Kissed at Midnight (7 page)

“We’d better turn—” Mr Avery
started but the rain grew heavier, so he motioned to the thick trees lining the
park. “Let us find shelter,” he said as the rain pattered onto the ground,
turning pale paths dark grey and filling the dips in the cobbles rapidly.

Hand to her hat, Ivy
followed along. He helped her navigate the pram down the side of the pavement
and over the road. Passing carts splashed in the ruts and a spray of muddy
water hit her skirts.

By the time they made it
under the shelter of a great oak tree, her hair hung in ringlets and water had
begun to soak her thin jacket through to the blouse underneath. She shuddered
and patted Elsie’s blanket.

“Well, it seems you did not
get wet at least,” she said to the infant who did not seem one bit daunted by
the sudden spring shower.

Mr Avery drew off his hat,
shook the drops from it and ran his fingers through his hair before placing the
hat back on his head. A few remaining drops hung from the brim for several
moments before falling. Ivy watched those rivulets, fascinated, as one landed
upon his face when he tilted his head to view the cloudy skies.

It trickled down his cheek
and onto his neck, leaving a damp path that made her mouth water a little
before vanishing under his necktie. He faced her and did a quick study of her.
She forced her gaze down and away for fear of him discovering her fascination.
She wasn’t sure she’d ever met a man so attractive. There was something
innately appealing to those wondrously blue eyes and firm jaw.

“Damn, you’re soaked.”

She glanced down at her
skirts and noted the unsightly mud splatters and the way it had lost its shape
under the weight of the rain. Then she shrugged and laughed. It did amuse her
that she had been admiring him when he had likely been thinking what a state
she was.

His lips tilted, as though
uncertain what to do, then he released a chuckle too. His hands came to the
buttons of his jacket and he unpopped the buttons with ease. And her mouth had
gone dry yet again. Crisp cotton, a well-fitted waistcoat. It all seemed to
have the effect of making her knees feel wobbly and her body suddenly hot. If
she wasn’t careful, steam would begin to rise from her clothing and then she’d
have some explaining to do.

Mr Avery thrust his jacket
at her and she took it without a word. His formal manners were really quite
charming. Did he understand the effect he had on her? On all women probably.
None of what he did appeared calculated but it all had the same wonderful
effect of drawing her in and making her more interested in him by the day.

“Thank you,” she murmured
and shoved her arms in the jacket.

The inside was warm and to
imagine it pressed so close to his skin sent a ribbon of delicious excitement
down through her. She fought the urge to squeeze her legs together.

Ivy left the jacket
unbuttoned but apparently this didn’t suit her employer. He gave a tiny
scowl—an appealing flex of his brow that made her fingers twitch with the need
to smooth the crease out—and stepped closer to do up the buttons.

He didn’t meet her gaze as
he did so, giving her the chance to observe him up close. She noted the tiny
creases around his eyes and one or two grey hairs at his temples. It made him
seem worldly rather than old. And the way he fastened her into his jacket made
her heart expand. Who had ever cared if she was cold? Not her parents for
certain. The nursemaids—perhaps. None of her governesses were interested in her
physical welfare to be sure.

“There, that will keep you
warm until we can head back,” he said.

“Thank you, Mr Avery,” she
said. For someone who usually could not stop her tongue from flapping, she had
become surprisingly uncommunicative. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue thick.

He let loose a twisted
smile. It lit his face in ways such a small smile shouldn’t be capable of. It
made her heart do things it certainly wasn’t capable of.

“Call me August,” he told
her, his voice low and husky.

She licked her lips and
nodded. “August.”

The word seemed to curl
around them both while rain splattered against the leaves and wooden wheels
rumbled against the cobbles. She dropped her gaze before steeling a cautious
peek at him.

August.

Oh, how she liked being able
to call him that far too much. Oh, how she liked her employer far too much.

August stared at the darkness for several moments trying
to orientate himself. He was in his bed. It was certainly night time. Elsie
wasn’t crying. So what had awoken him? He rolled and closed his eyes, feeling
sleep creep up his body and begin to consume him. His heart thudded as a
shuffle sounded outside his door. A thief? Miss Davis... no, Ivy? Why would she
be outside his door?

He got swiftly to his feet
and part of him hoped it was someone breaking in. He wasn’t sure how much more
of Miss Ivy Davis he could take. Safe to say, joining her for a walk had been a
terrible idea. He’d felt strange at the idea of knowing so little about
her—that had been his reasoning at least—but deep down, he knew the truth. He
had simply wanted an excuse to be near her, to breathe in her scent and to
watch those myriad expressions flutter across her face.

He’d never met a woman so
animated, so open. While at times she made him feel ancient and jaded, at other
times, he felt her youthful vibrancy fed and revived him. Quite a feat seeing
as they had spent no more than a few hours in each other’s company since her
arrival.

August strode across the
bedroom and snatched up the poker, heart thumping in his chest. The thought of
the two vulnerable people in his house, under his protection, made him clench
the iron tightly. He drew open the door slowly and peered out. His heart came
to a juddering standstill and he imagined he heard it squealing to a stop like
the wheels of a train on wet tracks. The poker fell from his hand and landed on
his toe.

Hard.

“Pissing hell,” he
spluttered.

But the apparition in the
hall didn’t turn. She had her back to him, a vision in white cotton. Moonlight
streamed in through the window at the end of the hallway. There was nothing
attractive about the long white garment with ruffled sleeves and a collar that
rose up around the back of her neck, covering every inch of her. However, her unbound
hair spilled down her back. It must have come loose from a braid as it was wavy
and luxuriant. He longed to bury his hands in it.

She stood there, sort of
wavering from side to side for quite some time before he found his voice.

“Miss Davis?” he hissed.
“Ivy?” She didn’t even turn and he dared not speak any louder for fear of
waking Elsie. The baby’s bedroom door was shut but Ivy’s wasn’t and the door
adjoining the rooms would be open.

Kicking aside the poker, he
moved stealthily towards her and put a hand to her shoulder. Instead of
screaming or jolting, she remained still, her skin warm against his palm. It
made him acutely aware of how little she was wearing beneath that prim nightgown.

“Ivy, what is the matter?”
he whispered before easing her around with his palm to her shoulder.

Realisation dawned when he
spied her open eyes, staring off into nowhere. The girl was sleepwalking. Of
course she was. Everything about Ivy was unusual, why wouldn’t the woman
sleepwalk?

But what to do with her?

He skimmed his gaze down her
and quickly snapped it back up. With the moonlight directly on her, he had a
fine view of her figure against the cotton. Her thighs pressed against it and
he imagined feeling the shape of those legs. Were they long and slender or
plump and ripe for grabbing? He suspected slightly on the plump side.

Her flesh would give way
beautifully under his fingertips. But worse was the memory of her breasts
curving against the material, of the dark nipples clearly visible.

Heat licked along his body.
Breathing grew hard. Other parts of him grew hard too. What the devil was wrong
with him? He’d already broken his promise by touching her, no matter how brief,
and here he was lusting after her while she wasn’t even lucid.

He’d have to break his
promise again and urge her back to bed. What if she tried to go downstairs and
she fell? What if she tried to enter his room? Or even his bed? Damnation, how
he wished she would.

August bit the side of his
tongue, punishing himself for the thought. Sucking in a deep breath, he steeled
himself against the sight of her and took her hands. Her slender fingers in his
sent a jolt through him that seemed to aim straight for his heart.

She let him lead her easily
into her bedroom and coax her towards her bed. The trust she had in him—albeit
while she was asleep—made him feel more of a cad than ever for his heated
imaginings. He clenched his jaw as he eased her down with two hands to her
shoulders.

Clearly he needed to find
some satisfaction—and fast. A trip to a high-class brothel was in order
perhaps. He grimaced. Since work on the tunnel had taken over his life and then
Elsie entered it, brothels seemed tawdry, no matter how expensive or well
looked after the girls were. It had been different when he was younger and he
cared little where he found his pleasure. As he grew older, the thought of
bedding a strange woman and paying her for the privilege appealed less and
less.

As if aware of his thoughts,
Ivy flopped back against the bed, her legs hanging off the bed, her arms
sprawled. Her breasts rose up like an offering. The temptation to bend over
her, take one of those nipples in his mouth and suck until the cotton was
transparent created such an ache in his gut that it nearly forced him double.

Ironic. Had she not done the
very same thing for him but a few nights ago? He lifted her legs and pushed
them under the blankets. Soft skin brushed his palms and she kicked off the
blankets.

“Damn it, Ivy.”

 Even in the dark, he could
make out the attractive arch of her calf and knew it was the same warm colour
as her face.

Wonderful. Now he was
wondering what they would look like around his hips? This was an innocent woman
for goodness sake’s. He scrubbed a hand across his face and tried to think of
something distasteful. Mrs Pepperwhite with her shocking taste in hats. Yes,
that might do it.

No, that wouldn’t do it.

Ivy’s taste in hats was no
better yet she looked entirely too beautiful in the overly-ruffled, brightly-coloured
concoctions she wore.

August bent to tuck her in
again, and he found himself with a mouthful of cotton and—bloody hell—breasts.
She had latched her arms around his neck and drawn him down on top of her. He
pressed his palms against the mattress, the wooden frame creaking in protest of
their combined weights.

Ivy’s grip proved to be
surprisingly strong, and his arms gave way and he found himself tucked against
those breasts again. Lord, she smelled good. Like soap and violets, clean and
pure.

Yes, pure, which was why he
had to extract himself as hastily as possible before he did something that made
her un-pure.

“August,” she whispered, her
voice breezing over his hair.

 He froze.

Had she awoken? He craned
his head up and saw her eyes had closed. She remained asleep. Did she dream of
him then? Whisky-like heat curled into his blood.

August drew in the scent of
her again through his nostrils and steeled his courage. Did it matter if she
did? He would not break his promise. He smirked to himself from his position
between her breasts. It was a little too late for keeping his promise. The only
way he could make it worse would be to strip her, and bury his face against her
bare breasts.

He rose up a fraction—as
much as her grip on him allowed—and eyed her profile. She was lit only by a
thin strip of moonlight seeping through the curtains. Those lush lips
practically begged to be kissed. Her long lashes skimmed her elegant cheeks.
Each rise and fall of her chest pounded through him like a demand.
Up. Do
it. Down. Do it. Up. Kiss me. Down. Please.

Fingers curled into the
bedding beside her, he stared at her for endless moments, fighting his internal
war. The battle raged on and his heart sounded like cannon fire in his head. He
couldn’t.

But he wanted to.

He shouldn’t.

He let his lips hover over hers.

He tore away, wrenching free
of her grip and caring not a damn if she awoke. He wouldn’t. Every woman he’d
kissed had been willing and awake. He wouldn’t tarnish himself and her by
kissing her.

Jaw tight, hands on either
side of her head, he pushed himself up. Her eyes flew open. This time she was certainly
awake.

“Mr Avery?” Her voice, husky
from sleep, tangled deep inside him.

He brought his gaze to those
tempting lips and back up. “Forgive me,” he said in a low voice, “you were
sleepwalking.”

“Oh dear. I haven’t done
that in a long time. Not since... well, since I lived at home I suppose.”

“You feel safe here
perhaps.”

How wrong she was. Safe?
With his mouth a mere inch or so away from hers? Hardly.

“Yes, I think that’s it,”
she whispered. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

“I only wanted to make sure
you did not hurt yourself,” he said, his tone far too gritty for his liking.
His throat still felt clogged with desire.

A sharp intake of breath
echoed through the room and pounded through his skull. It was her taking the
deep gulp of air, he realised. He wasn’t even sure he could breathe. He felt
like he was underwater and was wading through it to get to her, yet he didn’t
move—he couldn’t.

Honour bound.

Ivy’s lashes fluttered as
her gaze dropped to his lips. Every part of him remained tense but for the life
of him, he could not push away. He dug his fingers into the pillow beside her.
The moment might have been mere seconds but it went on and on, endlessly
stretching out, making the room grow hotter by the second and making him
impossibly hard.

She moved. Just a fraction
of an inch but it was enough. It was the invitation he hadn’t realised he’d
been waiting for. Her lips pursed and she lifted her head a little.

With a great rush of
movement, he brought his mouth to hers. He wasted no time on niceties, on
carefully moving his lips over hers. This kiss claimed and burned, singed him
to his soul.

And Ivy—beautiful, luscious
Ivy—she kissed him as though he was the only man alive, as if she’d been
waiting for him for a lifetime. Her hands flew around his shoulders and pinned
her to him. She made noises too. Sweet, agreeable noises that reached deep down
inside him and clutched at his heart.

August ached to taste the
sweet warmth of her mouth but something prevented him from doing so—perhaps
some fragment of his honour remained. Instead he pressed the kiss harder so
neither of them would mistake the fact that they had indeed kissed.

A cry shattered the foggy
lust crowding his mind. He jolted away and twisted his head to listen. Another
cry. He pushed back and scrubbed a hand across his face.

“I should see to her,” Ivy
said softly, still lying exactly as she had been when he’d been kissing her.
Her lips were fuller and in better light would be rosy from his kisses. She
looked a little stunned.

“I’ll go,” he offered.

Part of him needed to hold
Elsie and feel her soft baby warmth against him. If it helped him remember his
duty to her and to Ivy—an
employee
in his home—so much the better.
August drew in a breath and found himself patting his nightshirt, hoping his
cigarettes would be there. Which they weren’t.

Bugger. Why did he stop
smoking again?

And there she was sitting
primly as though he hadn’t been kissing her and just had his face flattened
against those beautiful breasts.

“Well, good night.”

Elsie’s cries began to reach
the point where they’d shatter crystal.

“August?”

He stilled, his hand to the
door handle. He clenched the metal before turning to face her. “Yes?”

She stared at him, her knees
drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. Vulnerable, delicate, giving him
every reason to hate himself. But he still hung on the way she said his name
and prayed she asked him to kiss her again.

“It does not matter. Good
night.”

He gave a formal nod. As if
manners could somehow salvage his honour tonight. Pushing through the half-open
door, he turned his attention to the wailing infant, cooing to her and lifting
her from the crib. Breathing in the scent of her soft crown, he hoped it would
erase the lingering fragrance of the woman in the next room.