“Susanna,” he whispered against her ear.

She sighed in his arms, as though she loved the sound of her name on his lips.

So he said it again, murmuring that light, stubborn melody. “Susanna. Susanna fair.” He nuzzled her earlobe, then drew it between his lips, suckling the delicate bud. Her little gasp stoked his desire.

She made him want so much. Too much. Damn, she made him yearn.

He kissed her again, taking time to savor each of her plump, lush lips before thrusting his tongue between them. This time, he delved deeper, took more. She made a mewling noise in the back of her throat, less a whimper than an erotic demand. There was urgency in her kiss now, and sweet frustration. He could taste how much she craved his touch, and the knowledge made him wild.

All this from a few simple kisses, with both of them fully clothed. Good Lord. He ran one hand down her arm and plucked at the topmost closure of her glove. They drove him mad with desire, these prim satin sheaths, with their endless stretches of buttons and arrow-straight seams. As matters stood, she could barely contain all that natural passion. What would happen when the gloves came off?

He loosed the top button with a flick of his thumb.

“Lord Rycliff,” she said hoarsely.

“Bram,” he corrected, undoing another. “After a kiss like that, you must call me Bram.”

“Bram, please . . .”

“With pleasure.” He kissed her lips again, sliding his fingers beneath the unbuttoned satin.

Her hands slid to his chest, and she pushed, hard.

“Lord Rycliff. Please.”

The desperate catch in her voice surprised him. He glanced down to find her wearing an expression of distress, her bottom lip quivering. Her eyes were downcast.

Bram immediately found himself missing them. If he’d spent so much time thinking of her eyes, it must be because in their every interaction, she’d met his gaze directly. Unapologetic and undaunted. Until now.

Damn, and here he was certain she’d been enjoying this. He wasn’t the sort to press himself on an unwilling woman.

“Susanna?” He reached to capture her chin, tilt her face to his. Her gaze was wide and pleading in the dark, and his heart gave a strange kick. Within him, lust and honor warred. He wanted her, yes. But he wanted to protect her, too. He wondered briefly if that meant he was a hypocrite.

No, he decided. It just meant he was a man.

“I . . .” Her lips parted, as though she would speak. Which would mean he needed to listen. He struggled to quell the bloodlust coursing through his veins, so he could make out her words over the mad pounding of his heart.

“My father,” she breathed.

Her father.

His gut wrenched, and he released her at once. There it was, the instant cure for his lust. Somehow, for a solid, disastrous minute, he’d managed to forget Sir Lewis Finch entirely. His late father’s good friend. A national hero. The man who held Bram’s fate in his hands. How could he have possibly forgotten?

The answer was simple. Once he’d made the decision to kiss Susanna, really kiss her . . . He simply hadn’t possessed the space in his brain or his arms or his heart to hold anything but her.

That kiss had been all-consuming. And it could not, would not happen again.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, smoothing her upswept hair. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know. But it won’t happen again.”

She threw him a look, sharp as cut sapphires. “Of course it won’t. It can’t.”

“You need to stay far clear of me. Keep your distance.”

“Goodness, yes.” Her words were a fevered rush. “Plenty of distance. I’ll stay far away from you. And you keep your men separate from my ladies, do you understand?”

“Perfectly. It’s a bargain, then.”

“Good.” Her trembling fingers worked to refasten her gloves.

“Can I help with that?”

“No,” she said sharply.

“Do you . . .” He cleared his throat. “Do you plan to tell your father?”

“About this?” She looked up at him, horrified. “Heavens, no. Are you mad? He must never hear of this.”

A wave of emotion pushed through him, gone before he could name it. Profound relief, he supposed. “It’s just, you mentioned him. Earlier.”

“I did?” She frowned. “I did. Don’t speak to my father, that’s what I meant to say. Not about today, not about anything. When he proposed this militia scheme, I thought it just a bit of show, but seeing all this . . .” Her gaze turned to the rows of weaponry. “Please don’t include him. He may want to be involved, but you mustn’t allow it. He’s aging, and his health isn’t what it once was. I’ve no right to demand anything of you, but I must ask this.”

He didn’t know how to refuse. “Very well. You have my word.”

“Then you have my thanks.”

And that was all he had of her. For with those few words, she turned and fled.

That evening, as was the case most evenings, Susanna dined alone.

After dinner, she dressed for bed. Knowing she’d never be able to sleep, she chose a book—a weighty, soporific medical text. She tried to read, and failed miserably. After staring blankly at the same page for more than an hour, she rose from bed and made her way downstairs.

“Papa? Are you still up working?”

She folded an arm about her middle, wrapping her dressing gown close, and peered at the hallway clock by the light of her single candle. Already past midnight.

“Papa?” She hovered in the entrance of her father’s workshop, situated on the ground floor of Summerfield. Until recent years, he’d used an outbuilding as his dabbling space, but she’d convinced him to move to the main house about the same time she’d convinced him to give up the field tests. She liked keeping him close. When he was working, he often remained secluded for hours, even days at a time. At least in the house, she knew whether he was eating.

And he wasn’t eating. Not tonight, at least. His untouched dinner tray sat on a table by the door.

“Papa. You know, you really must take some food. Genius cannot subsist on air.”

“Is that you, Susanna?” His silver-tufted head lifted, but he did not turn his gaze. The room was lined with worktables of different sorts. A woodworking table with planes and a lathe; a station for soldering lead. Tonight, he sat at his drafting table, amid rolls of paper and discarded stubs of charcoal.

“It’s me.”

He did not invite her in, and she knew better than to enter without an explicit invitation. It had always been this way, since she was a girl. When Papa was concentrating, he must not be disturbed. But if he was at work on a trifling matter, or frustrated to the point of throwing up his hands, he would invite her in and prop her on his knee. She would sit with him, marveling over his intricate drawings and calculations. They made as much sense to her as Greek. Less sense, truly, because she’d taught herself the Greek alphabet one rainy afternoon. But still, she’d loved sitting with him. Poring over the plans, feeling privy to arcane secrets and military history in the making.

“What do you need?” She recognized the absent quality in his voice. If she had something of importance to discuss, he would not turn her away. But neither did he wish to stop his work for trivialities.

“I don’t want to interrupt. But I saw Lord Rycliff today. In the village. We talked.” And then I followed him up to his castle, where my lips collided with his. Repeatedly.

God. She couldn’t stop thinking of it. His whiskered jaw, his strong lips, his hands on her body. His taste. Susanna learned something new every day, but today was the first time she’d ever learned another person’s taste. The secret of it was gnawing her from the inside, and there was no one she could tell. Not a soul. She was motherless, sisterless. The village was full of ladies, and she’d been on the listening end of their titillating confessions countless times. But if she confided in the wrong person and her moment of weakness became public knowledge . . . all those ladies would be called home. She would risk losing every friend she had.

She gave her head a slight knock against the doorframe. Stupid, stupid. “It seems Rycliff’s plans for the militia are already proceeding apace. I just thought you’d like to know.”

“Ah.” He ripped a sheet of paper in half and drew a fresh one from the waiting stack. “That is good to hear.”

“How do you know the man, Papa?”

“Who, Bramwell?”

Bram. After a kiss like that, you must call me Bram.

A shiver went through her. “Yes.”

“His father was an old school friend. Went on to become a major general, highly decorated. Lived most of his commissioned years in India, but he died there not long ago.”

A pang of sympathy pinched her heart. Was Bram still mourning his father? “When, exactly?”

Her father raised his head, squinting into some imaginary distance. “Must be over a year now.”

Not so recently, then. But grief could easily outlast a year. Susanna hated to imagine how long she would mourn Papa, should he die unexpectedly.

“Did you know Mrs. Bramwell, too?”

With a penknife, he sharpened his stub of pencil and began to scribble again. “Met her a few times, the last when Victor was just an infant. Then they went to India, and that was the end of her. Dysentery, I believe.”

“Oh dear. How tragic.”

“Such things happen.”

She bit her lip, knowing he meant her own mother. Though she’d died with her second stillborn child over a decade ago, Anna Rose Finch lived on in Susanna’s memory: vividly beautiful, unfailingly patient and kind. But Papa found it hard to speak of her.

To change the subject, she said, “Shall I have Gertrude bring a fresh pot of tea? Coffee or chocolate, perhaps?”

“Yes, yes,” he muttered, bending his head. “Whatever you think best.”

Another sheet of paper hit the floor in a crumpled ball. Guilt pinched at the nape of her neck. She was distracting him from his work.

Susanna felt that she should leave, but something wouldn’t let her go. Instead, she leaned against the doorjamb, watching him work. As a girl, she’d always been amused by the gargoyle-ish contortions of his features while he worked. If a perfect chevron of a frown could coax innovation from blank parchment, he ought to receive a divine bolt of brilliance just about . . .

Now.

“Aha.” Out whisked a fresh sheet of paper. His hand danced back and forth, scribbling lines of text and calculations. There was a rhythm to genius, she’d often observed, and he’d caught its brisk cadence now. His shoulders hunched, walling out the world. Nothing she could say would draw his notice, save perhaps “Fire!” or “Elephants!”

“You see, Papa,” she said casually, “he kissed me today. Lord Rycliff.” She paused, and then wanting to test the name on her lips, she added, “Bram.”

“Mm-hm.”

There. Now she’d told someone. No matter that the information had sailed straight over her father’s head like an errant musket volley. At least she was talking about it aloud.

“Papa?”

Her only answer was the sound of scribbling.

“I wasn’t entirely truthful just now. In fact, Bram first kissed me yesterday.” She bit her lip. “Today . . . today was something much more.”

“Good,” he muttered distractedly, running one hand through what remained of his hair. “Good, good.”

“I don’t know what to make of him. He’s gruff and ill-mannered, and when he’s not pushing me away, he’s touching me places he shouldn’t. I don’t fear him, but when he’s near me, I . . . I’m a little afraid of myself. I feel as though I’ll explode.”