorrow she would be equal to the task of giving the man a proper thrashing. Not tonight. All the hurt, and anger, and betrayal she had felt seven years ago rioted within her.

She came up short. Oh no. Oh good heavens, no one could know she knew he was Hastings. If Richard and Benedict were keeping up the farce for her benefit, then they absolutely had to continue doing so, because if Papa discovered that Hastings was beneath his roof, he might very well kill the man.

A corner of her mouth curled up. Perhaps not
kill
, though he most definitely deserved it, but at the very least, Papa would be extremely displeased. Only he was privy to Evie’s embarrassment after Hastings’s last letter. If Papa became upset, then Mama would want to know why. If Mama ever discovered Evie’s stupid actions of that day, she would have more than enough ammunition to demand Evie continue indefinitely on the marriage mart.

After all, if Evie had once been such a fool for love, there was hope for it again.

Evie’s shiver had nothing to do with the chilly night air. She could not allow Benedict to reveal to the others his true name. She wouldn’t let him ruin her chance when everything she wanted was nearly within reach.

Blast and damn, there was nothing for it. She had to talk to him—alone.

But first she had to get through dinner.

* * *

From his position just inside the tree line, Ned Barney watched the young woman open the glass terrace door and slip back into the house. She must be a family member. Her clothes were much too fine for a servant. Not that it mattered who she was—he wanted only to find Hastings, not some chit who sat for ages in the cold for no good reason.

Favoring his left leg, he pushed away from the tree he had been leaning against, its rough bark biting into his palms. There was no doubt this was the correct house—it was large enough for a king, let alone a marquis—but the enormous dwelling created some challenges. With dozens of servants milling about outside and in, he would have to wait for his quarry to leave the safety of the grounds. With his reduced mobility, he couldn’t trust that he could get away in time if someone spotted him close to the house.

Barney pulled his travel-worn coat closer about his body, warding off the increasingly chilly night air. He had everything he needed to sleep in the woods, but without the luxury of making a fire, he did not look forward to the prospect. No, he would stay in the inn tonight and come round tomorrow morning to resume his vigil.

He could be patient. He’d waited this long, after all, to get his revenge on the bastard who had robbed him of so much. He paused to rub his aching leg, savoring the icy burn of cold fury filling his chest. When Hastings had snitched and blown the whole smuggling ring to hell, Barney had avoided capture by jumping from the ship into the inky black seawater below. Though he had escaped with his life, the broken leg resulting from the fall had failed to heal properly, and he would never be the man he was before the raid.

Just as he would never be able to make the kind of money he once did as a smuggler. He limped back to where he had left his horse, a grim smile on his lips.

Let the bastard sleep snug tonight. Sooner or later he would emerge, and when he did, his opponent would be waiting.

* * *

Weary to his very core, Benedict shut the door to his suite. Slowly, carefully, he shrugged out of his jacket and hefted its weight in his hand. It would have to do. With all the pent-up fury within him, he hurled it with all his might across the room. It spread out midflight and floated harmlessly to the floor on the other side of the bed.

He wished it were something breakable—his mother’s prized Ming vase, for example—something that would crash to the floor and break into a million pieces. He rubbed a heavy hand over the back of his neck and dropped into the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. But he didn’t need to break anything. No, he had managed that bloody brilliantly in the garden.

As long as he lived, Benedict doubted if the look on her face would ever dim in his memory. And he couldn’t even thrash Richard for unmasking him—Benedict certainly couldn’t tell the man he had been locked in a passionate kiss with Richard’s sister when he had inadvertently ruined everything.

One by one, he yanked off his boots and carelessly dropped them to the floor. Ghastly couldn’t begin to describe how miserable dinner had been. Evie, her skin as white as the gown she wore, had sat like a marble statue across from him, pleading weariness from the day’s exertions when her father expressed concern.