Chapter Five

"A nd yet still you bear the guilt of it, do you not?"

Philippa didn't need an answer. It was written plainly on his face.

"It was not your fault."

"I know that, but—it complicates everything. You complicate everything." He sighed heavily.

"Because I'm in your room, or because you fear that I am throwing myself at you as Miss Hawley did? I assure you, when I burst into this room, I didn't even know it was yours."

"I'm fully aware of that, Miss Thomas. The complication stems purely from the fact that, were you to throw yourself at me as Miss Hawley did, my response would be very different.... I am tempted by you when you do nothing to lure me. And that is why you cannot remain in this room."

Philippa couldn't respond. She couldn't even breathe. His confession was stunning, shocking even. And also, tempting in and of itself. He was an extraordinarily handsome man, but he was also so much more than that. Even as she knew it was a terrible idea, she uttered, "You tempt me also. Terribly. And it's the worst sort of recklessness to admit such a thing."

She couldn't say which of them moved first, but somehow the scant inches that had existed between them were shrinking. They were standing so close, and she could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. The hat fell from her fingers as he pulled her to him. His lips brushed hers once, twice, then settled firmly. Warm and firm, they moved over hers with tender purpose.

A sigh of pure pleasure escaped her. That kiss, not exactly chaste but certainly more innocent than either of them truly desired for it to be, was still overwhelming. Overwhelming because from their first meeting, this moment had been building between them. Now, in its fruition, it was achingly perfect.

But kisses, she soon discovered, were a dynamic thing. They could begin in one manner and end in entirely another. Those soft, tender brushes gave way to more demanding and heated contact. Heaven help her, she loved every second of it. Each one was a discovery of something new, both about him and about herself.

It had never occurred to Philippa that she might have a particularly passionate nature. She had been, until recently, prudent in all things. But perhaps having cast off the cloak of practicality, the more sensual side of her had also been unleashed. Because she clung to him, wrapping her arms around him and willing him to continue kissing her until they were both mindless with it.

When he licked her lower lip, she gasped at the sensation. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth, she tasted the brandy he'd had before bed. She felt the rasp of his whiskers on her skin and the firm press of his chest against hers as his arms closed around her. It was heady and intoxicating and complete foolishness. And she couldn't have stopped it if her life depended on it. She wasn't entirely certain that it did not. It felt as if he were a lifeline she was clinging to.

And it ended abruptly with a loud crash. A vase on a table near the fireplace had fallen to the hard stone of the hearth, shattering on impact.

He stepped back from her abruptly "Miss Thomas, I—"

"Do not apologize. Do not say that you are sorry," she implored. The humiliation of that would be unbearable.

"I should be," he said. "But I'm not. Regardless, it cannot happen again. You are here for Elizabeth. And however much I might wish things were different, she needs you... What I want cannot supersede that."

While she knew he was right, that did little to tamp down the yearning she felt for him. That alone was reason enough to never repeat it. Wanting a man to the point of recklessness rarely ever ended well for women. "You are quite right. I should return to my chamber... and we will simply carry on as if this never happened."

He was quiet for a moment. Then, with both resignation and familiar disappointment ringing in his voice, he said, "As soon as you have regained your composure, I will escort you back to your own room and we will both try to forget this conversation—this night—ever took place."

"No." She'd never forget what had transpired. Not in the corridor or in his room. Both events had altered her irrevocably, she feared. But she hadn't the strength to be so close to him and keep her wits about her. "It will be far better for me if I am discovered in the corridor alone than if I am found with you."

"But you are frightened," he protested.

"There are things in this life far worse than a ghost. Ruin is one of them. My reputation is all that I have and if it is lost, it can never be regained. Servants talk. To one another. To their cousins or sisters who work in other houses, and they talk to the other servants in their households. If there is one thing I know, a scandal like that follows a person forever."

*

Devon watched her go, watch her step around the shards of broken porcelain and into the hall beyond. And he fought, with all his will, the overwhelming desire to call her back. To kiss her again. And to demand to know what it was that had put that haunted look in her eyes. If there was one thing he'd discovered that night about Miss Philippa Thomas, beyond his inability to keep his urges in check, it was that she had secrets. There was something in her past that troubled her. All he wanted was to protect her from that. To protect her from whatever it was that she found even more frightening than the prospect of a phantom.

He turned to go back to his bed where he would surely remain sleepless for the remainder of the night. But another sound halted him in his tracks. It was distant, sounding far away and distorted. But the hummed tune he recognized. Greensleeves . And he could do nothing but recall with a shiver the last time he'd heard it.

The night before Regina Hawley had fled Peregrine Hall in the darkness, she'd been playing it on the pianoforte.