An Invitation to Seduction by Lorraine Heath Page B

I can’t describe it, Richard. I believe that is both the beauty and the frustration of love. That each person must experience it in his own way, and, therefore, should never advise another on it.”
    She wanted to cheer Lady Anne’s sentiments. Mind your own business, Weddington , she thought, yet even as she thought it, she was left with the distinct impression that perhaps he was.
     
    The Royal Italian Opera had at one time been known as the Covent Garden Theatre. Kitty sat beside Lady Anne at the front of the balcony box while Weddington sat directly behind Kitty. She was acutely aware of each breath he took. The tangy lemony scent that was such a part of him, and had enveloped her in the coach, continued to wrap around her in the balcony.
    As the curtains opened, Lady Anne leaned forward slightly and placed a tiny pair of silver binoculars to her eyes. Kitty had not brought hers, but they were truly not needed. The duke’s box was close enough to the stage that every performer and set scenery was clearly visible, the details remarkably viewed. Even her father never acquired seats so perfectly located for the optimum enjoyment of the performance.
    Her mastery of Italian had come at an early age, along with French. Her father’s success had allowed her to move in circles that she knew few ladies did, and she’d been determined to make the most of the opportunities he provided and always to make him proud. She’d applied herself to her studies with the same fervor she applied herself to all things. So for her, the opera was an experience she truly appreciated and relished, and as she became caught up in the performance, her awareness of Weddington gradually began to recede.
    Until his warm breath fluttered against the nape of her neck.
    “Hold still,” he murmured so quietly as to almost be unheard, his lips so close as to almost be felt. “Your maid failed to properly secure a button.”
    With his gloved finger, he slowly stroked her spine from the base of her skull to the top of her shoulders. Down and up. A small circle. Down. A tiny circle. Up. Over and over. So incredibly leisurely. So incredibly sensuously. The warmth of his flesh seeped through the cloth that separated his skin from hers. She was aware of the slow turning of his hand, the pressing of his palm against the side of her neck, his knuckles coming to rest beneath her chin, the tip of his finger taking an unhurried journey along her collarbone until it dipped into the hollow at her throat.
    She breathed shallowly, swallowed hard, certain he could feel the movement of her throat against his finger.
    Heat swirled around her, through her until it settled in the most unexpected of places: at the apex between her thighs. It was all she could do not to shift within her chair, not to seek the pressure that her body instinctively cried out for.
    As though he had all the time in the world, as though the curtain would never be drawn closed and the performance would never end, he trailed his finger back up along her collarbone, then up the side of her neck, tucking his finger against the sensitive spot right behind her ear. She was conscious of her breasts swelling against the fabric of her gown, her nipples hardening, and she wondered how so simple a touch could feel as though it caressed every sensitive inch of her body.
    Biting back a moan, she fought to ignore his attentions, but it was not a battle she had any chance of winning. Her vision blurred and darkened, and she realized that her eyelids had fluttered closed. Then his thumb joined the game, stroking her earlobe, outlining the delicate shell of her ear. She thought in her weakening state that she might simply slip off the padded velvet cushion of the chair. How did he manage to so thoroughly distract her with so simple a maneuver?
    His hand slipped around back, and she felt movement indicating that he was at long last slipping the errant button through its loop.
    “There,” he whispered, his lips