like, being kissed by a man who was not Neville? Being kissed by a notorious rakehell? By Viscount Ravensberg? And why had she not spoken up instantly with a firm and frosty refusal?
“Why?” she asked instead.
He laughed softly. “Because you are a woman—a beautiful woman—and I am a red-blooded male,” he said. “Because I desire you.”
Lauren wondered if her legs would continue to support her. They seemed suddenly turned to jelly.
This
was dalliance?
. . . I am a red-blooded male.
Because I desire you.
His choice of words paralyzed her mind with shock. Yet they strolled onward as if they had just exchanged comments on the weather. He did not just wish to kiss her. He
desired
her. Could she possibly be desirable? Was she really beautiful? Was it possible after all that this was not simply dalliance? Or was she turning into the mindless dupe of an experienced rake?
They stopped walking as if by mutual consent, and somehow they were standing facing each other. The faint light of a distant lamp danced across his shadowed features. He lifted a hand and ran the backs of his knuckles feather-light down one side of her jawline to her chin.
“Let me kiss you,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes and nodded—as if being unable to see and giving no verbal answer somehow absolved her from responsibility for whatever would follow.
She felt his hands coming to rest on either side of her waist. They drew her forward so that, even though she did not move her feet, her bosom brushed against his chest and then pressed closer. For balance she lifted her hands to grasp his shoulders—and felt again the strange intimacy of being with a man who was no more than two or three inches taller than she. She opened her eyes and saw his face very close to her own, his eyes intent upon her mouth. And then his own covered it.
His lips were parted. She felt with shock the moist heat of the inside of his mouth and the warmth of his breath against her cheek. For a few moments she was lost in wondering contemplation of sensations more carnal than she had ever suspected possible. And then she became aware of two other things simultaneously. His
tongue
was tracing the seam of her lips, causing a terrifyingly raw sensation to rush aching into her throat and down into her bosom and down . . . And one of his hands was spread firmly behind her waist—no, below it—and had drawn her against him so that her thighs rested against his and . . .
She pushed away from him and fought the chaos of unfamiliar sensations and emotions that whirled through her brain. How much sense it made that unmarried ladies were never allowed to be alone with a man until they were betrothed. But she had felt none of these things with Neville. Neville had been . . . a gentleman.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, relieved at the calm coolness of her voice, quite at variance with the turmoil of her emotions. “That will be quite enough.”
“Miss Edgeworth.” He was regarding her closely, his head tipped a little to one side. He made no attempt to grab her again. He was not even touching her. His hands were clasped at his back. Even so she would have taken a step back to set more distance between them if the trees had allowed it. “Would you do me the great honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”
What?
She stared at him, speechless. His question was so unexpected that her mind could not grapple with it for the moment.
This
was not dalliance, surely. He had asked her to
marry
him.
“Why?” The question was out before she could curb it.
“I saw you across Lady Mannering’s ballroom,” he said, “and knew that you were the woman I would marry—if you would have me.”
It was every girl’s dream, surely, to be singled out across a crowded room, Cinderella one moment, the love of Prince Charming’s soul the next. There was no more romantic myth. And despite herself, Lauren was not immune to it. But she was no girl. There was all the difference in
“Why?” she asked instead.
He laughed softly. “Because you are a woman—a beautiful woman—and I am a red-blooded male,” he said. “Because I desire you.”
Lauren wondered if her legs would continue to support her. They seemed suddenly turned to jelly.
This
was dalliance?
. . . I am a red-blooded male.
Because I desire you.
His choice of words paralyzed her mind with shock. Yet they strolled onward as if they had just exchanged comments on the weather. He did not just wish to kiss her. He
desired
her. Could she possibly be desirable? Was she really beautiful? Was it possible after all that this was not simply dalliance? Or was she turning into the mindless dupe of an experienced rake?
They stopped walking as if by mutual consent, and somehow they were standing facing each other. The faint light of a distant lamp danced across his shadowed features. He lifted a hand and ran the backs of his knuckles feather-light down one side of her jawline to her chin.
“Let me kiss you,” he whispered.
She closed her eyes and nodded—as if being unable to see and giving no verbal answer somehow absolved her from responsibility for whatever would follow.
She felt his hands coming to rest on either side of her waist. They drew her forward so that, even though she did not move her feet, her bosom brushed against his chest and then pressed closer. For balance she lifted her hands to grasp his shoulders—and felt again the strange intimacy of being with a man who was no more than two or three inches taller than she. She opened her eyes and saw his face very close to her own, his eyes intent upon her mouth. And then his own covered it.
His lips were parted. She felt with shock the moist heat of the inside of his mouth and the warmth of his breath against her cheek. For a few moments she was lost in wondering contemplation of sensations more carnal than she had ever suspected possible. And then she became aware of two other things simultaneously. His
tongue
was tracing the seam of her lips, causing a terrifyingly raw sensation to rush aching into her throat and down into her bosom and down . . . And one of his hands was spread firmly behind her waist—no, below it—and had drawn her against him so that her thighs rested against his and . . .
She pushed away from him and fought the chaos of unfamiliar sensations and emotions that whirled through her brain. How much sense it made that unmarried ladies were never allowed to be alone with a man until they were betrothed. But she had felt none of these things with Neville. Neville had been . . . a gentleman.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, relieved at the calm coolness of her voice, quite at variance with the turmoil of her emotions. “That will be quite enough.”
“Miss Edgeworth.” He was regarding her closely, his head tipped a little to one side. He made no attempt to grab her again. He was not even touching her. His hands were clasped at his back. Even so she would have taken a step back to set more distance between them if the trees had allowed it. “Would you do me the great honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”
What?
She stared at him, speechless. His question was so unexpected that her mind could not grapple with it for the moment.
This
was not dalliance, surely. He had asked her to
marry
him.
“Why?” The question was out before she could curb it.
“I saw you across Lady Mannering’s ballroom,” he said, “and knew that you were the woman I would marry—if you would have me.”
It was every girl’s dream, surely, to be singled out across a crowded room, Cinderella one moment, the love of Prince Charming’s soul the next. There was no more romantic myth. And despite herself, Lauren was not immune to it. But she was no girl. There was all the difference in
Similar Books
