Valerian’s voice was subdued. ‘Suffice it to say, I didn’t want things between us to end that way.’ He shook his head as if to dispel unpleasant memories. ‘I didn’t want to make you cry. I don’t expect you to forget what passed between us. However, I would welcome any forgiveness you’d be willing to offer. Over the years, have you ever thought once that maybe I had my reasons and those reasons had to remain secret? After all, you knew me to be a man of honour, Philippa.’
Philippa shook her head in denial, her voice matching him in despairing softness. ‘No, Valerian, I know no such thing.’
‘So be it,’ he said quietly in tones that passed for the barest of whispers. He offered her his arm again and they trudged forth in silence, but Philippa was not immured from the hurt that had flitted across his face at her words. She was not a cruel person inherently or by design and she regretted her words, although she did not regret thinking them. They represented the empirical truth as she knew it. Still, a part of her did not welcome hurting Valerian, and that part worried her very much.
They did not speak again until they reached their destination. ‘Ah, there it is, Trist’s folly, or what there is of it,’ Valerian said with a modicum of gallantry to cover the silence that had sprung up between them.
‘Yes, there it is.’ Philippa offered half-heartedly. She wasn’t thinking of the stone grotto slowly being renovated, but of a different folly; this one being a handsome man with broad shoulders who was busy stripping out of his expensive coat and rolling up his sleeves a few feet away from her to better explore the rocks that lay haphazardly about the grotto.
Philippa found a flat slab of granite and sat down, to wait and to watch. Handsome is as handsome does. The nursery-room warning clanged in Philippa’s head. Valerian had certainly proved the adage true. He’d stolen her débutante’s heart with hard, full-mouthed kisses and soft promises that roused her budding sense of passion. Then he’d disappeared from England without a backwards glance or even a letter. Still, the old memories, memories that predated heartbreak and harked back to a better time, persisted, a time when she’d believed differently.
She’d enjoyed watching Valerian in gardens before. He would wander around in silence and then suddenly remark, ‘wouldn’t this be a lovely place for a fountain?’ or ‘a maze would be a splendid addition here’. In their youth they’d often used the pretence of looking at landscapes to steal a private moment. Only, it hadn’t been so much a pretence since Valerian made a regular habit of mentally rearranging everyone’s garden.
The recollection made her smile now while she watched him stroll about the grotto. Watching him, so absorbed in his study, she could almost believe time had stood still. Errant strands of his hair were being blown in his face by the light breeze. He bent occasionally to study the stones that seemed to intrigue him. The expensively cut shirt moulded his strong physique to perfection across the expanse of his shoulders and the exquisite muscles of his back.
Valerian turned towards her, a hand pushing his hair back from his face. ‘Come and see this prospect. The view from the north-west corner is outstanding. I think I’ll tell Trist he should build rockeries, too. The quartz-veined rock from Carne Quarry at Nare Head would be handsome here.’
At his words, a stab of yearning speared through Philippa, causing a near-physical pain. Hot words and devastating past aside, in that moment he was the old Valerian, the one she’d thought she’d loved, and she wanted him. This was no lustful coveting of his body. No, she wanted more than sex from him, although she wanted that, too. She wanted Valerian Inglemoore body and soul, the way she thought she’d had him when they were younger. She wanted to know what he was thinking the moment he thought it. She wanted to anticipate his every desire. It had been years since she’d felt a longing so complete, so intense, and never with anyone but him.
Time stood still, then fractured into a kaleidoscope of half-forgotten memories. She was in his arms, although she hadn’t the faintest idea how she’d got there or when he’d moved. His lips were on hers, full and demanding. His mouth possessed her and she returned it with a possession of her own. Someone was crying, and she had the vague impression it was her own sobs. Valerian’s hands were rough on her body and his breath was ragged as he ravaged her mouth. She did not care. They were both frantic.
He was a master at this, kissing her with insistency, his tongue probing her mouth, his teeth nipping her bottom lip and sucking hard. His hands moved from her waist to expertly cup and caress her breasts, kneading them through the fine wool of her gown until they were erect with need.
Philippa caught fire. All she could do was wrap her arms about his neck and press into him until she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted to throw off her clothes and let his hands range free on her body no longer hampered by the fabric of her gown and the undergarments beneath.
She could feel his body rise, burning hot and hard. His erection was full and insistent against the folds of her skirt. His hands had moved to gather up the material of her dress and she could feel his body, taut with desire and anticipation. No wonder he’d had half of Europe on its knees.
All reason fled. She cared not a whit for the hardness of the granite slab beneath her back or for the painful ghosts of the past. She cared for nothing save the heat of Valerian’s body as it covered hers in an attempt to assuage the need that coursed through them both.
Valerian, green eyes forest-dark with desire, hesitated for a moment. ‘Philippa, are you sure?’
‘Val, I want…’ She met his eyes, searching for what it was that she so desperately sought—that her Valerian existed, that this moment was the moment she’d thought to claim so many years ago. But it wasn’t there, not really. This was wrong, no matter how right it felt. And she remembered why. She had loved him. He had shared her passion, but not her depth. He’d scorned her and sent her off to marry another man.
‘Yes, what do you want?’ Valerian panted.
‘I want to believe,’ she said softly, her arms twining around his neck, pulling him down to her in mute apology. ‘But I can’t. Not yet.’
‘I can make you believe again, Philippa,’ Valerian vowed. ‘Let me try,’ he pleaded, every ounce of his muscle straining in desire as he held himself in check.
She held him there, full against her. She couldn’t deny that she wanted him, but she didn’t want him, not as a fiction. ‘Don’t do this. I won’t have it. You had your dalliance with me years ago. I won’t be played for the fool again.’
‘You were never my fool, Philippa.’ He raised himself up on his arms, drawing back from his seduction only slightly. His eyes shut as if in an attempt to hold back the memories. ‘We had a great passion between us once. We can have it again,’ he coaxed. ‘I want you, Philippa.’
Philippa felt the old animosity flare against her passion. ‘I was the one left crying in the Rutherfords’ garden. I thought you were going to propose and you knew I thought that.’When she had him, if she had him, it would be with an understanding of the truth of who he was. It was the only way she could protect herself from being hurt a second time. If she learned nothing else today, she’d learned that being hurt again was a distinct possibility.
A distant ‘Halloooo!’ reached her ears and the reality of their situation hit her. She’d done the most foolish thing of all—she’d almost let Valerian make love to her in the open, where they were no doubt visible to all sundry passers-by.
Valerian groaned a miserable ‘Oh, God,’ as he moved to stand, fumbling with his clothes. ‘We have company.’
Philippa struggled up to see Beldon and Lucien tramping towards them. Good lord, how much had they seen? She and Valerian had been kissing in plain view of anyone coming in that direction. That was the problem with follies and prospects. They thrived in wide open spaces.
‘I