“I know,” she agreed. “I hope I am ready.”
“You will be. Actually, you are ready now, though a little more brushing up cannot hurt.” He gave her a smile. “Is all well again? Am I forgiven for being rude? A lapse for which you have my most profound apology.”
“Yes, of course. You know I cannot stay angry for long, and certainly never with you.” She returned his smile.
“Well, that is a relief.” He waggled his brows. “I don’t like turning you cross.”
She laughed, her entire face lighting up, dove-colored eyes sparkling and alive with amusement. His chest tightened at the sight, his gaze drawn down to her lips, so pale pink and pretty. They looked soft as velvet and sweet as a dish of summer strawberries. Ripe enough to pick. Delectable enough to taste. He leaned closer and caught the faintest hint of honeysuckle on her skin.
“Oh, good, you two are back.”
Kit snapped straight and spun on his heel to watch Violet stroll down the corridor toward them, Horatio loping obediently in her wake.
Reaching them, she stopped, looked first at him, then at Eliza. “I hope I am not interrupting.”
“No, not at all,” Kit said. “Eliza and I were only discussing our outing.”
“Oh, good, since it is what I came to hear. How did it go?” Violet demanded, slipping a hand around Eliza’s elbow. “Any difficulties?”
“Ladies, if you’ll excuse me…”
Violet gave him a smile and an absent nod, then turned Eliza to lead her back down the hallway in the direction from which Violet had just come. The big Great Dane trailed behind. “Did you meet anyone particularly interesting?” he heard Violet ask.
“One person. Viscount Lancelot Brevard. He rescued me just like a knight of old…”
Walking in the opposite direction, he headed for his rooms.
Andromeda reared and yanked the reins from Eliza’s hands, the horse’s cry of terror shrill in her ears. Thrashing hooves struck the ground with a jarring thud, equine muscles rippling as the mare surged forward, leaping into an all-out gallop that pushed for every ounce of speed at the animal’s command.
Eliza clung with sick terror, her heart drumming so hard her rib cage ached. She dug her fingers deep into the horse’s thick, resilient mane and fought for purchase, fought not to be hurled to the ground that raced by so quickly she could see it only as an indistinct blur of greens and browns.
She closed her eyes and prayed.
A hard, male arm suddenly curved around her waist. In a deft move, he lifted her free of the saddle and set her sideways before him on his own charging steed. She clung again, this time to the man, wrapping her arms around his strong back, laying her head against the firm warmth of his chest.
Safe. So safe.
He slowed his mount, bringing the horse to an easy walk before stopping altogether.
She tipped back her head, caught a glint of fine golden hair and a face that was almost too handsome to be real. His teeth gleamed white and straight as he smiled down upon her. She stared into his eyes, blue and pure as a Scandinavian lake.
He blinked, and when his lids lifted his eyes had changed, green now, dark and vital as summer leaves after a soaking afternoon rain. Around each pupil lay an encircling ring of gold, a few flecks of the same scattered outward to float inside his irises like pinches of gold dust.
He grinned in that boyish way she knew so well, making her pulse points flutter wildly. She smiled back, gentle and slow, and watched his eyes change yet again, growing lambent and intent in a way she had never known before as his gaze lowered to caress her parted lips.
She drew in his scent, thrilling to the sensation of it swimming in giddy delight inside her head. Allowing it to linger, she breathed in again and again until the fragrance seemed to seep into her pores and bones and become almost her own. Lifting a hand, she threaded her fingers into the thick silk of his dark hair, reveling in its texture.
He bent closer, then closer still, pulling her nearer inside his embrace. With barely a breath separating them, she whispered his name.
Kit.
And then his lips touched her own.
Her body tingled from head to toe, awash in the most intense sensation. Sweet bliss lighted her up from within and left her floating on a cloud of decadent pleasure. Stretching her arms upward, she locked them around his neck and pressed tighter. But it wasn’t tight enough, close enough. She wanted more. She wanted everything.
Nor was it enough for him.
He reached down and caught hold of her leg, shifting her to face him in the saddle. She gasped as he draped her spread legs over his powerful thighs, tugging her so she fit against him, pelvis to pelvis.
Then they were kissing again, wild and wanton and hungry.
At length, he drew away. “Oh, don’t look so shocked. I know all about that naughty little book you were reading.”
Her eyes flashed open, a whimper of dismay escaping her lips as she awakened. Faint dawn light skimmed along the edges of her bedchamber’s window curtains. The shapes of the room’s furnishings were only just starting to become visible, still shrouded in pools of night shadow. Shifting against the fine linen sheets, she pressed a hand between her breasts and listened to the sound of her own ragged breathing.
Stars above, she thought, what a dream. Even now she could feel the sensation of Kit’s lips on hers, the strength of his long, firm body pressed snuggly against her own, his delicious masculine scent invigorating her senses.
And every bit of it was false. A fancy spun like some intricate tapestry that was all dazzle and shape without a bit of real substance. Her body had thought it real, though, she realized, becoming aware of the faint, damp ache that lingered between her thighs. Warmth crept across her skin as she remembered how she had straddled Kit in her dream. How she had clasped her thighs around his hips with a brazen abandon worthy of one of the women depicted inside Albanino’s Postures.
At least they hadn’t been naked.
Her nipples tightened at the idea, the ache twinging anew between her legs. She rolled over, mildly ashamed of responses she scarcely understood. Ashamed as well of how her mind had jumbled together the events of the day—Andromeda’s wild ride, her feelings of terror and panic, Lord Brevard coming to her rescue.
Dashing, gentlemanly Lord Brevard. She had liked him, liked him very much. His attentive demeanor and kind voice. She had liked as well the way he made her laugh and smile. He was a man any woman could desire.
But it hadn’t been Lord Brevard she had dream-kissed, no matter how undeniably handsome he might be.
It was Kit.
She thought of his eyes in the dream, then thought of his gaze when he had been talking to her yesterday in the hallway. He had been Kit. Normal, regular Kit who never looked at her with anything other than patient friendliness and a sort of brotherly affection. But then, there at the last, something had changed, his gaze altering for a split second as it roved across her mouth. In that instant, it appeared to her that he had leaned closer, ever so slightly. For a moment, it looked almost as if he had been thinking about kissing her.
Or had she only imagined it, the event no more substantial than her dream?
What would it be like to kiss Kit for real? she mused.
For that matter, what would it be like to be kissed at all?
In her entire three-and-twenty years, no man had ever so much as attempted to take advantage of her innocence. Young, unmarried ladies were not supposed to kiss or touch young gentlemen prior to marriage, but, of course, she knew such intimacies occurred. And though no one would ever speak of such a thing aloud, many would be surprised to find a woman of her advanced years wholly untried, without even the experience of a single kiss.
So when this Season began, would anything change? Might a man finally wish to kiss her? And would she want him to? What if she didn’t like his touch and reacted badly? What if he thought her a complete pea goose for her naiveté?
Perhaps for her
final lesson with Kit she ought to ask him to teach her to kiss, she thought on a humorous note.
Seconds later her lips parted in astonishment as the idea settled deeper into her mind. No, it was ludicrous even to contemplate such a thing. Kit’s eyes would jolt from his head, and the both of them would be mortified with embarrassment after his refusal.
But what if he did not refuse?
She thought again of his gazing at her lips yesterday afternoon. Had he been considering leaning down for a kiss? Or was it only her own wishful longings playing tricks?
There could be only one way to find out.
But did she have the nerve? Or would fear hold her back? And if she didn’t act, would she forever after regret not finding out if Kit’s real kisses were as sweet as the ones in her dreams?
Chapter Eleven
From her place on the satin-covered peach settee in the duchess’s dressing room, Eliza watched her friend’s maid set a final pin into Violet’s elegant coiffure.
“I am sorry you aren’t coming with us today, but I suppose it isn’t as if you haven’t already seen Astley’s Amphitheatre and Bullock’s Egyptian Hall,” Violet remarked. “Jeannette says Moira and Siobhan have talked of little else since she suggested the outing. Even Finn is excited, though he tries to act as if the idea is all a great humbug and he is being forced to come along. You know how young men are at that age, worried about maintaining their reputation at the expense of all else.”
“I don’t think men change in that regard no matter their age,” Eliza observed.
Violet laughed, shifting around on her seat to face Eliza now that Agnes had finished dressing her hair. “How very true. Adrian and Darragh have been making grumbling noises as well, but I don’t think they are all that loath to be accompanying us. Still, I shall miss you not taking part.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. With my first ball only two days away, I ought to take this last opportunity to practice with Kit.” Eliza’s throat tightened at the thought of what she hoped to be practicing.
“Well, I think you have done splendidly,” Violet congratulated, reaching over to pat her hand. “But I suppose one more lesson cannot hurt.”
An hour later, Eliza sat on the sofa in Violet’s study, her mouth as dry as one of the tomb artifacts she knew Violet and the others must by now be viewing at Bullock’s Museum.
Opposite her at the other end of the sofa, Kit relaxed in leisurely masculine ease. He bit into one of the cookies on his plate, then washed down the treat with a long swallow of hot tea. Manners ingrained, he wiped his mouth on a cloth napkin before moving on to the next confection on his plate, his enjoyment apparent.
Kit always liked to have some sort of refreshments available during their lessons. Sustenance to tide them over, he claimed, since a man could go only so long without a meal.
Not the least bit hungry, Eliza set her own cup and plate aside, the one small cake she had taken out of politeness going untouched.
“Are you not hungry?” Kit inquired with a nod toward her abandoned sweet.
She shook her head. “I had a more than adequate breakfast.”
“Breakfast never stays with me and nuncheon is hours away yet.”
He ate one more pastry, then swallowed the last of his tea, setting his cup onto its saucer with a faint tap. “Ready to begin, then?” He wiped his mouth and his graceful, long-fingered hands, then folded his napkin and set it next to his empty cup. “Drawing room conversation or ballroom? You have mastered both quite nicely, but a final polish cannot go amiss. So which shall it be today?”
She stared down at the pale blue sofa cushion between them. Stomach quivering, she ran the tip of one fingernail across the expensive fabric. Her mind raced.
Should she do it? Could she do it? Because once the words were out, there would be no going back.
She trembled and swallowed hard then plunged ahead, knowing if she did not proceed she would turn coward and dash her chances forever. “I thought…that is…I wondered, since it is our last lesson, if we might perhaps do something a little different.”
“Different? Such as?” Not one to stand on formality, Kit leaned forward and reached for the teapot. Sliding his cup into place, he began to pour.
“I thought…well, I have been thinking that…did you know I have never been kissed?”
His eyes jerked upward to meet her gaze. “What?”
“No man has ever kissed me and I want you to do it.”
Hot tea splashed across his fingers. “Bullocks!” He released the teapot, letting it drop onto the silver tray with a cringe-inducing thud. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“Oh, mercy, are you all right?” She stiffened in alarm at his injury. “Are you badly burned? Oh, I shouldn’t have spoken…I didn’t mean for you to be hurt.”
“Never mind that now. Repeat what you just said, not about being burned but the other.”
She pulled in a breath, her voice lowering to a near whisper. “I said I want you to…kiss me.”
He stuck his scalded knuckle into his mouth and stared.
“It’s not so much that I want you to kiss me,” she pressed on, ignoring the fact that her cheeks must be stained as red as pomegranates. “It’s only that I want to be kissed…in case it happens this Season…so I don’t make a fool of myself.”
Little liar, she thought. Of course it was him she wanted to kiss, but something in her warned she ought not let him know that particular fact.
He pulled the finger out of his mouth. “And which gentlemen do you imagine may be in urgent want of kissing you?”
“Oh, well, no one in particular.”
“Brevard?” His jaw visibly tightened.
She shrugged, marveling at her unexpected bravado. “I do not know, but since you seem to think I shall finally take this Season, I only wish to be prepared. And you are my mentor.”
His mahogany eyebrows winged upward.
“I thought you could teach me…a little…so I would not be afraid, should it happen, that is. But only if you want to. I’ll understand if you don’t.” At that, her speech dwindled into nothingness, her mock courage draining away as abruptly as it had arrived. She lowered her gaze to her lap, her fingers squeezed tightly together.
A long, pronounced silence fell before he spoke. “So let me make certain I understand this. You want me to teach you how to kiss?”
Her head came up. “Yes. A simple kiss will do.”
“And I am to do this so you won’t be alarmed should another man want to kiss you in future? A man who may very well become your husband. Do you not think he ought to be the one teaching you how to kiss?”
She frowned. “Well, perhaps, but…”
“But what?”
“But if I never kiss any other man, how will I know if he is the right one for me? Violet says I ought not settle for the first man who asks, unless I am certain he will suit me best. Of course, this Season may go no better than the others, and the whole matter shall remain utterly moot.”
“I do not think you need to worry. I shall be very much surprised if you do not receive at least one or two respectable offers this year.”
“Because of my money, you mean?”
His gaze softened. “No, because of you. Isn’t that what all our lessons have been about?”
She nodded, warmed by his words.
But when he said nothing further, her chest tightened.
He is going to refuse, she thought. Obviously he feels nothing for me. So much for all her ridiculous musings about the way he had looked at her in the hallway the other day.
Suddenly she wished she could shrink into herself, curl up and die.
“All right.”
At first she wasn’t sure she had heard him, his voice so low and rough. Had he said “all right”?
Kit shifted closer on the sofa. “Are you sure you want this?”
Her heart skipped up into her throat. “Yes.”
“And I assume you wish to begin now?”
She nodded. “Everyone is away, and this is our final lesson. It might be awkward later.”
His mouth curved up in a wry smile. “It might be awkward now, but let us begin, if such is your desire.”
Hmm, her desire. Now that she had committed to this plan, she realized what a dangerous game she was playing, as if she had decided to thrust her palm directly over a roaring fire. All that remained to be seen was how badly she was going to end up getting burned.
He stood and crossed the room, closing the door with a quiet click of the latch. It showed her scattered state of mind, the fact that she had utterly forgotten about the door—half open for any passing servant to glance inside and see what they were about to do.
Kit returned and sank down beside her on the sofa, one trouser-covered thigh brushing her hip, a long arm stretched along the top of the settee at her back. In that moment, she became more vitally aware of his size and masculinity than she ever had before.
Leaning nearer, he placed a pair of fingers beneath her jaw and tipped up her chin. “Relax,” he murmured. “It won’t hurt, you know.”
She gave a shaky laugh and a nod, but she could say nothing further, her hands curled into fists of anxious anticipation in her lap. She closed her eyes and waited.
At first, she barely felt it when he touched his mouth to hers—light and smooth and tender, like the dusting of a feather against her skin. The contact increased ever so slightly, the shape and texture of his lips becoming better defined as they rested in undemanding warmth against her own. She caught a whiff of the earthy bay rum he liked to wear, became aware of the gentle susurration of his breath as it moved slowly in and out through his nose.
Then as inauspiciously as the kiss had begun, he pulled away and eased back.
Her eyes fluttered open to find him watching her, his face only inches away. She swallowed, aware of a vague sense of disappointment. Somehow she had expected more, something dramatic—like the earth tipping abruptly on its axis, perhaps.
She blurted out her dismay. “Is that it?”
A smile brightened the green in his eyes. “You said simple. I didn’t want to frighten you.”
The Wedding Trap Page 14
