The Heart of a Duke by Victoria Morgan

fortune-teller. She must be a bit of a bluestocking, for a young lady did not touch, let alone drag, a gentleman anywhere. Another admirable character trait; for after his years in America, he was finding England a bit straightlaced, like a stiff-backed old woman, set in her ways and resistant to change.
    She released his arm and faced him. “Please, you have to stop giving me flowers. I am betrothed to your brother. More importantly, I do not know what you and Emily were whispering about earlier, but you need to promise me that you will stay away from her. Emily’s been through too much already, and—”
    “You cannot be serious,” he cut her off, a choked laugh escaping him. “I have no designs on Emily.”
    Instead of his response placating her, she reeled back as if stricken. “And why not? What is wrong with my sister? She is perfect, gentle and kind. Everyone loves Emily.”
    “Just like a woman.” He shook his head. “Condemned both ways. What makes you think I have any designs on your sister? After all, it was you that I kissed. It is you whom I—”
    “Please,” she cut him off, casting a furtive glance around the empty alley. Rumbles of laughter carried to them, and an occasional shout rose from a satisfied patron. “Please, let us not bring that up again. I told you, it was a mistake, a minor indiscretion that a gentleman would not keep—”
    “I am beginning to think you have never been kissed before.” He crossed his arms, amused.
    “Excuse me?” she breathed, the color draining from her face.
    “To classify that kiss as minor reveals your ignorance of the matter.” He shrugged. “A peck on the cheek or lips pressed to a gloved hand is minor, but what we did was explosive. Smoldering. It lit—”
    “Stop! It may not . . . ah, did you say explosive? Really?” She paused, her annoyance forgotten, replaced by wide-eyed intrigue.
    Delighted, he inclined his head toward her and lowered his voice to a husky timbre. “And smoldering. I have never—”
    “Enough,” she cried. She had been leaning toward him as well, his soft words reeling her in, but sudden awareness of her actions caused her to straighten like a poker. “If I agree with you that it was . . . well, it was done rather well, you must agree with me that it was dangerous
and
more important, a mistake.” She pressed a hand against her temple. “I cannot believe I am having this conversation with you. It is ridiculous. I do not do ridiculous, am far too old for it.”
    Amused and fascinated, he watched her struggle to compose herself.
    He preferred her pink-cheeked and flustered.
    She drew in a ragged breath. “We cannot discuss this again. Please. It may have been lovely for one moment and done rather well, but . . .” She stopped and started again as if she had lost the thread of her thought. “The point of the matter is, it was a mistake, and one we both need to forget.”
    The finality of her words irked him. He did not like being dismissed like the forgotten boy he had once been. “You are absolutely right.” He unfolded his arms and stepped closer, crowding her. She regarded him warily, but held her ground. He caught her upper arms and drew her to him, ignoring the alarm swimming in those luminous blue depths. “We are done talking. I think a demonstration is in order. You see, you keep saying our kiss was a mistake.”
    “Yes, it was—”
    “My dear Julia.” His eyes roved over her features, admiring the perfect symmetry and soft, flushed skin. “There is something you should know about me.” He cradled her cheek, lowered his head, his mouth inches from hers. “I am a man who likes to correct his mistakes.” When her lips parted in surprise, he captured them in a deep kiss. He kissed her as he had dreamed of doing again since yesterday afternoon.
    She tasted better than he remembered, his memory a pale comparison to the reality of holding her warm, supple body flush to his. His arms circled her, one