Mad About the Marquess (Highland Brides Book 2) by Elizabeth Essex

color appeared high against her cheekbone. “No, I’ve no interest in ruination. But in something considerably less.”
    “How much less?” His tone was a bare mixture of disappointment and relief.
    She looked at him from under her lashes. “Just kissing.”
    She might as well have said just fucking for all the effect it had upon him—every muscle in his body simultaneously tensed and relaxed. And tried to move toward her. “Let me make right sure I understand you—you want to bargain for kissing?”
    “Aye.” She frowned and nodded her head, as if she were firming her resolve. As if she had to talk herself into kissing him.
    Alasdair was astonished to discover it a blow to his pride. “Why me in particular, and not say…your fellow, Davie?” Perhaps she had frightened the lad off with the prick of her sharp, acrobatic tongue.  
    Another wave of heat scorched his face. Thank the devil the room was so dark.
    Quince was uncharacteristically circumspect—she gave nothing about her other beaux away. “You seem an experienced, thorough-going mon of the world. You’ve lived in London, and France, and no doubt enjoyed their reputations for pleasure.”
    He could feel his better judgment start to give way. “Well, damn my eyes, I have.”  
    The damn vixen smiled back. “Good. Because if what just occurred between us has taught me anything—and it has taught me a number of useful things—it is that you’re a mon of both power and restraint. You can be trusted to act like a gentleman. In short, I can trust you.”
    “Not with those breasts.” Since they were being so bloody candid.
    Delicate color flooded her cheeks, but she kept her gaze level. “Then we will leave breasts out of it, won’t we, and settle for just kisses.”
    “Wee Quince, there is no such thing as just kisses.”
    “Certainly there is, if you concentrate, and do it properly.”
    Despite his better judgment, Alasdair felt the last of his resolve crumble. There was something in her—that dark fairy combination of mischievousness and glee—that made it hard to resist her wayward charm. He tried harder. But not too hard. “You’re incorrigible.”
    She was also unrepentant. “I should hope so, my lord. Now come. You want a favor from me, so you must be prepared to offer one in return.”
    “And the favor you want in exchange for helping me with my inquiries into the thefts is a nice slow bout of kissing?” He asked again, just to be absolutely clear.
    “Aye. And kissing alone, thank you very much.” She held up one elegantly obstructive finger. “I’ve no interest in the rest of it.”
    “A shame. You’ve no idea what you’ll miss.”
    “Oh, I’ve an idea, Strathcairn. A very good idea. But while I’ve faults enough, I am not so taffy-brained as to want to add ruination to the list.”
    Clever lass. “At last, we agree on something.” And what he had to agree was that despite the risk, or perhaps because of it, he was having fun .Everything about this lass was fun—a lark. A lark he could control, and keep from getting out of hand.
    “So you agree to kiss me?”
    He decided to prolong the negotiation, to heighten the wonderful lazy feeling of satisfaction and anticipation strolling through his chest. “To be clear—just the once?”
    She gave him a smile full of shrewd consideration. “Why don’t we think of it as a trial kiss. To see how well you do. To see if I’ll be wanting another.”  
    “Fair enough. And I’ll see how you do, as well. To see if I’ll be wanting another.”
    “Fair enough.” She nodded and stuck out her right thumb. “We’ll proll thumbs on our agreement.”
    He debated telling her his hesitation was not because he had forgotten the ancient Scots custom of touching thumbs to seal a bargain, but because he had instantly imagined grasping the hand she extended, and then pulling her to his chest and holding her there, so she would be pressed flush against him from neck to thigh, and he