Simply Perfect

  Claudia knew she would not be sorry—just as she had never been sorry about that kiss at Vauxhall. She knew too that there would be only tonight—or this evening. Tonight he must return to Alvesley. She was as certain as she could be that Miss Hunt would not readily give up such a matrimonial prize as the Marquess of Attingsborough. It would not take much effort on the part of the Duke of Anburey and the Countess of Sutton to make her see reason. And of course he—Joseph—would have no choice but to take her back since the betrothal had not been publicly ended. He was a gentleman, after all. And so there was only this—only this evening. But she would not be sorry. She would certainly suffer, but then she would have done that anyway. She refused to doze off. She watched the moon and stars above the lake, heard the almost silent lapping of the water against the bank, felt the cool softness of the grass against her legs, smelled the trees and his cologne, tasted his kisses on her slightly swollen lips. She was tired, even exhausted. And yet she had never felt more alive. She could not see him clearly in the darkness, but she knew when he dozed, when he awoke again with a slight start. She felt a huge regret that just sometimes one could not hold time at a standstill. This time next week she would be back at school preparing lessons and schedules for the coming year. It was always an exhilarating time. She would be exhilarated by it. But not yet. Please not yet. It was too soon for the future to encroach upon the present. “Claudia,” he said, “if there are consequences…” “Oh, gracious,” she said, “there will not be. I am thirty-five years old.” Which was a ridiculous thing to say, of course. She was only thirty-five. Her monthly cycle told her that she was still capable of bearing children. She had not thought of it. Or if she had, she had disregarded the thought. Foolish woman. “Only thirty-five years old,” he said, echoing her thought. But he did not complete what he had started to say. How could he? What would he say? That he would marry her? If Miss Hunt chose to hold him to his promise, he would not be free to do so. And even if she did not and he was free… “I refuse to be sorry,” she said, “or to think unpleasant thoughts at the moment.” Which was exactly the sort of brainlessness about which she lectured her older girls before they left school, especially the charity girls, who would face far more risks than those who had families to guard them. “Do you?” he said. “Good.” And his hands moved caressingly up and over the flesh of her upper back, and his mouth nuzzled her ear and the side of her neck and she wrapped her arms more tightly about him and kissed his throat and his neck and jaw and finally his mouth. She felt the hardness of his erection press against her belly and knew that the evening was not quite over after all. They stayed lying on their sides. He lifted her leg over his hip, nestled into position, and came inside her again. There was less frenzy this time, less mindlessness. His movements were slower and firmer, her own more deliberate. She could feel his hardness against her wet heat, could hear the suck and pull of their loving. They kissed each other softly, openmouthed. And it seemed suddenly to Claudia that she really was beautiful. And feminine and passionate and all the things she had once believed about herself but lost faith in even before she was fully a woman. He was beautiful and he loved her and was making love to her. Somehow he was setting her free—free of the insecurities that had dogged her for eighteen years, free to be the complete person she really was. Teacher and woman. Businesswoman and lover. Successful and vulnerable. Disciplined and passionate. She was who she was—without labels, without apology, without limit. She was perfect. So was he. And so was this. Simply perfect. He set his hand behind her hips and held her steady as he deepened his thrusts, though even then there was more sense of purpose than urgency. He kissed her lips and murmured words that her heart understood even if her ears could not decipher them. And then he was still in her, and she was pressing against him, and something opened at her core and let him through—and he came and came until there was no she and no he but only they. They remained pressed wordlessly together for a long time before he released her and she knew with deep regret that now they were two again—and would remain so for the rest of their lives. But she would not be sorry. “I must take you back to the house,” he said, sitting up and adjusting his clothes while she pushed her skirt down and then bent to pull up her stockings and the bodice of her dress. “And I must get back to Alvesley.” “Yes,” she said, rearranging some of her hairpins. He got to his feet and reached down a hand to her. She set her own in it and he drew her up until they were standing facing each other, not quite touching. “Claudia,” he said, “I do not know—” She set a finger over his lips, just as she remembered doing at Vauxhall. “Not tonight,” she said. “I want tonight to remain perfect. I want to be able to remember it just as it is. All the rest of my life.” His hand closed about her wrist and he kissed her finger. “Perhaps tomorrow night will be just as perfect,” he said. “Perhaps all our tomorrows will.” She merely smiled. She did not believe it for a moment—but she would think about that tomorrow and the next day… “You will come to the ball?” he asked her. “Oh, I will,” she said. “I would much rather not, but I believe the countess and Lady Ravensberg will be offended, even hurt, if I stay away.” And how could she stay away even without that incentive? Tomorrow night might be the last time she saw him. Ever. He kissed her wrist and then released her hand. “I am glad,” he said. 21