“Is it wrong,” he said, so quietly that at first she wasn’t sure what he was saying, “for a man to want to be held? Does that make him less of a man?”
She felt tears prick her eyes . . . and something underneath them, something shrewder and sharper. She moved over a little and placed an arm lightly around his shoulders. Oh, the feel of him! Tall and broad, his jacket sitting so beautifully on his frame. She knew she would revisit this moment again and again for the rest of her life. The feel of him, the liberty to touch . . . She was almost faint with pleasure.
When he did nothing to stop her, she perched on the arm of his chair, leaned over a little, and, holding her breath, placed her head on his shoulder. A gesture of comfort, of solidarity. This is how it would feel, she thought blissfully. She wished, just briefly, that someone would take a picture of them pressed together so intimately. Then he lifted his head, and she felt a sudden pang of alarm—and shame.
“I’m so sorry—I’ll get . . .” She straightened, choking on the words. But his hand was on hers. Warm. Close. “Moira,” he said, and his eyes were half closed, his voice a croak of despair and desire. His hands were on her face, tilting it, pulling it down to meet his, and his mouth, searching, desperate, determined. A sound escaped her, a gasp of shock and delight, and then she was returning his kiss. He was only the second man she had kissed, and this instance was beyond the realm of what had preceded it, colored as it was by years of unrequited longing. Little explosions took place inside her as her blood raced around at super speed and her heart fought to escape her chest.
She felt him easing her back across the desk, his murmuring voice hoarse and urgent, his hands at her collar, her br**sts, his breath warm on her collarbone. Inexperienced, she knew little of where to put her hands, her limbs, but found herself clutching him, wanting to please, lost in new sensations. I adore you, she told him silently. Take what you want from me.
But even as she gave herself up to pleasure, Moira knew she must keep some part of her aware enough to remember. Even as he enveloped her, entered her, her skirt hitched above her hips, his ink bottle digging uncomfortably into her shoulder, she knew she was no threat to Jennifer Stirling. The Jennifers of this world would always be the ultimate prize in a way that a woman like her never could. But Moira Parker had one advantage: she was appreciative in a way that Jennifer Stirling, that those who had always had things handed to them, never were. And she knew that even one brief night could be the most precious of all precious things, and that if this was to be the defining event of her romantic life, some part of her should be conscious enough to file it safely somewhere. Then, when it was over, she could relive it on those endless evenings when she was alone again.
She was sitting in the large drawing room at the front of the house when he returned home. She was wearing a raspberry tweed swing coat and hat, her black patent handbag and matching gloves resting neatly on her lap. She heard his car pull up, saw the lights outside dim, and stood. She pulled back the curtain a few inches and watched him sitting in the driving seat, letting his thoughts tick over with the dying engine.
She glanced behind her at her suitcases, then moved away from the window.
He came in and dropped his overcoat on the hall chair. She heard his keys fall into the bowl they kept for that purpose on the table, and the clatter of something falling over. The wedding photograph? He hesitated for a moment outside the drawing-room door, then opened it and found her.
“I think I should leave.” She saw his eyes go to the packed suitcase at her feet, the one she had used when she’d left the hospital all those weeks earlier.
“You think you should leave.”
She took a deep breath. Spoke the words she had rehearsed for the last two hours. “This isn’t making either of us very happy. We both know that.”
He walked past her to the drinks cabinet and poured himself three fingers of whiskey. The way he held the decanter made her wonder how much he had drunk since she had returned home. He took the cut-glass tumbler to a chair and sat down heavily. He lifted his eyes to hers, held them for a few minutes. She fought the urge to fidget.
“So . . .” he said. “Do you have something else in mind? Something that might make you happier?” His tone was sarcastic, unpleasant; drink had unleashed something in him. But she was not afraid. She had the freedom of knowing he was not her future.
They stared at each other, combatants locked in an uneasy battle.
“You know, don’t you?” she said.
He drank some of his whiskey, his eyes not leaving her face. “What do I know, Jennifer?”
She took a breath. “That I love someone else. And that it’s not Reggie Carpenter. It never was.” She fiddled with her handbag as she spoke. “I worked it out this evening. Reggie was a mistake, a diversion from the truth. But you’re so angry with me all the time. You have been ever since I got out of hospital. Because you know, just as I do, that someone else loves me, and isn’t afraid to tell me so. That’s why you didn’t want me to ask too many questions. That’s why my mother—and everyone else—has been so keen for me to simply get on with things. You didn’t want me to remember. You never have.”
She had half expected him to explode with anger. But instead he nodded. Then, as she held her breath, he raised his glass to her. “So . . . this lover of yours, what time will he be here?” He peered at his watch, then at her cases. “I assume he’s picking you up.”
“He . . .” She swallowed. “I . . . It’s not like that.”
“So you’re going to meet him somewhere.”
He was so calm. As if he was almost enjoying this. “Eventually. Yes.”
“Eventually,” he repeated. “What’s the delay?”
“I . . . I don’t know where he is.”
“You don’t know where he is.” Laurence downed the whiskey. He stood laboriously and poured himself another.
“I can’t remember, you know I can’t. Things are coming back to me, and I don’t have it clear in my head yet, but I know now that this”—she gestured around the room—“feels wrong for a reason. It feels wrong because I’m in love with someone else. So I’m very sorry, but I have to go. It’s the right thing to do. For both of us.”
He nodded. “May I ask what this gentleman—your lover—has that I don’t?”
The streetlight outside the window sputtered.