now and it was something else entirely. With dim astonishment, she observed that her skill seemed more than adequate to the task; he made a little sound of pleasure and used his lips to open her mouth wider.
Amazed, she let him. The way their mouths moved together filled her brain like a puzzle, a map whose outlines were hot and ever expanding, spilling routes of warmth down her breasts, her stomach, the backs of her knees. As they unfurled, they summoned unmentionable places into awareness. She opened her mouth to it; she marveled at it; she was allowed to do so, just this once. What a bizarre, amazing thing this was, that his mouth was teaching her! A real kiss. A first-rate one. Oh, she had not known!
He broke off suddenly. His chest moved in a deep, fast rhythm. There was a peculiar look on his face. "Well done," he said, as if she'd just taken a trick at cards. "Not at all naive. Tongue and all."
Tongue and all! What power, in three small words. The sound of them moved through her, as overwhelming as his touch.
His eyes narrowed on her face. He reached for her. He was going to kiss her again.
But—she had no excuse for it.
She jerked away. For a long moment they stared at each other. Oh, he was beautiful—his face narrow and chiseled, his cheekbones and jaw so firmly defined. He would have modeled for icons had he lived in the Byzantine Empire. Silver for his irises, topaz for his hair. She felt drunk on his face. He was—
He was a bottomless, flashy butterfly, full of empty attractions. About as trustworthy as a snake. And this charm of his was like an unguent. She would slip on it into her doom if she did not step away this moment.
She retreated a pace. The larger room, the commonplace furnishings, invaded her awareness. A weird bewilderment filled her, that the world did not seem changed. To think that she would have gone to her grave with only that pathetic memory of George— "You will send the stela to me?" Her voice sounded breathless, like a debutante with her first parti. She felt dizzy. She felt overturned.
"Ah." He blinked. "Yes."
Against her will, she turned to go, realizing as she did that his arms had settled again to either side of her, caging her against the bookcase. He seemed to like this position, the way it held her immobile. She put a hand on his forearm, testing it. For a long moment she simply stood there, looking at her fingers against his sleeve, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the cloth—until she realized that what was stopping her: she was flattered 'by this. Oh, dear God. Her pride had better things to fasten to, surely!
On a sharp breath, she ducked out to freedom. At the door, though, she could not prevent herself from peeking back. He was still standing in that peculiar way, as if he were the only thing holding the bookcase up. His expression was puzzled.
The sight settled her. How often had she seen similar expressions on the faces of her father's colleagues, or the men in her audiences? Men are trained to discount women in any number of ways, Lydia. Papa was right: they never knew what to do, when one exceeded their expectations. She was not flattered by his interest after all. She simply felt glad to have unsettled him—and, of course, to know now what kissing should properly be like.
Feeling better, she took a moment to smooth her gloves. When she looked up, he was watching her. His bemusement had disappeared; in its place was a sardonic smile. "All straightened out?" he asked.
"I believe so."
"Would never do to appear in public looking less than neat," he said solemnly.
"My thought exactly. Viscount, I told you at the dinner that I did not have enough information to classify you."
His brow cocked. "And?"
She nodded. "I think I have gathered it now. You are suffering from an acute case of boredom-induced paranoia. No one is out to cheat or swindle you. And as for your bizarre idea that Lord Moreland was somehow involved in this mix-up—well, I expect he
Amazed, she let him. The way their mouths moved together filled her brain like a puzzle, a map whose outlines were hot and ever expanding, spilling routes of warmth down her breasts, her stomach, the backs of her knees. As they unfurled, they summoned unmentionable places into awareness. She opened her mouth to it; she marveled at it; she was allowed to do so, just this once. What a bizarre, amazing thing this was, that his mouth was teaching her! A real kiss. A first-rate one. Oh, she had not known!
He broke off suddenly. His chest moved in a deep, fast rhythm. There was a peculiar look on his face. "Well done," he said, as if she'd just taken a trick at cards. "Not at all naive. Tongue and all."
Tongue and all! What power, in three small words. The sound of them moved through her, as overwhelming as his touch.
His eyes narrowed on her face. He reached for her. He was going to kiss her again.
But—she had no excuse for it.
She jerked away. For a long moment they stared at each other. Oh, he was beautiful—his face narrow and chiseled, his cheekbones and jaw so firmly defined. He would have modeled for icons had he lived in the Byzantine Empire. Silver for his irises, topaz for his hair. She felt drunk on his face. He was—
He was a bottomless, flashy butterfly, full of empty attractions. About as trustworthy as a snake. And this charm of his was like an unguent. She would slip on it into her doom if she did not step away this moment.
She retreated a pace. The larger room, the commonplace furnishings, invaded her awareness. A weird bewilderment filled her, that the world did not seem changed. To think that she would have gone to her grave with only that pathetic memory of George— "You will send the stela to me?" Her voice sounded breathless, like a debutante with her first parti. She felt dizzy. She felt overturned.
"Ah." He blinked. "Yes."
Against her will, she turned to go, realizing as she did that his arms had settled again to either side of her, caging her against the bookcase. He seemed to like this position, the way it held her immobile. She put a hand on his forearm, testing it. For a long moment she simply stood there, looking at her fingers against his sleeve, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the cloth—until she realized that what was stopping her: she was flattered 'by this. Oh, dear God. Her pride had better things to fasten to, surely!
On a sharp breath, she ducked out to freedom. At the door, though, she could not prevent herself from peeking back. He was still standing in that peculiar way, as if he were the only thing holding the bookcase up. His expression was puzzled.
The sight settled her. How often had she seen similar expressions on the faces of her father's colleagues, or the men in her audiences? Men are trained to discount women in any number of ways, Lydia. Papa was right: they never knew what to do, when one exceeded their expectations. She was not flattered by his interest after all. She simply felt glad to have unsettled him—and, of course, to know now what kissing should properly be like.
Feeling better, she took a moment to smooth her gloves. When she looked up, he was watching her. His bemusement had disappeared; in its place was a sardonic smile. "All straightened out?" he asked.
"I believe so."
"Would never do to appear in public looking less than neat," he said solemnly.
"My thought exactly. Viscount, I told you at the dinner that I did not have enough information to classify you."
His brow cocked. "And?"
She nodded. "I think I have gathered it now. You are suffering from an acute case of boredom-induced paranoia. No one is out to cheat or swindle you. And as for your bizarre idea that Lord Moreland was somehow involved in this mix-up—well, I expect he
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