Never Kiss A Stranger by Heather Grothaus

to either side of his spine swelled and bunched as he bent over to pull up his pants. The morning sunlight streaming through the bank of windows in her bedchamber lit him afire—his dark hair, his hollowed cheeks. Lord Bellecote was a beautiful specimen of a man, and he had proven himself to be an enjoyable and adventurous lover. August had become a welcome friend and confidant, and so Sybilla was glad that she had put off sleeping with him these many months—the anticipation had been quite delicious—but at the same time, she was feeling a bit melancholy now before he left her.
    She would never have the pleasure of him in this capacity again. By her own edict, true, but that was the way things were.
    He was lacing up his blouse now, his tunic folded in half over one thick forearm, and smiling at her. She let herself smile back, if only to enjoy these last moments, and to perhaps pretend that there was a chance she and August Bellecote would meet under these circumstances again. Sybilla’s dark hair was undone over her shoulders, and she could still catch a whiff of the fresh cologne the maid had dressed her with before the feast last night. The silk pillows beneath her bare back were warm and smooth and deep, her coverlet weighty and smelling of sunshine. Beyond the stone walls of her chamber, all of Fallstowe waited for her to emerge from her rooms and direct the day. Sybilla should have felt like royalty. Instead, she felt damned and burdened.
    She would have to face Alys today. Her youngest sister, still so naïve and fiery in her youth, who resented Sybillafor taking their mother’s place. Headstrong, reckless Alys, whom Sybilla was only trying so desperately to protect before time ran out for all of them.
    Lord Bellecote picked up his boots with one hand and strolled toward the bed, that sleepy, sexy smile still on his sculpted lips. His lashes were so dark, his eyes seemed to be lined with kohl. He sat on the edge of the bed to don his footwear, causing Sybilla’s hip to roll toward him and her coverlet to threaten to slide from her breasts. She clutched at it and covered herself once more.
    “No point in being shy now, is there?” August teased, lacing his boots with firm pulls and jerks.
    “Not shy, only chilled,” Sybilla said.
    “Hmm. Well”—he dropped his booted foot to the floor and turned to lean over her, bringing his face to her neck—“shall I warm you up a bit before I go?”
    Sybilla placed a palm against his chest and turned her face away. “I have many duties to attend to this day, August. The remainder of my guests depart, and I must see to my sister.”
    “The nun or the heathen?” he asked jokingly.
    Sybilla’s small smile dropped from her face and she pushed at him more firmly. “I don’t believe either are any of those things.”
    “Sybilla, I tease you,” August cajoled. He raised a hand as if to caress her cheek, but she moved her face away from his reach. “I’m sorry. Let’s not quarrel.”
    “We’re not quarrelling,” she replied coolly. To quarrel with a man would imply that Sybilla held passionate feelings for him, and she could not afford that, not even with a man such as August Bellecote.
    “Good,” he said emphatically, although his lowered brow betrayed his doubt in her sincerity. “Good, for I would notwant this beginning to be marred by resentfulness over some silly thing I said in jest.”
    This beginning. Sybilla would have laughed were the whole thing not so very sad.
    “Shall I call on you tomorrow?” he continued. “After your guests are departed and Fallstowe is once more at peace?”
    At that she did laugh. “Fallstowe is never at peace, August. But no, my schedule is quite full for the next month.”
    His frown deepened on his handsome face. “The next month? Surely you cannot expect me to wait that long to see you.”
    And off we go,
thought Sybilla. “There is much to do before Alys’s wedding. I do hope you and Oliver will