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"No, I shouldn't have kissed you."
At the polo match, when Cameron Cook sauntered over to Rupert and planted a show-stopping kiss on his mouth in front of God and everyone, it started — the distinct feeling that Taggie O'Hara might be in a waking nightmare.
Moments ago, when Rupert invited Cameron to live with him at Penscombe Court, then refused to meet Taggie's eye, she felt herself sink even deeper into it.
And now, all of her worst fears are confirmed, laid bare in the kitchen as a family and friends wine and dine just a few rooms over. A knife to the chest would hurt less, bleed less than this does.
Her face falls, and Rupert's follows seconds later. If only she had a better poker face, she could guard her heart more closely. She's always worn it on her sleeve, from schoolyard crushes to the whole ordeal with Ralphie — even in the few moments after reading Seb's letter, when Daddy suggested she might be coming down with a cold.
It's embarrassing, the way tears cling to her eyelashes.
"It's true what everyone says about you." Even as the words drip from her mouth, Taggie knows she's lying. She doesn't actually believe the worst in him. This would all be much easier if she did. "You aren't capable of love."
Not capable of loving her.
Rupert takes a step forward, hurt etched on his handsome face. "Tag — "
"Please, get out of my kitchen." Her eyes sting, and she's only got seconds before the tears start falling in earnest.
Screwing her eyes shut, Taggie braces for the sound of footsteps receding. Maybe for the strike of a fist on the counter. When neither comes, she bites her bottom lip and turns toward the sink, where she rests her hands against the porcelain lip. The support is good; it keeps her from collapsing to the floor with the pain of it all.
Large, warm hands settle on her waist.
A sigh escapes her mouth, one she wishes she could swallow back into the ether. Pathetic.
"Tag," Rupert says, his voice velvet against the shell of her ear. Something harsh pricks at her skin — the desperate way he says her name. "I'm sorry, angel. So sorry."
Pushing away from the sink only forces her closer to his chest, broad and steady behind her. Futile. Inevitable. Just like the all of the love and hate churning together in her gut, threatening to come up all over the kitchen. She pushes anyway.
When he turns her, gently, Taggie goes willingly.
Polo grounds. In his stained shirt, Rupert smells of the polo grounds, horses, grass, sweat, the whole nine yards. It should be disgusting, but she takes big, gulping breaths, hands clutching uselessly at his shoulders.
His hands stroke up and down her back, soothing. One lands on the side of her neck, where his thumb works the tension out of her jaw. It's a position all too reminiscent of their kiss, the one that they've both agreed should never have happened; but Taggie makes no move to leave.
He doesn't love her.
He's moving in with Cameron.
He's fucking Cameron.
So this is all Taggie gets. A half-baked apology and a hug, tucked away where nobody can see. A secret. Shameful.
So be it.
"Please," Taggie whispers, unable to voice more. "Please."
It's a devastating blow when he answers just as she'd hoped, tilting her face up and looking down with dark, dangerous eyes. So Rupert does know what she needs. He's just unwilling to give it outside of the Priory's kitchen.
He settles his mouth on hers like he's kissed her hundreds of times, not just the once. Soft, reverent. Lips brushing lips, almost chaste. Taggie knows he's holding back, knows he can give better than this. So it's her that presses up on her toes and parts her lips — just slightly. Giving him an opening.
Please.
Rupert curses and clutches her closer.
When his tongue sweeps into her mouth Taggie could cheer. Instead, her arms go around his neck, fingers sinking into his dark curls — longer than they'd been when she last did this. A tug, and then Rupert groans into her mouth. The hand that was demurely resting on her hip slides lower, cupping her bottom. Squeezing. Kneading.
She surges forward, hips bumping into thick male arousal, and the sound Rupert makes is one that will surely play on loop every time she slides her hand below the waistband of her knickers for the foreseeable future.
The heat of his mouth, the pressure of his hands, his body — it all feels so right. When a thigh slots between her legs, her mind goes beautifully, deliciously blank. Spurred on by adrenaline and the way Rupert keeps saying her name like a prayer between kisses, she reaches for his belt buckle.
Who's Cameron Cook? Why was Taggie so cross earlier? Why isn't she pulling Rupert into the pantry and riding him until they're both screaming?
Someone coughs, and good sense and common decency flood back into her brain all at once.
Taggie squeaks, pulling away from Rupert and whipping back around to the sink in one motion. Her hands shake when she turns the faucet on.
Who caught them?
Behind her, Rupert slowly backs away, until she can't feel the warmth from his body anymore. It's as if the window before her has suddenly broken, letting in a draft.
"Am I interrupting something?" Bas asks. Just Bas, thank God. The relief fades quickly, because it's not his typical teasing voice; in fact, he sounds more than a little disappointed.
Rupert clears his throat. "No, I was just helping Taggie with the washing up."
"Thank you," Taggie says quickly. It's only then that she notices there's not a single dish in the sink. Fuck.
"Right." Bas draws the single syllable out, clearly unconvinced. "Better get back to it. Cameron's looking for you."
Taggie looks over her shoulder, only to find Rupert stalking back into the living room, and Bas, staring straight at her, a strange mix of pity and interest on his face. Her stomach flips over.
"You won't say anything, will you?"
Bas lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head. "No, I won't. But Taggie?"
Her fists tighten, short nails digging into her palms. "What?"
"The next time you need help with the washing up, just ask me."
He turns on his heels, and Taggie's back where she started: alone in the kitchen, head full of unanswered questions.
What now?