thought
that might please you.”
“Really?” There was almost nothing he could deny her when she
displayed that enchanting smile. He felt as if he were under a magic spell she
wove by moonlight. “And what would that be?”
“We do rub along well together, don’t you think?”
“Exceedingly well,” he said, still studying her tempting mouth
and taking her hand. As the days passed, he was spending more and more time
with Dorothea. And more and more he enjoyed her company.
“Then you will speak to Maman about
paying your addresses, then?”
He was beginning to think along the lines of marriage himself.
And Dorothea was the lady he had in mind. Although he did not yet feel quite
ready to take the step, he did not object to her raising the subject.
“I would not be averse to speaking to your mother about you.” A
grin crept over Randall’s lips and he placed a lingering kiss upon her bare
hand. “I will do so at the most opportune moment.”
If the night at Vauxhall Gardens did not gain her Fenton’s kiss,
Larissa wondered if tonight would. She felt hesitant about making a second
attempt, since the results of the first had not been exactly what she had
planned.
She scanned the room for Sir Randall. The last thing she wanted
was a repeat of last night—not that she did not enjoy kissing him. It was she
who had initiated the kiss, to be sure. For the few seconds it had lasted, it
seemed to her Sir Randall had returned the kiss, thus encouraging her. But of
course she could be wrong. Knowing the way he felt about her, why on earth
would he want to encourage her?
Larissa felt that Lord Fenton was by far more appealing than the
previous three gentlemen she had met during the Season-Mr. Wesley Tyson, the
Right Honorable Robert Egerton, or Mr. Donald Sinclair. Those men she had not
wanted to kiss, she did not feel for them as she did for Lord Fenton. After
taking his arm, they strolled out in the small garden. He slowed their pace to
nearly a standstill.
“You look most becoming when put to the blush, Miss Larissa.”
She raised her hand to her cheek. “Am I blushing?” Little did
Fenton know it was Sir Randall of whom she thought, and the similar
circumstances of the previous night gave rise to her color. It was her ardent hope that when Fenton held her she would not think of Sir
Randall.
Lord Fenton’s hand tightened over hers in silent communication,
telling her not to flee—the moment was close at hand. A silent breeze ruffled a
lock of hair on his forehead. It gave the slightest rakishness to his otherwise
perfect appearance.
As they reached the farthest point in the garden behind the
Pringles’ townhouse, they stopped. “I hope to tell you how I feel about you,
Miss Larissa,” he said. He drew her into his arms and Larissa leaned into him,
hoping he would be a man, take the lead, and continue.
Lord Fenton took hold of Larissa’s forearm and turned it gently
behind her back, propelling her closer to him. His long finger trailed from her
chin along her jaw and he took his time to study her face before their
long-anticipated kiss. But he did not kiss her.
This was not Larissa’s only disappointment. Where was the melting
she expected to carry her away? The tingling sensations that coursed through
her body?
Fenton said something, but Larissa hadn’t been listening. She
felt confused, too distracted by what she was not feeling.
“It’s all right, then?” She heard him say.
“Oh, yes,” Larissa replied. “Of course.” She didn’t know to what
Fenton referred. Concentrating on more important matters, she still did not
understand what had gone wrong.
Once again, Lord Fenton settled Larissa’s hand in the crook of
his arm and again placed his hand protectively over the top of hers, continuing
their stroll to the house.
Larissa sat at her dressing table, brushed her hair and looked
into the glass, oblivious of her reflection. The soiree had been splendid. She
adored Lord Fenton, but he
that might please you.”
“Really?” There was almost nothing he could deny her when she
displayed that enchanting smile. He felt as if he were under a magic spell she
wove by moonlight. “And what would that be?”
“We do rub along well together, don’t you think?”
“Exceedingly well,” he said, still studying her tempting mouth
and taking her hand. As the days passed, he was spending more and more time
with Dorothea. And more and more he enjoyed her company.
“Then you will speak to Maman about
paying your addresses, then?”
He was beginning to think along the lines of marriage himself.
And Dorothea was the lady he had in mind. Although he did not yet feel quite
ready to take the step, he did not object to her raising the subject.
“I would not be averse to speaking to your mother about you.” A
grin crept over Randall’s lips and he placed a lingering kiss upon her bare
hand. “I will do so at the most opportune moment.”
If the night at Vauxhall Gardens did not gain her Fenton’s kiss,
Larissa wondered if tonight would. She felt hesitant about making a second
attempt, since the results of the first had not been exactly what she had
planned.
She scanned the room for Sir Randall. The last thing she wanted
was a repeat of last night—not that she did not enjoy kissing him. It was she
who had initiated the kiss, to be sure. For the few seconds it had lasted, it
seemed to her Sir Randall had returned the kiss, thus encouraging her. But of
course she could be wrong. Knowing the way he felt about her, why on earth
would he want to encourage her?
Larissa felt that Lord Fenton was by far more appealing than the
previous three gentlemen she had met during the Season-Mr. Wesley Tyson, the
Right Honorable Robert Egerton, or Mr. Donald Sinclair. Those men she had not
wanted to kiss, she did not feel for them as she did for Lord Fenton. After
taking his arm, they strolled out in the small garden. He slowed their pace to
nearly a standstill.
“You look most becoming when put to the blush, Miss Larissa.”
She raised her hand to her cheek. “Am I blushing?” Little did
Fenton know it was Sir Randall of whom she thought, and the similar
circumstances of the previous night gave rise to her color. It was her ardent hope that when Fenton held her she would not think of Sir
Randall.
Lord Fenton’s hand tightened over hers in silent communication,
telling her not to flee—the moment was close at hand. A silent breeze ruffled a
lock of hair on his forehead. It gave the slightest rakishness to his otherwise
perfect appearance.
As they reached the farthest point in the garden behind the
Pringles’ townhouse, they stopped. “I hope to tell you how I feel about you,
Miss Larissa,” he said. He drew her into his arms and Larissa leaned into him,
hoping he would be a man, take the lead, and continue.
Lord Fenton took hold of Larissa’s forearm and turned it gently
behind her back, propelling her closer to him. His long finger trailed from her
chin along her jaw and he took his time to study her face before their
long-anticipated kiss. But he did not kiss her.
This was not Larissa’s only disappointment. Where was the melting
she expected to carry her away? The tingling sensations that coursed through
her body?
Fenton said something, but Larissa hadn’t been listening. She
felt confused, too distracted by what she was not feeling.
“It’s all right, then?” She heard him say.
“Oh, yes,” Larissa replied. “Of course.” She didn’t know to what
Fenton referred. Concentrating on more important matters, she still did not
understand what had gone wrong.
Once again, Lord Fenton settled Larissa’s hand in the crook of
his arm and again placed his hand protectively over the top of hers, continuing
their stroll to the house.
Larissa sat at her dressing table, brushed her hair and looked
into the glass, oblivious of her reflection. The soiree had been splendid. She
adored Lord Fenton, but he
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