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

might feel those luscious, magnificent wee breasts hard against his chest.  
    And that he was still debating doing that very thing.
    But he decided doing so would be too precipitous—too much, too soon. With a lass as clever and curious as wee Quince Winthrop, he needed to let her take her time, and let her take the lead.
    He pushed himself off the wall, and bowed over her wrist like a proper gentleman. So he could hold on to her. “We are agreed. Shall we commence with the trial?”  
    “Aye. I suppose.” She retrieved her hand, and almost instantly had a qualm. “But you must stay as you were. With your arms behind you, against the wall, so I know you won’t get all handsy.”
    In his efforts to quash his smile, he could only hope that he didn’t look grim. “As my lady desires.”
    When he was properly installed back against the wall, she stepped closer—close enough that he could smell the subtle scent of rose and orange blossom wafting off the warmth of her skin. Alasdair drew in a deep breath, and felt his chest expand with the pleasure of anticipation. He was going to explore that delicate, delicious skin in just a few moments. He could almost taste the sass on her sweet lips.
    She turned her face up to him. “You may kiss me now.”
    He decided that this time, he was going to be the one who did the unexpected—he didn’t take the lips she so freely offered. “You’re a bit fast off the mark, aren’t you, lass?”
    “Absolutely.” She didn’t so much as blush. “Do try and keep up.”
    “A fool’s errand, that would be,” he half muttered to himself before he cleared his throat. “I don’t think I will kiss you.”
    Her arms went straight to her muslin-clad hips in indignant protest. “But you just said you would. You agreed.”
    Alastair felt his smile spread full across his face, as he ducked his head nearer. Near enough to whisper. “Oh, no, my devious wee lass. If I’m to keep myself from getting handsy , then you’re the one who’s going to have to kiss me.”
    “Oh.” She took an unsure step or two back, flustered, her eyes wide with confusion and unexpected indecision.
    “Do you mean to say you, Quince Winthrop, haven’t kissed anyone before? You? At nineteen, I’d have thought you’d have sampled half the lads of Edinburgh.”
    “Don’t be insulting, Strathcairn. I’ve been busy. With other things.”
    “If you say so.” He contemplated her dilemma for a moment or two. “I didn’t realize it was instruction you wanted, and no just greater experience. So”—he dropped his voice to a low, encouraging murmur that brought out the brogue he had worked to eradicate from his accent—“I’ll gie ye a proper lesson in kissing. I’ll tell ye how to begin, and then how to get on.”
    “Oh, all right. I can’t resist when you talk like a proper Scot.” She tipped up that chin in a gesture he was coming to recognize as willful determination. “What do you suggest first?”
    “I’d suggest ye fetch yourself a wee bit closer, lass, so it’s not such a fair reach.” If it was a proper Scot she wanted, it was a damn proper red-blooded Scot she would get. He leaned his own head down, and angled it slightly to the side for her convenience. “So ye can take your time considerin’ and decidin’ what part o’ me you’d like to kiss first.”
    She drew back, so she might get a better look at his face. “Well, your mouth, shouldn’t it be?” At such a slight distance, her voice had fallen to a whisper—she wasn’t nearly so cool and collected as she might like him to think.
    “Only if ye desire, lass. A cheek, perhaps”—he dutifully turned the cheek in question—“might be a less demandin’ place to start. But what ye’ll want to do, is just come in close…” He waited while she inched closer. “That’s it, lass. Now just take a good long gander at me a’fore ye decide. Slowly, now. Have a good, long look. And remember, even if I can’t touch, ye can.”