by Lisa Kleypas
“I will just have to say a few words,” she said in a low voice.
“And if I don’t smile? What then?”
She shrugged, a far more casual gesture than her internal emotions warranted. “Then you may claim a forfeit. Whatever you want, I will do. If you win, that is.”
“Oh, that sounds promising.” The combination of his low, sensual tone and the serious expression on his face made something inside of her warm, as though he were touching her all over, a caress that was heating her up from the inside.
But perhaps he didn’t mean the way he sounded—she couldn’t assume, it wasn’t as though she had ever been in this dangerous flirting situation before. For all she knew, he was like this with every lady, regardless of how he thought of her.
Actually, he was like this with every lady. She’d seen it for herself, only there was something slightly different, more intense, about him now. She continued. “For example, I could ensure Miss Green was occupied for a few hours so her mother wouldn’t require you to escort her to view more arty facts.” She pronounced it as his mother would, and he nearly broke then, as well. “Or if you wanted me to gaze at you in rapt adoration as you expounded on the history of one of those odd jugs you seem to find entrancing. I could do that.”
His lips twitched, but he didn’t break. “Or I could ask for something else entirely.” She shivered at the low promise in his tone.
“What would you want?”
He paused, his expression still serious, but the light in his eyes was fierce and wild. Thrilling her, even though she had no idea what it meant.
“I want a kiss.”
She nearly laughed aloud at the irony of it, but merely nodded and thrust her hand out. “We have a deal.”
He took her hand, sliding his fingers over her palm, making her heart race with just the merest touch.
Imagine what would happen to her when they did kiss. Because they would be kissing, of that she was now certain.
“You mentioned you could beat me with just a few words.” He still held her hand, his tone teasing, his expression entirely somber. “What words would those be?”
She paused and licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. His gaze fastened on her mouth and she felt it as though it was an almost palpable touch.
“I want a kiss.”
Smicker:
1. The collar of an apron.
2. To look amorously.
3. The spines of a fish.
Chapter Eleven
OF COURSE HE had to smile at that, but it didn’t matter, since—since now it was a moot point. “Well, then who is the winner here?” he asked, moving forward to put his hand on her waist.
Drawing her to him, as he’d wanted to do from the first time—well, no, the first time he saw her she’d been sitting down in a pub drinking ale, and he hadn’t been thinking about what he wanted to do to her, or with her, until a few hours later.
Still, it was fairly close to the first time they’d met.
She gazed at him, and once again, he had cause to be grateful she was such a tall woman. He would only have to lower his mouth to hers a few inches, especially if she rose up on her toes. Kissing could be damned hard on the spine, he’d found, if the two participants were upright.
“Why, I have won, of course. You smiled.” And then she did the same, her lips curling up into the most provocative, compelling smile he’d ever seen.
Or that could be just her.
“So will you claim your reward, my lady?” Jamie said, sliding his palm to the small of her back and pulling her closer.
She raised her hands and put them at his shoulders, pushing him back. The immediate words of apology began to come from his mouth, but she shook her head, keeping her gaze locked on his face. “I wish to claim my reward, sir,” she replied, stressing the first word. “You will just have to give it.”
Oh, well then. He wanted her to take it more than he’d wanted anything in his entire life. He’d never been with a woman like her before, one who knew what she wanted, even though he was fairly certain she wasn’t entirely aware of what she wanted, being an unmarried woman and all. And since he had been with experienced unmarried women before, he knew she wasn’t experienced, not at all.
“Will this be your first kiss?” The words popped out of his mouth before he could even think about them.
Her cheeks pinked, and he knew the answer before she spoke. “Yes,” she said in a soft voice, her fingers beginning to caress his shoulders.
“Good.” He couldn’t help the note of masculine pride in his voice. “I will just allow you to take it.” He stilled himself, letting his hands go down by his side, watching her as she prepared herself.
God, her face was so expressive. He could watch it for hours, and still find new emotions revealed there. Her eyes swept down his body, almost as though she were touching him everywhere she looked. She allowed her hands to slide down his arms, to his waist. When they came to rest there, she bit her lip, and he had to restrain himself from bending down to bite it, as well.
And then she looked up at him, the frank desire in her eyes making him feel as though he were lit from inside. An odd way to put it, to be sure, but it felt as though only she could make him warm. Could soothe him with her kiss.
Even though he doubted very much that kissing her would be a soothing activity. Exciting, sensual, and an entirely new experience, yes, but not soothing.
“Well?” he said at last. It was speak or claim her mouth, and he knew she didn’t want that.
“Don’t rush me,” she said in nearly a growl. That made him laugh, too—that his polite goddess could be so transformed by the prospect of a mere kiss.
But it wouldn’t be just mere, would it. This would be an epic kiss, if he knew his goddess.
He saw her throat work, and she lifted her face to his, raising herself up with the hands at his waist. That necessitated her to move in closer, and he felt the points of contact between them—her hands, his waist, her breasts, his chest.
Their feet.
But he stopped thinking about any of that when she placed her mouth on his. Her kiss was soft and warm, just a simple pressing of their mouths together.
And then she opened her mouth, just a bit, and he did as well, hoping that while she didn’t have direct experience with the act, she would have investigated what could happen when one person kissed another.
And, thankfully, it seemed she was a studious person.
Her tongue touched his mouth hesitantly, just the slightest touch, but it was enough to make him groan. Which seemed to encourage her, since she slid her tongue inside his mouth, widening her lips.
The sensation of getting lost in her kiss grew, and it felt as though that was all he could think about, her there, and him here, and them kissing. At that moment, he couldn’t say he wanted anything more.
Well, he did—he was a man, after all—and if this was all it ever was, it would be enough.
But he did want more, he had to admit.
Which was why he was the one to eventually draw back, knowing if he didn’t that he would reach the point of no return, and he didn’t want her first kiss to be also her first other things.
Well, he did, he was a man, after all, but it wouldn’t be right.
All of which meant that he was entirely and thoroughly befuddled.
“How was it?” He had to ask; he was a—well, damn it, he knew what he was.
Her eyes were soft and dreamy, but held a sensual glint that made his breath catch. “It was excellent.” Her mouth—that mouth he’d just been kissing—twisted into a smirk, as though she were sharing a private joke. With herself. “Delightful. Incredible. Sensational, even. An excellent gift,” she added in a lower voice.
“All those things, all together?” Jamie leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “Imagine just how stupendous it will be when we do it again.”
WHEN WE DO it again. Goodness, she wanted to do it again, and she wished she could do it a
gain right now, only that would lead, she well knew, to all sorts of improprieties, improper even if they were actually betrothed and not fakely betrothed.
“Fakely” is not a word, Sophronia, her father muttered somewhere inside her head.
Now is not the time to be offering word critique, Father, she replied.
“Shall we return to the party?” James glanced over her shoulder. “We’ve been away long enough to miss the music, I believe. Let’s just hope they don’t ask us what books we’ve been reading.”
She grinned, and turned her head to look at the books on the shelves. “I’ll tell them I read a few husbandry guides, paying particular attention to the Husband Husbandry Guide.”
He spun and looked at the shelves, his mouth dropping open. “There is no such thing—is there?”
She burst out laughing at his expression, which was equal parts nonplussed and bemused. She shook her head and patted him on the arm. “No, there is no such thing. Although I imagine if there were such a guide, Mrs. Green would have a say in writing it.”
“The woman does like to offer pronouncements, doesn’t she?” he replied in a rueful tone.
“And potential brides. Thank goodness you had the forethought to provide yourself with a betrothed, or else you would be addressing Mrs. Green as Mother.”
She laughed even more when she saw him shudder.
“For that, I should buy you two cottages.”
He took her arm and led her out of the library, the glow of the kiss fading as she thought about what he’d said. Of course. There was only this, this brief period of time. An interlude during the holidays. It wasn’t as though this was anything more than what it was—two people entering into a bargain to save their respective futures. Their separate respective futures.
At least she now knew he was justified in going to such lengths to prevent an accidental betrothal—she had no doubt but that Mrs. Green, or one of the other ladies, would have him plighting his troth by the time Christmas came around.
And after the holiday, long after the Yule log was burnt down, and the kissing bough had given up all its berries, when the mistletoe had shriveled, and the snow was just a distant memory, she would be snug in her cottage with Maria, with memories of this night, and that kiss, to warm her through the ensuing years.
That should be enough. It would be enough. And perhaps, if she was patient, and open, she would find someone who would truly wish to be betrothed to her. To marry her, and stay in one place, and always be reliable, and have enough money to keep her in books and ale. That was all she wanted. Just someone to belong to in a place she felt she belonged.
If she were to receive that Christmas gift one year—not this year, of course, but someday—she would rejoice and try to forget about the tall, restless man who offered her a chance at escape. As well as her first kiss.
“You’re not regretting this, are you?” he asked in a low voice as they walked down the hall to the drawing room.
“No, of course not, why?” She glanced up at him, noting the concern in his eyes. “Are you?” Dear God, please don’t let him regret this. That would be the worst Christmas gift, the anti-Christmas gift, and she herself would regret not making her way to her cousin and his children and all the chicken iterations, and if she—
“That kiss was the best thing to occur since my mother informed me we’d be attending a house party.” She couldn’t doubt the sincerity in his tone. “It is just—you sighed, just then, as though something were weighing on you.” Right. She had forgotten how observant he was.
I was just thinking about how this would all come to an end, and Cinderella would get a cottage, not a prince, at the end of the story.
“I think I was just dreading more of Mrs. Green’s orders. Imagine what else she might want us to do while we’re here.”
He grinned, with such a devilish look in his eye she nearly swooned. “We’ll have to excuse ourselves to go play some of our own games.”
Forget thinking beyond now, when she’d be off with Maria in a simple cottage paid for with his money. For once, she was going to live in the moment. She would enjoy what this time now would bring, and figure out the rest later.
She could return to being a responsible woman who looked to the future in a week or so; for now, she was as careless and headstrong and impulsive as the next person.
Who happened to be him.
Matutinal:
1. Of, relating to, or occurring in the morning.
2. Feeling nauseated.
3. An acrimonious parting.
Chapter Twelve
HE DIDN’T KNOW what he had done, just that he had done something. Besides being kissed by her, that is.
He wanted to inquire more, but they had only a few moments between the library and the drawing room, and he didn’t want to get into a discussion where anybody could see them.
It worried him; he couldn’t tell what she was thinking now. Her face looked as though someone had drawn a curtain down, her usual lively expression dimmed.
They stepped back into the drawing room, her slightly ahead of him, his hand at the small of her back, just grazing the fabric of her gown with his knuckles. He wished they hadn’t ever left the library, that they were still there, kissing, or her teasing him about books and their laughing together.
“Jamie, you have been an age! What could you and Sophronia have gotten up to for so long?”
His mother didn’t mean to be shocking, of course; she never did. But all the same, most of the rest of the party smothered chuckles, except for Mrs. Green, who glowered.
She might be the most unpleasant woman he had ever met, but at least she was consistently unpleasant.
“As you are well aware, Mother, I am fascinating when I want to be.” He assisted Sophronia into a chair beside his mother. “And my betrothed finds me infinitely fascinating. Don’t you, Sophy?”
He grinned at her, hoping she would burst out laughing or say something cutting in response. But she merely lifted a brow and nodded, biting her lip. To stifle a laugh, or a rebuttal? And why was he feeling so torn up about what her reaction might possibly be?
“We were just discussing the plans for tomorrow,” the viscountess said. “Mrs. Green has suggested we make a game of finding a suitable tree for decorating. The team who finds the best tree has the honor of—well, what does the team have the honor of doing, Mrs. Green?”
The lady surveyed the house party with a considering air. “The winning team members will be allowed to stand under the mistletoe with the person of their choosing.”
Not bad, Mrs. Green, not bad at all. He would have to make sure he or Sophy won, just so he would have the privilege of kissing her in front of all these people.
Of staking his claim to her, even though they both knew—and only they knew—that the claim was a temporary one.
But meanwhile, he didn’t know if he could wait until tomorrow to kiss her again, now that he’d tasted the sweetness of her lips, and felt how she responded to him.
Actually, he did know if he could wait. And the answer was no, he couldn’t.
THE KNOCK CAME just after Maria had gone, leaving Sophronia in blissful anticipation of a comfortable book, a warm fire, and an hour before she thought she should try to be in bed.
Thankfully, Mrs. Green’s dictatorial ways extended to telling her guests when they should be tucked up in their rooms, and the lady insisted everyone get a good night’s sleep since the holiday tree-hunting expedition was likely to be strenuous.
Sophronia didn’t argue since it meant more time away from the lies they were telling, and Mrs. Archer, whom Sophronia found she liked more each time they were together.
Yes, the woman was talkative, and somewhat silly, but she had such a good heart, and she loved her son so much, even if she didn’t entirely understand him.
It made Sophronia feel even more terrible that she and Mrs. Archer’s son were lying to her face, and she knew that Mrs. Archer would be devastated when she
learned that Sophronia had died. Even though it hopefully wouldn’t be true.
But that wasn’t answering the door, was it?
Of course she knew who it was on the other side; it wasn’t as though there was anyone else at the house who would be knocking at eleven o’clock at night. She walked to the door, tightening her wrapper but still feeling dangerously underdressed.
Not because he would necessarily get carried away, but because she would. She definitely had not expected that kiss to be so . . . meaningful. Important. Wonderful.
Yes, many words for describing one thing. As seemed to be the case when she thought about him, or that, or how this holiday was both the most wonderful and the most painful one she’d ever had.
She pulled the lock and opened the door, stepping aside to let him in. He wasn’t dressed for sleeping, as she was, but he was more casually clothed than before—he had removed his cravat and coat, and wore only his shirt and trousers. He had his hands full with something, but she didn’t notice that, because she was too distracted—now that his cravat was off, she could see his strong neck and a few tufts of hair peeking over the collar of his shirt.
Those hairs made her feel all sorts of new and strange feelings.
“What are you doing here?” Because she was fairly certain he wasn’t here so she could admire the hair on his chest.
He grinned and held up what was in his hands—two glasses and a bottle of wine. “I’m here to strategize how we’re going to win the tree-finding contest tomorrow.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “And for that we need wine?”
He shook his head and strode past her to place the wine and glasses on her bedside table, then sat down on the bed. Her bed. “The wine isn’t for strategizing, Sophycakes, it’s for fun.” He paused, then a sly grin twisted his lips. “We do know how to have fun together, don’t we?”