a thing. She sighed, shaking her head at her foolishness.
“Bea?”
Her name now sounded like an endearment, and when she looked at him, he felt so familiar, so known. With that one kiss he had changed everything between them, forever obliterated any distance of class or propriety. Yet, it should not happen again.
But his lips were so enticing, as if they were water and she were parched in some foreign desert. As if she had been some Sleeping Beauty, and awake, all she cared about was touching things with her own lips. Touching his .
“You must have kissed many women,” she said, trying to stop herself from taking that one illicit step forward back into his arms.
He flushed. “I was forward, I know, but please, don’t think that this is . . . that I kiss women lightly. Yes, I have kissed before, but I wanted to kiss you . Indeed, that one kiss has obliterated for me the memory of any other.”
Obliterated. He had used that word, too. As if their desire for each other was so all consuming, so powerful, it could explode resistance to it.
Resistance that was weakening in her.
“It was my first kiss,” she admitted, and then she stepped forward, lifted up on her toes, slipped her arms around his neck, and met his lips with hers. Because there were a host of things she “should” not do, had she determined to live solely on her own terms.
Today, that meant kissing Lucian Dore one more time.
C HAPTER S EVEN
----
B ut it wasn’t one more time. August was a blur of kisses. Stolen moments in the early morning or late afternoon, or on outings with Thomas when they were certain he was preoccupied with other things. They kissed in the schoolroom, and the conservatory, the greenhouse and the library. By the stream and the folly on the north lawn. After she’d slammed his ball into the hedges during a game of pall-mall. And in the upstairs gallery that they’d appropriated for a short and disastrous game of rackets, which he’d learned how to play during his days at Harrow years before. They kissed over breakfast and dinner, though those lasts were only the remembrance of kisses past and the promises of kisses to come.
Their gazes met again and again, sharp with electric pleasure, before, secret smiles on both their lips, they looked away.
And every time they did, every time they hid their growing love from the world, a little part of Luc’s soul died.
Because he wanted more than stolen kisses.
He needed to speak with Bianca, know he had her heart, and then speak with her father. But at the same time, if he spoke with Mr. Mansfield, that might very well be the end of everything. The man might stay true to his ridiculous decision that Kate marry before he even considered a suitor for Bianca. Or he might be swayed but furious at the deception Luc played. This last was a new terror for him. But he refused to countenance it, to entertain any regrets, because these last weeks had been the most amazing time in his entire life. The moments with Bianca were more delightful than any he had experienced anywhere else on his tour. He knew now that the “love” with which he had been struck that day weeks before had been merely an appreciation of her beauty, thin and likely to fade away. But the love that had grown in recognition of her inner beauty, her kindness and humor, even the rougher edges of bitterness and despair, this was an eternal love.
As he sat at lunch with the Mansfields and Miss Smith, his gaze slid again to Bianca. As usual, she was dressed in the plainest of frocks. How he longed to give her all of her dreams, the opportunity to see the world, to wear the finest clothes and the brightest jewels. He had the means to do so. She would do credit to the Dorlingsleys, and he had no doubt his parents would welcome her into the family with cheer.
All of this was why he was going to spend his afternoon off visiting Reggie instead of seeking out Bianca. He needed a strategy. He needed to clear his head and
“Bea?”
Her name now sounded like an endearment, and when she looked at him, he felt so familiar, so known. With that one kiss he had changed everything between them, forever obliterated any distance of class or propriety. Yet, it should not happen again.
But his lips were so enticing, as if they were water and she were parched in some foreign desert. As if she had been some Sleeping Beauty, and awake, all she cared about was touching things with her own lips. Touching his .
“You must have kissed many women,” she said, trying to stop herself from taking that one illicit step forward back into his arms.
He flushed. “I was forward, I know, but please, don’t think that this is . . . that I kiss women lightly. Yes, I have kissed before, but I wanted to kiss you . Indeed, that one kiss has obliterated for me the memory of any other.”
Obliterated. He had used that word, too. As if their desire for each other was so all consuming, so powerful, it could explode resistance to it.
Resistance that was weakening in her.
“It was my first kiss,” she admitted, and then she stepped forward, lifted up on her toes, slipped her arms around his neck, and met his lips with hers. Because there were a host of things she “should” not do, had she determined to live solely on her own terms.
Today, that meant kissing Lucian Dore one more time.
C HAPTER S EVEN
----
B ut it wasn’t one more time. August was a blur of kisses. Stolen moments in the early morning or late afternoon, or on outings with Thomas when they were certain he was preoccupied with other things. They kissed in the schoolroom, and the conservatory, the greenhouse and the library. By the stream and the folly on the north lawn. After she’d slammed his ball into the hedges during a game of pall-mall. And in the upstairs gallery that they’d appropriated for a short and disastrous game of rackets, which he’d learned how to play during his days at Harrow years before. They kissed over breakfast and dinner, though those lasts were only the remembrance of kisses past and the promises of kisses to come.
Their gazes met again and again, sharp with electric pleasure, before, secret smiles on both their lips, they looked away.
And every time they did, every time they hid their growing love from the world, a little part of Luc’s soul died.
Because he wanted more than stolen kisses.
He needed to speak with Bianca, know he had her heart, and then speak with her father. But at the same time, if he spoke with Mr. Mansfield, that might very well be the end of everything. The man might stay true to his ridiculous decision that Kate marry before he even considered a suitor for Bianca. Or he might be swayed but furious at the deception Luc played. This last was a new terror for him. But he refused to countenance it, to entertain any regrets, because these last weeks had been the most amazing time in his entire life. The moments with Bianca were more delightful than any he had experienced anywhere else on his tour. He knew now that the “love” with which he had been struck that day weeks before had been merely an appreciation of her beauty, thin and likely to fade away. But the love that had grown in recognition of her inner beauty, her kindness and humor, even the rougher edges of bitterness and despair, this was an eternal love.
As he sat at lunch with the Mansfields and Miss Smith, his gaze slid again to Bianca. As usual, she was dressed in the plainest of frocks. How he longed to give her all of her dreams, the opportunity to see the world, to wear the finest clothes and the brightest jewels. He had the means to do so. She would do credit to the Dorlingsleys, and he had no doubt his parents would welcome her into the family with cheer.
All of this was why he was going to spend his afternoon off visiting Reggie instead of seeking out Bianca. He needed a strategy. He needed to clear his head and
Similar Books
