kindness? Treat her as a friend?
No, of course not. He thought to take Ingestrie’s place, to make her his own lightskirt. To think she’d been so naïve as to think chivalry would ever win out over lust.
She shook her head, fighting against the rush of disappointment tightening her chest. “But what of your reputation, sir? How will you prevent rumors of a new mistress from spreading?”
His posture stiffened. “You misunderstand me, ma’am. You will be my guest, not my mistress.”
Why such a rejection should bite even more sharply, Fianna could not begin to fathom. Dropping the valise at her feet, she stepped closer until she sensed his body’s warmth inches from her own.
“You think to reside in the same house, yet not long to take me to your bed? What, are you alone among men impervious to lust?”
The color in his face heightened, but he kept his hands still at his sides. “All men are subject to lust. But not all allow it to rule them.”
“And you, of course, are one of the latter?”
“I am a gentleman, Miss Cameron.”
She moved even closer, so close that the buttons of his coat pressed against her breasts. “But am I a lady?”
Reaching up to grasp the back of his neck, she pulled his mouth to hers.
And fell, not into the shallow puddle of an inexperienced fumbler, but a swirling maelstrom of passion.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Since leaving Fianna Cameron at the Guardian Society nearly a week earlier, Kit had prided himself on the strength of his self-control. Not once had he allowed his waking mind to dwell on the enticing possibility of her mouth upon his, no matter how often his nighttime dreams drifted in that direction. Yet as her cool, full lips pillowed against his own, he realized it might have been better if he had given due consideration to the possibility of being kissed by a woman as bewitching as a leannán sídhe . Then, he might have been able to stop himself from responding with a groan as those cool lips warmed, then opened beneath his, allowing the tiniest of teeth to nip against his soft flesh. Might have been able to keep his arms impassive by his sides rather than reaching around and pulling her small, yielding body tight against his own. Might have been able to prevent his all-too-unruly cock from rising to painfully uncomfortable attention, greedily pressing itself against the softness of her belly.
Might not have forgotten the suspicion that had flashed through his brain when she’d called him—
“Christopher.” Her whispering lips traced a path up his jaw to the lobe of his far-too-sensitive ear.
Yes, there, she’d said it again, just as she had on the front steps—not his given name, but his uncle’s. His uncle, who’d been a major when he’d served with distinction in Ireland during the Rebellion of 1798. A conflict about which he would never speak. A conflict in which this woman had shown inordinate, angry interest.
Could the man whom she sought be his uncle?
He pulled away from her, searching for the truth in her face.
Fey green eyes, sharp as the needles on a pine, stared up at him, enticing him to set aside all suspicion, to tumble back into their drugging depths.
His uncle had been right to warn against the terrible power of the leannán sídhe . For even now, with doubt teasing at the corners of his brain, every fiber in his body urged him to crush her back within his arms and never let go, to bind this fairy mistress so that she might never offer the balm of her cool lips to another.
If it had only been a matter of himself, he might even have done it.
But if she meant to ruin the good name of his uncle—
Should he summon the watch? He had no real evidence that she wished to harm Uncle Christopher, only the surety of his intuition. Many a London constable would be all too happy to throw a lowly Irishwoman into gaol on little else than the word of a viscount’s son. But Kit’s sense of justice would not allow it.
No, first, he needed to
No, of course not. He thought to take Ingestrie’s place, to make her his own lightskirt. To think she’d been so naïve as to think chivalry would ever win out over lust.
She shook her head, fighting against the rush of disappointment tightening her chest. “But what of your reputation, sir? How will you prevent rumors of a new mistress from spreading?”
His posture stiffened. “You misunderstand me, ma’am. You will be my guest, not my mistress.”
Why such a rejection should bite even more sharply, Fianna could not begin to fathom. Dropping the valise at her feet, she stepped closer until she sensed his body’s warmth inches from her own.
“You think to reside in the same house, yet not long to take me to your bed? What, are you alone among men impervious to lust?”
The color in his face heightened, but he kept his hands still at his sides. “All men are subject to lust. But not all allow it to rule them.”
“And you, of course, are one of the latter?”
“I am a gentleman, Miss Cameron.”
She moved even closer, so close that the buttons of his coat pressed against her breasts. “But am I a lady?”
Reaching up to grasp the back of his neck, she pulled his mouth to hers.
And fell, not into the shallow puddle of an inexperienced fumbler, but a swirling maelstrom of passion.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Since leaving Fianna Cameron at the Guardian Society nearly a week earlier, Kit had prided himself on the strength of his self-control. Not once had he allowed his waking mind to dwell on the enticing possibility of her mouth upon his, no matter how often his nighttime dreams drifted in that direction. Yet as her cool, full lips pillowed against his own, he realized it might have been better if he had given due consideration to the possibility of being kissed by a woman as bewitching as a leannán sídhe . Then, he might have been able to stop himself from responding with a groan as those cool lips warmed, then opened beneath his, allowing the tiniest of teeth to nip against his soft flesh. Might have been able to keep his arms impassive by his sides rather than reaching around and pulling her small, yielding body tight against his own. Might have been able to prevent his all-too-unruly cock from rising to painfully uncomfortable attention, greedily pressing itself against the softness of her belly.
Might not have forgotten the suspicion that had flashed through his brain when she’d called him—
“Christopher.” Her whispering lips traced a path up his jaw to the lobe of his far-too-sensitive ear.
Yes, there, she’d said it again, just as she had on the front steps—not his given name, but his uncle’s. His uncle, who’d been a major when he’d served with distinction in Ireland during the Rebellion of 1798. A conflict about which he would never speak. A conflict in which this woman had shown inordinate, angry interest.
Could the man whom she sought be his uncle?
He pulled away from her, searching for the truth in her face.
Fey green eyes, sharp as the needles on a pine, stared up at him, enticing him to set aside all suspicion, to tumble back into their drugging depths.
His uncle had been right to warn against the terrible power of the leannán sídhe . For even now, with doubt teasing at the corners of his brain, every fiber in his body urged him to crush her back within his arms and never let go, to bind this fairy mistress so that she might never offer the balm of her cool lips to another.
If it had only been a matter of himself, he might even have done it.
But if she meant to ruin the good name of his uncle—
Should he summon the watch? He had no real evidence that she wished to harm Uncle Christopher, only the surety of his intuition. Many a London constable would be all too happy to throw a lowly Irishwoman into gaol on little else than the word of a viscount’s son. But Kit’s sense of justice would not allow it.
No, first, he needed to
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