“I wouldn’t mind, love,” he crooned. Patting the tops of his thighs, he earned a perturbed glare.
Too intent on her goal to tease him now, she stood and settled her cool, delicate hands on his face. The simple touch of her fingertips, soft and uncertain, stirred a low flame of arousal.
“I thought your rule was ‘no hands.’”
“Hush. I am immersing myself in the full experience,” she whispered as if afraid of breaking the spell. “Besides, it was my rule for you, not for me. Now close your eyes, if you please.”
He complied, half humoring her and half curious to see if she would balk and shy away. Yet she lingered. Her warm, clean fragrance filled his nostrils, making him think of fresh bed linens, sun-kissed and wind-beaten into a decadent suppleness. He wanted to lie down with that scent, tumble with it, bury himself inside of it. And all this was before he felt the sweet rush of her breath over his lips.
He held still. It seemed an eternity before the barest contact. More whisper than kiss. A featherlight back and forth sweep without the slightest bit of pressure.
“See here. That isn’t a proper kiss,” he rasped, disgruntled and more than half aroused.
“Hush.” Her chide was a soft caress, the dark golden fan of her lashes resting against her cheek. “Such a disagreeable cup of chocolate. I told you before that the froth is the best part.”
His pulse quickened beneath the heat of his cravat. As she continued, he wondered if any cup of chocolate ever felt this eager to be consumed. Willingly, he gave himself over to this intoxicating game of pretend, his breaths mingling with hers like steam rising from his depths, drawing her ever closer.
If this was just the froth, then he wondered what it would be like if she delved to the bottom of the cup.
Skimming her fingertips along his jaw, she shifted closer, her legs nudging his further apart, her skirts bunched between them. He was determined to keep his responses in tandem with hers, brush for brush, press for press. Yet the urge to take hold of her hips, to haul her closer was so strong that his hands ached. Every joint yearned to grip the curve of her flesh. So, he gripped the sides of the chair instead, knuckles straining against taut flesh. And since he was a good and patient tutor, his pupil rewarded him with a firmer press of her lips.
The same galvanic jolt that struck him last night riffled through him again. But this was stronger than before, every nerve ending exposed and raw.
Her upper lip nuzzled between his, the lower parting in a small sip of a kiss. A surprised hmm rose from her throat, as if she’d made a new, unexpected discovery. Then she repeated the action, drawing on his flesh in small seeking suctions, and a shudder swept through him, setting off a series of heady pulses that settled low and heavy at the base of his cock.
He gripped the chair tighter as she grew bolder, testing alternate angles. Willingly, he gave his lips over to her study, feeding them to her in whatever manner she would have them. And he felt as if she’d just invented a way of kissing that he’d never encountered before—Briar Bourne’s patented cup of chocolate kiss.
He’d seduced countless women, finding ways to drive them mad with wanting. Giving pleasure was a matter of principle as much as it provided him a sense of power and control. He’d been blindsided once by a woman who’d used seduction to manipulate him, and he’d vowed long ago that it would not happen again.
Never in a thousand lifetimes would he have predicted that sweet Briar Bourne’s untried kisses would have this effect on him.
Again, he wanted to lift his hands, hold her, curl his fingers over the nape of her neck, plunder her mouth until she was trembling and sprawled across his lap. But she was trusting him in this moment, comfortable.
This is such fun, her kiss told him. You should have told me sooner.
I’m just as surprised as you are, love, his own kiss answered.
Another warning jangled at the back of his mind. They would be expected downstairs for tea soon. He opened his mouth to say as much. When he did, the tip of her tongue slipped over the edge of his bottom lip and a quick rush of sweet breath shuddered out of her mouth.
Thoroughly absorbed in her task, she only hesitated for the barest instant before her small hands cupped his jaw and she pulled him closer to lick the seam of his lips for another taste.
Her throat vibrated on a soft hungry purr, and he felt the grip on his control—and on the chair—relax. He didn’t want this to end, and his pleasure-drugged mind agreed, turning with possibilities. A simple word to Delham could ensure that his aunt and cousins did not know that Miss Bourne had arrived. He could say she’d sent her regrets and could not attend. And as for Nicholas, he would be only too happy to spend the remainder of the afternoon and evening locked in his rooms, kissing her. And whatever else she might enjoy.
He lifted his hands and settled them over hers. “Briar, love, would you like to see my bedchamber?”
It took two more tastes before she lifted her gaze, her eyes a dark, hazy summer-sky blue, her lips a damp rose-petal red. Then she blinked down at him. “You’re attempting to scandalize me again, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps,” he said, pressing a kiss into both of her palms, drawing in the fragrance of her skin. “Or perhaps I’m being a gentleman and offering to make you more comfortable while we . . . sip chocolate together.”
Face flushed, she slipped her hands free and smoothed them down her skirts. “Trying to use chocolate against me is positively reprehensible. It is fortunate that I know you’re only teasing.”
“Yes, you know me so well,” he said wryly.
“I took your advice and imagined the chocolate from the coffee house, though without having the satisfaction of drinking it . . .” As she spoke, she fidgeted with her sash and moved to the door only to stall partway there, her gaze fixed on the clock in the corner. “Half past three? Surely, that cannot be correct.”
“Delham winds the clocks each day,” he said, distracted by her words . . . without having the satisfaction of drinking it. Did she mean to say that she was unsatisfied with that kiss?
“But that would mean we were”—she pressed her lips together—“touring the gallery for a terribly long while.”
Rising, he turned away to put the chairs in place, surreptitiously adjusting the fall of his trousers. There was no need to show her just how much she’d affected him. And yet, he was still her tutor and so he could not let her walk away without providing some insight. “That’s what happens when it’s done properly.”
Except, for her, apparently it hadn’t been as satisfying as a cup of chocolate.
When he turned back around, her eager, hopeful face greeted him. “You mean I’m actually . . . not an abysmal failure?”
“You could add this to the list of your accomplishments.”
“Oh, Nicholas. I’m so happy that I could . . . well, I could kiss you again.” She laughed. “Lucky for you, we don’t have the time.”
Yes. Lucky me.
Chapter 12
“A young lady who faints, must be recovered; questions must be answered, and surprizes be explained.”
Jane Austen, Emma
Briar looked at the flushed face staring back at her in the oval mirror above the washstand. “Holy froth!”
She didn’t know kissing would feel like that. Her insides had turned warm and liquid, pulsing. Time dissolved away. She’d lost track of where she was, her every sense focused on him. She’d even forgotten her own name for a while. In fact, her head was still spinning, the contents nothing more than a happy puddle of gray mush.
No cup of chocolate had ever done that to her.
It had been on the tip of her tongue to tell Nicholas how exceptional kissing him was, but then it occurred to her that he might stop his lessons altogether. Doubtless, he’d believe that she could mistake this euphoria for love.
His angry reaction to their kiss at the Duchess of Holliford’s had proven how serious he took the matter. He did not want there to be any feeli
ngs between them at all. To Nicholas, these kissing sessions were merely a matter of currency. Nothing more. Therefore, Briar had to keep this newfound discovery to herself.
Plan firmly in place, she emerged from the retiring room. She’d done her best with a cool, damp cloth to hide the heated flush from her cheeks and the plumpness of her lips. After all, she couldn’t very well descend the stairs with Nicholas on her arm and look as if she’d spent the past hour kissing him. Even if that was exactly what she’d done.
Nicholas was waiting for her around the corner, his tall frame leaning against a pilaster that lined either side of the doorway to the ballroom. A wry smirk bracketed one corner of his unexpectedly delicious mouth.
“What do you think?” she asked, tilting her face up for his examination. “Have I done a fair job of hiding the havoc your whiskers wreaked on my skin?”
Reaching out, he hooked one finger underneath her chin and brushed his thumb over her mouth, his eyes the color of raw cocoa, soft and silken. “Your lips still look a bit bee stung, but I don’t suppose there’s any help for that. You were quite thorough, after all.”
The feel of his hand on her—the sureness of his touch, the light, tingling pressure of his thumb as it swept back and forth—kept her brain thoroughly scrambled. At this rate, she may never recover her wits. She even had this uncanny desire to touch the tip of her tongue to his flesh, to taste this part of him, too.
Somehow, she managed to step back and waggle her finger, heart hammering all the while. “Remember the rule.”
“Ah yes. You must guard yourself against the persuasive power of my hands,” he teased, clearly not realizing the seriousness of the matter. “And as for your little rule breakers. Here.”
He reached over to the green marble console nestled against the wall and picked up a pair of pristine white lady’s gloves. There weren’t even any creases in the kid leather.
“Surely you don’t expect me to believe that these are mine.”
When she didn’t take them from him, he took her hands, boldly gliding his fingers over hers during the exchange. “What can I say? Winston is a veritable wizard with ink stains.”
Her chiding gaze flicked up to his and the bracket beside his mouth deepened. Such an unrepentant rogue. What was she going to do with him, argue?
She might have done just that if not for the unmistakable chatter of Mrs. Prescott drifting up the stairs as she ordered footmen to retrieve her packages and to fetch her maid.
Briar glanced uncertainly at Nicholas. “Are you sure they won’t know that we’ve been . . .”
“Touring the gallery?” He winked but gave her a nod of assuredness before leading her to the stairs.
It wasn’t until Briar’s hand moved to her skirts to lift them out of the way that she felt the sharp edge of something in her cleverly hidden pocket. Reaching inside, she withdrew a folded page. “I nearly forgot to give you this list for Daniel, what with all the . . . distractions and . . .”—her face heated once more at the sight of his wicked grin—“Oh, just take it.”
His hand closed reflexively as she thrust the note into his palm. He looked down at it and then back at her, his expression inquisitive as if he didn’t know what to make of her. “You’ve made a list already?”
“I don’t know how good it will be, but it’s a start. Without having met your cousin firsthand, I had to rely on stories from Temperance to get a good sense of his character, interests, and beliefs. Beside each name, there is a section dedicated to the shops and parks they frequent, for any potential chance encounter. Should you find them agreeable, that is.” When he tucked the paper into his own pocket without making a comment, Briar shifted nervously, wondering if she’d done it completely wrong and this wasn’t what he’d wanted at all. “Though I’m sure Temperance could arrange to have each of them over, if that is more convenient. And I will have more names for you if these aren’t suitable. You see, these came from a file of our former—”
“It’s perfect,” he said quietly, his tone warm and affectionate as if they were sharing something even more intimate than a kiss. “I shall make good use of your diligent efforts. Unfortunately, I’m sure Delham has informed my aunt that you are here, so I do not have time to thank you properly.”
As if to ensure she understood the inference, his gaze brushed her lips in a caress that seemed to touch her all the same. She drew in a breath to steady her fluttering pulse and turned toward the stairs. Then with one hand on the rail and the other on her skirts, she walked down beside him.
Brown paper parcels and ribbon-tied hatboxes cluttered the foyer floor at the bottom of the curved staircase. Lavinia Prescott’s matronly figure stepped out of view as she followed a pair of footmen down the hall, calling out a plea to be careful with the Belgian lace for it was the whitest she could find in all of four shops.
Then Temperance sauntered into view, her arms lifted, hands fussing with the pins from her straw bonnet. She looked up with a ready smile. “Oh, there you are, Briar. I hope you haven’t been here overlong. Mother and I had to stop and speak to Lady Penrose and you know how she tends to drone on about her spaniel. Expecting a litter any day, apparently. Say, are those new gloves?”
Briar slid a chiding glance to Nicholas. “Yes, they are, in fact. Do you like them?”
Temperance studied them with hawkeyed scrutiny, turning Briar’s hand this way and that. “They are very similar to your other pair.”
“Indeed, except for one unlucky ink stain.”
Temperance clucked her tongue. “Nothing vexes me more than discovering a spot of ink.”
Briar was pulled alongside her friend, arms linked as they walked toward the back of the house. A glance over her shoulder proved that Nicholas was not far behind. “I was quite cross with the culprit.”
He glanced down to her lips. “Gave him a thorough tongue-lashing, did you?”
Briar faced forward, an instant rush of heat flooding her cheeks. The man was positively incorrigible!
“Don’t be silly, Nicholas,” Temperance added with a laugh. “Of course Briar was speaking of a pen and not a person. One does not give a dressing down to a writing implement. Although, I have been known to scold the corner of the escritoire in Mother’s rooms on more than one occasion.”
Through the open door leading to the garden, a full service of tea waited on the terrace, the table draped with lavender linen and scattered with violets—Temperance’s favorite flowers.
“What a splendid table you’ve set,” Briar said to her friend.
“Fully inspired by you and the lovely tea trays you always put together for me. I wanted it to be a grand occasion now that everyone is home again. And I’ll have you know that I even stopped by for your favorite ginger comfits, which I’m sure one of the maids is putting on a plate this instant. Oh, what’s this doing here?” At the table, she lifted the lid of a slender claw-footed copper pot, and peered inside. “Why, it’s chocolate. How strange. When I asked the cook earlier, she said we didn’t have any in the larder. This is a stroke of luck for you, Briar. Nicholas, I should hate to tell you but my friend is embarrassingly fond of chocolate. At parties, she has been known to stalk the footman carrying the chocolate tray.”
Nicholas stood beneath the shade of the ivy-clustered arbor, shadows softening the angles of his face as twin ebony spheres glinted warmly at her. “Is that so?”
Briar’s lips tingled at the low timbre of his voice. She could not stop imagining what it was like to have her mouth on his, the sultry essence of his skin permeating every breath, the flavor of him clinging to her tongue.
No wonder that woman Briar had witnessed in his arms during their first meeting hadn’t been aware of an audience.
Briar felt a sudden frown tug at the flesh of her brow. Instead of the unabashed fascination she usually felt when recalling the episode, the oddest prickle of irritation abraded the memory. “I imagine scores upon scores of women have exhibited a far greater fondness for it. I could ha
rdly call my own embarrassing.”
Temperance laughed. “If that is true, then why are you blushing?”
“It is a warm day,” Briar said quickly, pressing her hands to her cheeks, the sharp scent of new leather filling her nostrils. A sudden suspicion occurred to her and she wondered if, perhaps, Nicholas’s valet had been sent on an errand for gloves and for chocolate. “Although I am curious if your cook makes chocolate as good as the coffee house where my friend is employed, my lord.”
He lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. “The proof, as they say, is in the froth.”
“Well, if that is true,” Temperance interjected with a skeptical sideways glance, “then this they you speak of are an odd lot. Froth, indeed. Pay no attention to my cousin, Briar. After returning from his country estate, his ability to converse is clearly in need of—Daniel! You decided to join us, after all.”
Briar’s gaze followed her friend’s dash across the stones.
Temperance flung her arms around a young man her same height, offsetting his balance enough to stir the layers of fine brown hair draped over his broad forehead like ruffled feathers. A fan of lashes crowded together in a swift cringe, then gradually softened with patience as he patted her shoulders in return. “I said I would consider it, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but that is usually your way of shooing me out of your chamber.” Drawing back, Temperance looked almost giddy as she tugged her brother across the stones. “Daniel, I should like you to meet my dearest friend, Briar Bourne.”
Briar inclined her head and offered a smile.
Daniel Prescott was handsome, by classical standards, with a pale complexion and none of his cousin’s hard angular features. He was lean of build but somehow soft around the edges. Approachable—that was how they would describe him at the agency.
Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking) Page 12
