The Secrets Of Lord Lynford. Bronwyn Scott

have rooms at the inn by the harbour. I need to visit one of my mines early tomorrow and then return to Truro. I’ve been gone from home for three days already and I am eager to return. Thank you for the evening.’ Such eagerness prompted the question of who or what was waiting for her? A lover? Was she already otherwise engaged? Was that the reason she was so fluttery now? Covetousness flared alongside his protectiveness.

      ‘Perhaps I shall see you in Truro. I often have business there.’ Eaton thought he might find a little more business in Truro. Cassian was in Truro, working on plans for his amusement gardens. Perhaps a visit was in order once the term started here and Cade no longer needed him. ‘Or should I be expecting any more surprise inspections?’

      Her fan tapped his sleeve. ‘They wouldn’t be surprises if you expected them, my lord.’

      ‘Call me Eaton, please. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.’ He made the bold offer spontaneously, his earlier urgency surging to the fore once more. He did not want to be ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Lynford’ with her; he wanted to be something more intimate, more personal, something that would separate him from any other who attempted to claim her attentions. It was the fanciful wish of a schoolboy with a crush. He reached for her hand, bending over it. ‘You were a delightful hostess tonight, surely you’ve earned the right to address me more informally.’ He could count on one hand the people who had that right: Cassian, Inigo, Vennor, their fathers, of course. He didn’t need both hands for that count now. He pushed back the grief that managed to edge its way to the surface at the oddest times and in the oddest ways.

      ‘I was pleased to be of service. I hope the term begins splendidly. I’ll be looking forward to Mr Kitto’s reports on the students’ progress. If weather permits, I might make the journey for the Christmas concert.’

      He doubted her on both accounts. ‘Don’t lie to me, Mrs Blaxland. You did not want to give that speech tonight and the weather in December is too questionable.’

      ‘I was being polite.’ She withdrew her hand in a deliberate gesture.

      ‘I prefer you be honest.’ Eaton felt disappointed at the prospect of her leaving. How could he unravel her mysteries if she was three hours away? Already he was devising reasons why he might call her back. He might need her counsel on the school, for instance; they might want to discuss her own schools in person rather than through correspondence and, when that was done, he might take her truffle hunting in the Trevaylor Woods. Eaton leaned close, breathing in the peach-and-vanilla summer scent of her, his mouth near her ear as if imparting a secret. ‘And in the spirit of being honest, Eliza, I find you to be a complete revelation.’

      ‘I assure you, I am quite ordinary.’ But the words pleased her. He heard her breath catch despite her cool response and she hadn’t corrected him on the use of her first name, proof that this encounter, this response, was not ordinary for her, that he was not ordinary to her.

      ‘Then we must agree to disagree since I find nothing plain about you.’ Eaton let his gaze hold her eyes, let her see the interest she raised in him. They were both experienced adults. They needn’t play coy games. He would be honest, too. He did not want the conversation to end. ‘I’ve been wrong about you from the start. I thought you’d be older.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘It seems we have that mistake in common.’

      ‘My husband was considerably older than I. It is a common assumption.’

      ‘If you’d not come to the open house, I might never have known.’

      ‘What difference did my age make when we corresponded about the school? What difference did my age make to my donations? My age is of no import.’

      ‘Huntingdon Blaxland was sixty-five when he died.’ Eaton remembered his father noting it one morning over breakfast and newspapers. His father had commented that Blaxland’s death would leave a gap in the mining industry, a power vacuum. Eaton had assumed his widow was of a commensurate age. Never had he imagined Blaxland’s widow was in her thirties.

      ‘Yes, and he was fifty-five when we married. I was his second wife, of course, his first having died a few years before.’ Perhaps that was why he’d thought Mrs Blaxland would be older. He’d not realised the first wife had passed; he would have been a child, after all. It was hardly the sort of news an adolescent paid attention to, even if he hadn’t been recovering from the throes of his own illness. But now, it was like finding a pearl in an oyster and Eaton filed the precious knowledge away along with the champagne. It was the most personal piece of information she’d offered. His collection of facts was growing: she was a widow, a second wife; she was confident, strong, stubborn and direct; she was young, attractive; she liked to be in control.

      She was asserting that desire now, perhaps sensing the conversation was fast slipping beyond her ability to command it. ‘I fail to see what consequence any of this holds. It doesn’t matter.’ But it did. She wasn’t as sure of herself as she wanted him to believe. Did she think he didn’t see the flutter of her pulse in the lantern-lit darkness, or the way her eyes met his and then slid away? She wanted to know, as much as he did, what it would be like if they acted on the spark that jumped between them when they argued, when they challenged one another, when they were merely in the same room together. He’d been aware of her tonight long before he’d gone to her. He’d been aware, too, that she’d been looking for him the moment she’d arrived.

      What could it hurt to find out? She lived miles away and was hardly in the habit of haring down to Porth Karrek.

      ‘It does matter.’ He slipped his hand behind her neck, drawing her close, letting his gaze linger, letting the proximity of his body signal his intentions as he murmured, ‘I am not in the habit of kissing grandmothers.’

      ‘And I am not in the habit of—’

      Eaton didn’t let her finish. He captured her lips, sealing her rejoinder with his mouth. They could discuss her habits—or lack of them—later.

       Chapter Four

      Apparently, she was not in the habit of completing her sentences. She certainly wouldn’t be capable of doing so now. All her mind could focus on was that he was kissing her. The realisation rocketed through Eliza, a bolt of white-hot awareness. There wasn’t a single part of her that wasn’t aware of him—the sweet, sharp autumn scent of him in her nostrils, the feel of his touch on the bare skin at her neck, the press of his mouth against hers—all combining to stir her to life, perhaps for the first time.

      His tongue teased hers; a slow, languorous flirt confident of its reception. His hand adjusted its position at her neck, tilting her mouth, deepening his access to her until she gave a little moan. She had never been kissed like this, as if the kiss was a seduction within itself, as if every nuance of mouth and tongue and lips communicated a private message of desire designed just for her. She felt herself wanting to give over; there was no question of resistance, no desire for it. She wanted this kiss, wanted to fall into it, wanted to see where it led. Perhaps it led to other wicked desires, other wicked feelings. But only if she let it—and she wouldn’t, she promised herself.

      All the reasons why began to reassert themselves, slowly coming back to the fore of her defences after the initial onslaught of this new pleasure. She shouldn’t be kissing a stranger, a man she’d only met once. She shouldn’t be kissing a man with whom she meant to do business. She was a mother; she had to think of her reputation for her daughter’s sake. She was a business owner; she also had to think of her reputation for the sake of the mines. Kisses were for women who could afford them.

      The last thought brought her up short. She pushed against the hard wall of his chest. Did he think she could afford to give away kisses? That she’d come out to the garden on purpose to signal her intention—that she was willing to acknowledge and act on the flicker of attraction? Had he taken what she’d intended as an escape as an invitation instead?

      The white-hot burn of pleasure turned