“But then we would be discovered.”
“Very true.” Crossing the room, he sank casually onto the blue sofa as she quietly railed at him, the flickering torches beyond the window bathing her in lush golden color.
“And my reputation would be in tatters. My family’s business would falter out of existence. We would be cast out of London. I would grow old in the country, my entire existence depending upon the infrequent visits of my sister Jacinda, her husband, and their future children. And because all of this was my doing, I wouldn’t even have the honor of being their favorite aunt. Instead, the children would clamber into Ainsley’s arms, pelting her with their soft puppy kisses and telling her stories of their exciting adventures.”
“All the more reason to be discrete, and to make haste,” he said in a casual tone, belying the impatience teeming through his veins. “Come away from the door, Briar, and kiss me.”
Chapter 9
“Can you trust me with such flatterers?”
Jane Austen, Emma
Come away from the door, Briar, and kiss me.
The sinful timbre of his voice tumbled through her, stealing her breath. Her curiosity reached an anxious simmer, brewing hot and frantic beneath her skin.
In contrast, he was draped casually over the sofa as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As if there wasn’t an ounce of anticipation in him, or even a smidge of nervousness.
And speaking of nerves, hers were now making themselves known in tiny shivers that skated over her limbs, drawing her flesh tight. Was she truly about to kiss a rake?
A man like him possessed heaps upon heaps of experience, whereas she had . . . well . . . a bit less. She shifted her feet on the rug.
Why, oh why, had she made it a stipulation that she would be the one to begin their encounters? “Aren’t you going to stand or something?”
“No hands, remember? I wouldn’t want to risk your teetering on tiptoe just to reach my lips.”
“Yes, of course,” she said with a shrug as if that very thing happened to her all the time.
“Shall I put my arms like so?” He linked his hands behind his head, arms bent at the elbow. With his tailored jacket rising and his satin waistcoat in taut horizontal furrows across his chest, he was the very portrait of a man in unfettered repose. A man comfortable within the confines of his own skin. And with his long legs extended and crossed at the ankles, his trousers fit over every muscle, snug and . . . enticing.
Even for one unused to observing a man in such a relaxed arrangement of limbs, she could appreciate that he was well formed. Very well formed, indeed.
She didn’t know why the observation caused her pulse to race, or why her throat was suddenly dry as parchment. Nevertheless, she took her first step.
Dimly, she wondered if this was how prisoners felt when approaching the gallows.
“I’m hardly your gaoler,” he said with a growl.
She felt her cheeks grow even hotter. “I hadn’t meant to say that aloud. I am fully aware that I agreed to our bargain, and I plan to honor it forthwith.”
He arched a brow at her measured progress. “I think you’ve forgotten that forthwith means straightaway, love.”
“Surely you cannot be that impatient. I shouldn’t be surprised if you’d been kissing another woman on the pavement outside Her Grace’s townhouse.”
He did not answer, but watched her draw near, his focus on every blink, every swallow. And when she finally stopped beside the sofa, he watched as she wet her lips.
Her pulse quickened, one on either side of her throat. The two points were like galloping horses on a hunt, one named Nerves and the other Anticipation. And she wasn’t sure which one was outpacing the other. Was she more eager to kiss him, or more worried that—like her first real attempt at matchmaking—she would make a blunder of the entire event?
In her mind, she could almost hear the blare of the hunting horn, telling her it was now or never.
Stealing a glance at his broad mouth, she wondered how to proceed—charging head on with a shout of tallyho? Or something stealthier, slower, like a huntress stalking her prey?
Briar furtively met his gaze as if he might supply the answer. Yet when she saw those alert ebony eyes—darker and more intense than she’d ever seen them before—she suddenly realized that she was not the hunter in this scenario at all. She was the doe emerging from the forest. And all along, he’d been waiting for her to come into the clearing.
She wet her lips again, Nerves taking the lead over Anticipation.
Slowly, she lowered her head, the soft crunch of taffeta sounding her descent. Scant inches from his face, she hesitated one last time, drawing in the fragrance of his skin. The lush dark scent of warm leather and mulled spices and the earthy aroma of the port he’d drunk on the terrace worked like a tonic to put her at ease.
Her eyes drifted closed and, unerringly, her lips found his.
The shock of first contact trampled through her—the subtle heat and firm pressure of his lips. The pliant give of her own. The silken glide of her right nostril against his. The prickle of his stubble against her chin.
He inhaled sharply, stealing breath from her mouth, making it his own. And suddenly the entire experience seemed far more intimate than even she had imagined—and her imagination had always been rather good.
She drew back almost instantly. But bolting upright caused her head to spin and she wobbled slightly. “I suppose you were right about teetering on tiptoe after all. I . . . I do not believe I’m wearing the proper shoes for kissing.”
He shifted off the sofa and stood up without even brushing against her skirts. Then he began to prowl about the room as if trapped in a triangular cage walled by the piano, harp, and sofa.
He hissed. “Have you ever kissed a man before?”
“Well, of course, I have—”
“Other than your uncle or someone you’re related to?”
She snapped her mouth shut on the rest of her reply.
He stopped in front of her, glaring at her eyes. Then her lips. He raked a hand through his hair, and he set about prowling again. “You should have told me.”
“I don’t see what it could matter,” she said on a huff, feeling ungainly and gauche.
“Do you think I wanted to be your first? You should have had that with a boy down the lane, fumbling along together in innocent exploration when you were still in a pinafore.”
“There was no boy down the lane.”
“An infatuation with your tutor? Music teacher? Blond-haired stable boy? No one?” He seemed to read her answer in the stiffness of her posture and the way she was now gritting her teeth. “Bollocks. At your age, you should have imagined yourself in love at least once.”
Well, she hadn’t been in love, not even a little bit. That was her big secret—a matchmaker who’d never been in love.
Briar had always been shielded by her sisters and there was part of her that had never wanted to displease them, so she’d never taken risks. Well, aside from one fateful day last year. Though, perhaps the fact that she hadn’t had those experiences—like kissing a boy from down the lane—was one of the reasons her sisters could never see her as an equal. And the crux of her inability to make matches.
The ever-impulsive Jacinda would have done so, and Briar knew for a fact that Ainsley had kissed a man because she’d been betrothed at one time. But Briar hadn’t kissed anyone.
Not until now. And she could still taste him. Still feel the warm press of his lips, her own pulsing with this awareness and feeling plump as ripe berries.
“Surely you’re not worried that I’m going to fall in love with you simply because you’re the only man I’ve kissed?” She added a stage-whispered ha, for good measure. “Rest assured, this wasn’t an experience I’m likely to dream about. I’d have had more enjoyment from kissing the back of my own hand. So I’ll hardly start pressing kisses to my pillow while imagining your face and whispering your name. And I’m certainly not going
to carry this moment with me, to think back on and sigh, over the course of my life.”
Oh alright, she would think back on it and sigh, but only on occasion. And she would scold herself for it each time.
“Bloody romantic debutantes. Any man with sense would avoid the lot of you,” he grumbled.
Was he planning to avoid her, then?
“Now wait a moment. You’re not cancelling our bargain, not after all I just went through. Why, the pulse at my throat nearly broke the skin. I might have been scarred by this entire ordeal and left to wear unfashionably high collars for the rest of my life.” She stiffened, hurt that he clearly had not experienced the same sensations that had riffled through her. “If all this is because I need to kiss more than one man, then I shall remedy the situation by kissing a slew of them. Younger men of course, classically handsome, and not so critical.”
“Don’t be a fool.” He hesitated, his irritated—somewhat feral—gaze settling on her lips again. “This was . . . unexpected, and I don’t particularly like being caught unawares.”
“Oh, I see. You can dole out surprises—like proposing kisses for lessons—but you refuse to be the recipient?” She hiked her chin, prepared to walk out the door this instant. Feminine pride was on the line, after all.
He studied her, his expression thoughtful. “A valid point. Though I expect complete honesty from this moment hence. In addition, if there is ever a time that you suspect your regard has grown beyond the bounds of our bargain, you must tell me at once.”
She laughed at his arrogance and the preposterous notion. “Oh, and you must do the same as well. If you ever have even the slightest inkling that you are falling in love with me, you must confess it at once. I will not be responsible for breaking a rogue’s heart.”
But he did not smile in return. Instead, his expression was set in stone. “In the spirit of disclosure, I will tell you that I have no heart to break. You would do well to remember that. Always.”
Was it her imagination, or did a shadow of pain glance across his hard-set features?
No heart to break? Well, to her way of thinking, that simply wasn’t possible. Unless . . . his heart had already been broken and never mended. She couldn’t help but wonder about the woman he might have loved once.
Before she could ask, he approached and expelled a port-scented breath, his hard expression softening by degree. His tone was warmer, too, coaxing and soothing away the initial bruising to her ego. “We could stop here and part ways, but that would not change what has occurred. With everything in the open—I trust—I see no reason why we shouldn’t continue our bargain. If you feel differently, however, you need only say the word.”
Briar found herself ensnared by the gentle caress of his eyes, the barest tinge of uncertainty lingering in those ebony depths. And there was something else there as well, flaring to life the instant he glanced down at her lips. Whatever it was caused a ripple of sensation to wash through her, and her stomach clenched sweetly. All at once, she was thinking of what it would be like to kiss him again. Heat climbed to her cheeks on an admission she dared not speak aloud.
“I agree that we should continue. The benefits to us both are undeniable.” Obviously, she’d done something incorrectly and would need further study.
He moved a step closer as if he intended to proceed that instant, but voices in the corridor stopped him.
She gasped, her anxious gaze darting to the door. “Oh dear.”
Quick and capable—as if this sort of thing happened all the time—Nicholas calmly took her hand and drew her to the piano, pulling out the bench for her. When she sat, he leaned over her and lifted the fall board, his arms surrounding her in a cage of delicious toe-curling heat, the scent of warmed leather filling her every breath. It was only with the pressure of his chest against her back that she could feel the heavy thudding of his heart that matched her own.
Then his lips grazed the sensitive shell of her ear as he whispered, “Play something, love.”
Play? She could hardly think. Her body was too busy vibrating with tingles, heart racing too fast to count the beats.
By rote, she placed her fingertips on the cool ivory, making up a melody until she could remember the notes of one she’d studied.
At the door, he turned the knob with careful discretion. Then, leaving it ajar, he strode to the far corner and opened the camouflaged servant’s entrance. Pausing there, he cast her a conspiratorial wink and inclined his head before he disappeared.
A peculiar sort of lightness swept through her in trilling notes. So that was what it was like to kiss a rake.
Chapter 10
“The muffin last night—if it had been handed round once, I think it would have been enough.”
Jane Austen, Emma
Briar opened the closet door and carefully slipped the canceled subscriptions back into the files, silently shushing the crinkly pieces of paper. She didn’t want to get caught. Using the agency’s resources to further her own pursuits wasn’t completely aboveboard. Although, since sneaking a list of client names to Nicholas for his cousin would eventually have a positive effect on the agency, she refused to feel too guilty.
As for her other indiscretion—kissing a rake in her patroness’s music room last night—well, she tried not to think about it.
But honestly, not thinking about something as startling as that kiss, would have been like not paying attention to a rain shower that suddenly turned into a storm of chocolate, the streets covered in whipped froth.
There simply was no way to ignore it, or to forget how he’d reacted.
Clearly, Briar had been an abominable flop at kissing. Nevertheless, giving up was not in her nature. After all, she hadn’t been able to hit the target with her first arrow. Like anything else, she supposed that kissing required practice.
Kissing practice with Nicholas . . . hmm. The instant the thought entered her mind, her face grew hot, her lips tingling—
And that was how Ainsley found her, standing half in and half out of the closet and pressed against the glazed trim to cool her cheeks.
“An odd place to daydream,” Ainsley said, lifting her brow, a glimmer of amusement in her brown eyes.
Briar straightened, shoulders back. “I wasn’t. I was merely . . .” But nothing came to her. Her mind went blank. Oh, how she wished she had Jacinda’s knack for making up falsehoods on the spot. Bother. “What is that in your hand, another canceled subscription?”
“No. Or, at least, not this time.” Ainsley abstained from further comment or mention of how many they’d received in the past two days. Instead, she handed over the missive.
Seeing that it was from Temperance, Briar opened it at once. “I’ve been invited to tea today.”
Perfect! While she was there, she could hand the list to Nicholas instead of sending it by post.
However, Ainsley had another idea. “I don’t know if I like the idea of your going. I heard from Uncle Ernest that Lord Edgemont has returned to town. It was one thing for you to visit your friend at his lordship’s townhouse while he was away, but now . . .”
“Surely you don’t believe he intends to ravish me in front of his aunt and cousins? Unless you think that is implied in the missive. Here, let me read it again.” Briar huffed, making a show of turning the page frontways and backways. “No. Just as I suspected, I’ve only been invited for tea, not debauchery.”
“It was only a concern for your well—” Ainsley stopped abruptly, her lips thinning as she expelled a frustrated breath through her nostrils. “Since he is the Duchess of Holliford’s godson, I suppose the association was inevitable. Though, in the past, Her Grace has made little mention of their relationship due to his reputation, which is enough for me to warn you to be on your guard.”
She truly wanted to preach to her sister about trust and having faith that Briar would never fall for the charms of a renowned rake. But . . . having already kissed him, the foundation of her pulpit wasn’t terribly sturdy. So inst
ead, she offered a hasty nod.
“Very well, then,” Ainsley said with a begrudging frown tucked into the corners of her mouth. “Jacinda is taking the carriage to Mayfair. So if you want to go, you’d best make haste.”
* * *
That afternoon, Daniel stormed into Nicholas’s study, a blue silk banyan knotted around his waist and a half-crumpled letter in his fist.
“A summons, cousin? You sent me a summons when you could have simply walked to my chamber instead?” He slammed the paper down onto the desk, his mussed brown hair falling over his brow, making him look the part of the tragic hero.
Nicholas rose from the wingback chair in no mood for Daniel’s continued melancholy. Leaning forward, he pressed his fingertips to the dark walnut surface, towering over his cousin by half a head. “The last time I knocked on your door, your valet informed me that you were still abed. At a quarter of one in the afternoon. You must begin to join the rest of the family and stop behaving as if your life has ended.”
“Genevieve married another man. My life has ended!” Daniel sank onto the nearest chair, his arms draping limply over the rests. “You don’t know what it’s like to have your world completely upended.”
He didn’t? Nicholas recalled once having his life torn completely to shreds in a single moment but, apparently, his cousin did not. All the better for him, he supposed.
Oblivious to the bitter memories he’d conjured, Daniel continued to wallow, sighing at length. “You just don’t feel things as deeply as I do. So, you can never imagine what it’s like to wake up every day with part of your soul missing.”
Nicholas gritted his teeth, biting down on the response that Miss Smithson—Genevieve—had only been using Daniel from the very beginning. But that knowledge would do his cousin little good. He simply needed to move on and find a woman worthy of him. “Nevertheless, it has been a year and—”
“No,” Daniel interrupted, staring blankly at the ceiling. “It has only been seven months and four days since she left.”
Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking) Page 10
