Free Who Needs Mr Willoughby? by Katie Oliver Page A

new house. Sure enough, Elinor stood at her bedroom window looking down at her and Kit Willoughby with undisguised curiosity.
    “Oh, honestly,” Marianne exclaimed, irritated. “I can see I’ll have no privacy now that mum and Elinor are living here at Barton Park.”
    He smiled. “None at all.”
    On impulse, Marianne lifted her gaze to the window and waved at Elinor. With a flush of embarrassment at being caught out, the curtains twitched, and her sister left the window altogether.
    ***
    As Marianne climbed up the rope ladder a few minutes later, she was all too aware of Mr Willoughby just behind her.
    “Almost there,” he called out behind her. “And try not to fall. I don’t want a repeat of the other day.”
    “I won’t fall,” she retorted. “I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place, if that crack of lightning hadn’t scared me half to death.”
    She reached the top and clambered up onto the deck, her breath coming quick after the climb. She bent down and glanced inside the tree house. The room was just large enough for two people, with small windows on three sides and barely space enough to stand up in.
    “I love it,” she called back over her shoulder as she climbed inside and sat down. “It’s perfect.”
    Willoughby’s head and shoulders appeared at the top of the ladder. “I’m glad you approve.” In a moment, he climbed in beside her, smiling and out of breath, and stretched his long, boot-clad legs out before him.
    “Was it yours, this tree house?” she asked, surprised. “You never said.”
    “My uncle built it for me, years ago. I was never so excited as the day he finished it.”
    “I can imagine. I would’ve been over the moon to have a tree house like this tucked up under the leaves,” Marianne said, and drew her knees up to her chest. “I wouldn’t have let anyone in, not even Elinor.”
    Willoughby turned to her, his blue eyes steady on hers. “Not even me?”
    Her heart quickened. “That’s a ridiculous question,” she said lightly, and smiled. “I didn’t know you then. And besides, you were just a boy.”
    “But you know me now. And I’m not a boy any longer.”
    “No, you’re not.” She looked at him, at his face so near to hers, and blushed. “But your question is still irrelevant.”
    He laughed. “Is it? And why is that?”
    “Because…” She stopped. “Because you’re here now.”
    “Yes. And very glad to be, too,” he said. “So I suppose,” he added, his smile softening and all traces of teasing gone, “that answers my question.”
    “Obviously,” she agreed, and made no protest as his hand came out to cup her face and his lips found hers.
    It started out as the briefest of kisses; tentative and gentle, searching and sweet. His lips brushed hers for the merest, most tantalising moment before he drew back.
    “Do you mind if I kiss you, Marianne?” he asked, his brow creased and his forehead warm against hers. “Only say the word if you do, and I’ll stop.”
    In answer, she took his face in her hands and stroked the thick whorl of dark hair back from his forehead. “Please kiss me again, Willoughby,” she breathed. “I think I might die if you don’t.”
    Without another word of conversation between them, he pulled her closer and slanted his mouth once again over hers.
    His kiss was all Marianne had imagined it would be – assured, tentative, gentle and impassioned, all at once. Her thoughts whirled and scattered as he deepened their embrace, and with a sigh, she parted her lips under his.
    Unlike other men she’d kissed (although, admittedly, the number was few), Kit Willoughby’s mouth on hers was neither crude, nor demanding. He asked nothing of her; he did not thrust his tongue rudely down her throat, or let his hands wander where they shouldn’t. All the ardency and tenderness of his affections was contained in his kiss.
    “Marianne,” he said as he dragged his mouth reluctantly from hers a moment later, “I’m sorry.