prince, or the kindhearted gentleman? He plainly could not be both.
While her guard was slipping, he stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, his knuckles brushing against her hair. “My dear, whatever it is I have done or said, or have not done or said, or whatever I have harmed you with…” he leaned forward, trying to comfort in any way possible. His eyes closed as his mouth moved along her brow and he continued whispering, “…whatever it is that has put such hallowed hopeless looks upon your face, I am sorry. Terribly, dreadfully sorry.”
Her lashes fluttered, her senses were in complete disarray taking in the smell of his shaving soap and the bridge of her nose caressing his smooth jaw. She had never stood so close to a man before for any extended amount of time.
When his lips stilled and pressed against her forehead, leaving a kiss there, a small breath escaped at the fissured sparks that zinged down her neck and to the shoulder he was holding. Her hand reached up and clung to his suit coat as her lips unconsciously searched and reached for his.
Alexander was more than willing to oblige, and pressed his mouth to hers savoring the perfect softness beneath his. When she let out a little groan, he swept her up completely in his arms and continued the kiss, marveling at her willingness to accept him.
Cecelia had no thought recollection in that moment, nothing to recall herself to her true outlook of him; only the moment of abandoned feelings existed. She’d never before behaved so recklessly, but could not help herself; nothing had ever felt more right in her life. She needed the prince to want her, to care for her, to understand her, to love her.
To love her.
She gasped and broke free, moving several steps away from him—her breath coming in great humiliating gulps. It took a moment to apprehend he was having just as much difficultly in learning to breathe again as she.
Cecelia frowned slightly and then chuckled in spite of herself. “I fear we may have a problem.”
“Do you believe so?” he asked, still not fully himself.
“Well, if this kissing is a bit to go by, then yes, I believe we clearly have a problem.”
“And what is that?” he asked taking a step closer.
She tugged on a long lock of black hair and began wrapping it around her finger. “Can you not tell for yourself?”
“No.” He took another step closer. “Enlighten me.”
She glanced away quickly and then met his eyes again. “I feel as though I could strangle you, and yet, for some reason I must be near you when you are around.” She was about to go on and explain why she wanted to strangle him and why she felt so wretched and all sorts of other inklings and rememberings of grievances passed through her mind to tell him, but just as she was ready to continue on, Prince Alexander took another couple of steps and knelt down before her.
He placed her hands in his and while looking up with great earnestness said, “My dear Miss Hammerstein-Smythe, it would do me the greatest honor if you would consent to be my wife.”
His game—this mockery—had gone too far, her heart hardened and cooled instantly.
Cecelia pulled her hands away. She could forgive him for scorning her as he always had, and his jesting. She could forgive him for his great pretending of kindness and sweet disposition when he was in front of her. She could even forgive him for what he was doing to try and save her from her own folly and the gossips surrounding her mistakes, no matter how much pleasure he derived of it later. However, she simply, positively could not tolerate him professing his undying love and need to make her his.
If there were ever a time when Prince Alexander had the upper hand, it was now. But she plainly could not allow such nonsense to even enter her mind. Not when she could imagine the great laugh he and Lord Bellemount would have at her expense in just a few hours from then.
No, if there was one thing she had always
While her guard was slipping, he stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, his knuckles brushing against her hair. “My dear, whatever it is I have done or said, or have not done or said, or whatever I have harmed you with…” he leaned forward, trying to comfort in any way possible. His eyes closed as his mouth moved along her brow and he continued whispering, “…whatever it is that has put such hallowed hopeless looks upon your face, I am sorry. Terribly, dreadfully sorry.”
Her lashes fluttered, her senses were in complete disarray taking in the smell of his shaving soap and the bridge of her nose caressing his smooth jaw. She had never stood so close to a man before for any extended amount of time.
When his lips stilled and pressed against her forehead, leaving a kiss there, a small breath escaped at the fissured sparks that zinged down her neck and to the shoulder he was holding. Her hand reached up and clung to his suit coat as her lips unconsciously searched and reached for his.
Alexander was more than willing to oblige, and pressed his mouth to hers savoring the perfect softness beneath his. When she let out a little groan, he swept her up completely in his arms and continued the kiss, marveling at her willingness to accept him.
Cecelia had no thought recollection in that moment, nothing to recall herself to her true outlook of him; only the moment of abandoned feelings existed. She’d never before behaved so recklessly, but could not help herself; nothing had ever felt more right in her life. She needed the prince to want her, to care for her, to understand her, to love her.
To love her.
She gasped and broke free, moving several steps away from him—her breath coming in great humiliating gulps. It took a moment to apprehend he was having just as much difficultly in learning to breathe again as she.
Cecelia frowned slightly and then chuckled in spite of herself. “I fear we may have a problem.”
“Do you believe so?” he asked, still not fully himself.
“Well, if this kissing is a bit to go by, then yes, I believe we clearly have a problem.”
“And what is that?” he asked taking a step closer.
She tugged on a long lock of black hair and began wrapping it around her finger. “Can you not tell for yourself?”
“No.” He took another step closer. “Enlighten me.”
She glanced away quickly and then met his eyes again. “I feel as though I could strangle you, and yet, for some reason I must be near you when you are around.” She was about to go on and explain why she wanted to strangle him and why she felt so wretched and all sorts of other inklings and rememberings of grievances passed through her mind to tell him, but just as she was ready to continue on, Prince Alexander took another couple of steps and knelt down before her.
He placed her hands in his and while looking up with great earnestness said, “My dear Miss Hammerstein-Smythe, it would do me the greatest honor if you would consent to be my wife.”
His game—this mockery—had gone too far, her heart hardened and cooled instantly.
Cecelia pulled her hands away. She could forgive him for scorning her as he always had, and his jesting. She could forgive him for his great pretending of kindness and sweet disposition when he was in front of her. She could even forgive him for what he was doing to try and save her from her own folly and the gossips surrounding her mistakes, no matter how much pleasure he derived of it later. However, she simply, positively could not tolerate him professing his undying love and need to make her his.
If there were ever a time when Prince Alexander had the upper hand, it was now. But she plainly could not allow such nonsense to even enter her mind. Not when she could imagine the great laugh he and Lord Bellemount would have at her expense in just a few hours from then.
No, if there was one thing she had always
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