His hand framed her jaw. “Very well.”
And then his lips were on hers.
CHAPTER THREE
Oh.
She was being kissed. Kissed, for the first time in her life, in a moonlit colonnade, by a man with the beauty of a Greek god and the morality of a satyr. It was everything right and everything wrong all at once, and Bel didn’t know what to make of it. She was so used to placing actions in one category or the other.
She was too shocked to move, so she just—stood still.
His lips brushed over hers in a series of slow, teasing caresses. Tender, gentle … extending every invitation but making no demands. She caught the unmistakable scent of brandy on his breath—a familiar aroma, but an as yet untested flavor. She never took spirits, and here this man’s lips were giving Bel her first taste of sin. It savored of fire. Not bitter, as she’d always imagined it would taste, but raw and potent. The flavor opened all her senses, awakened her entire body to the light pressure of his mouth against hers, the gentle stirrings of the breeze around them, the spar of whalebone pressing between her breasts.
She felt everything.
He whispered something against her mouth, something Bel could not hear through the roar of blood pounding in her ears—but she felt it, rushing over her lips. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, tilting her head to meet his. And now he kissed her again, more firmly this time, his lips slightly parted as they covered hers. Once more, the flavor of brandy flooded her senses, intoxicating and dark.
She might have pulled away at any moment. But she didn’t. She remained still, so still as his thumb traced a lazy circle over her pulse. She did not move. She dared not breathe. But inside, her blood danced. A frenzied, pagan dance that resembled a minuet like a tropical hurricane resembled the London fog. Heat whirled in her center and spiraled out to her limbs, pulsing to a furious beat. The rhythm called to her, pulled her consciousness inward with insistent tugs—until she followed it, sinking deep, deep into the heart of herself. Here was passion … desire … wild, untamed emotion.
Here was the enemy of all her hopes and dreams.
And yet—he was the one to retreat.
“Oh.” The syllable escaped her lips the instant his pulled away. He stared down at her, so divinely handsome, clearly anticipating her further response. But what more was there to say?
She could not reproach him, when any fault was just as much hers as his. A taste lingered on her lips, that warm elixir of brandy and desire. Bel pressed her lips together to savor it a moment longer.
Soon they would have to go back inside. She would piece together her wits and refresh her composure and find herself a husband. A man who would offer her wealth and influence but hold no influence over her. A man who didn’t stir her blood with a wink or a smile, who would pose no threat to her principles. A man who tasted of custard, not brandy and fire. Someone safe.
When she swept back through those doors, Bel would regain control of her emotions and refocus on her goals. But for these few stolen moments, in the arms of this charming devil…
all rational thought was lost. Her soul belonged to him.
She closed her eyes, to remain in the darkness. If only a moment could last forever. If only he would kiss her again.
Well, Toby thought, he wouldn’t be trying that again.
So much for curing her solemnity with a kiss. She still carried the weight of the world on that lovely brow, while he … he seemed to have contracted a deathly case of serious. The night felt darker now; vast and humbling. He couldn’t have made a joke if he’d tried. And that kiss had left him too breathless to tease.
He’d kissed her. How had that happened? Hadn’t he just decided not to pursue her?
No. He’d decided not to ruin her as a means of revenge. And somewhere between that moment and this one, he’d decided to kiss her, simply for her. It had been lovely. Damn near magical. He couldn’t regret it.
Still, he said, “I think we had better go back inside.”
He slid his hand down the slope of her shoulder for one last caress, and her eyes fluttered open.
Blast. Now he’d done it.
Toby recognized the dazzled look in those eyes. He knew it all too well. Charming young ladies was his singular talent, and he’d developed it through years of practice. He knew the precise instant he had them. When they took all their youthful hopes and romantic dreams and shaped them into a tight little ball and tossed it into his hands. Here, they said. Take my heart and break it.
Normally, Toby was happy to oblige. What was that line in the novel his sister Augusta loved so well? “A girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.” Truer words were never penned. He took that ball of hopes and dreams, made a little show of juggling it, and handed it back—a bit dented, perhaps, but largely intact. Occasionally, he misjudged and the ball slipped from his grasp to shatter on the floor. But even then, the young ladies recovered quickly enough.
Because they always held something back. This little plaything they tossed him—it held the affections of a girl. Their true womanly hearts, their deepest passion and love, this they guarded, saved for another man. Anyone who labeled Toby a heartbreaker underestimated the shrewdness of feminine intellect. He knew, from years of experience, that young women were a great deal wiser than general opinion would allow.
There was something different about this woman, however—aside from her enchanting accent and strident politics. When he’d kissed her, she’d offered him nothing—but neither had she held anything in reserve. She didn’t know how to flirt. None of his compliments or teasing had warmed her a single degree, but in that moment when their lips met … she’d simply been his. With her, there could be no half-measures.
That kiss had rocked him to his boots.
His blood was still fizzing with her nearness, her scent, her taste. Her skin was so smooth; the edge of temptation, keen. And just when he’d nearly lost himself in those dark, serious eyes, she pursed her delicious lips and whispered …
“Whittlesby.”
Toby blinked. Had he truly just heard her say—
“Lord Whittlesby.” She swallowed. “When we go back inside, will you introduce us?”
“Wh—” The breath rushed out of him in an indefinable question. He released her, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Wh—”
No use. He didn’t even know how to complete that syllable. Who? What? Why? When?
Yes, that was it—when? When did my amatory prowess sink to this low, where I might kiss a young lady on a moonlit terrace and the first thought that springs to her mind is …
“Whittlesby”?
“Whittlesby?” he finally echoed, somehow hoping he’d misheard her. Twice.
“Yes. You did promise to find me a husband. I’ve decided he will do.”
A burst of shocked laughter escaped him. “No. No, you’ve misunderstood. Whittlesby will not do at all.”
She frowned. “Then you won’t introduce me?”
“I’d sooner die.” Indeed, some small part of his pride was withering to dust as he spoke. But this was nothing, compared to the agonies he would suffer, surrendering this vibrant, intelligent, beautiful woman to a lump like Whittlesby.
Good God. Whittlesby?
“But you promised to find me a husband.” She latched a hand over his wrist. “Tonight.”
The pressure of her fingers did strange things to his pulse. He teetered on the verge of taking her into his arms and kissing her again—thoroughly, this time. All night long, if need be. Until he kissed away her memory of any man but him.
Honor, he reminded himself sternly. And something about clinging to the few remaining shreds of it. The honorable course, sadly, did not involve kissing those perfect lips all night—
but neither did it mean sending her into the arms of a perfect clod. He needed to set this girl straight. Only then, not before, he would let her go.
The first strains of a waltz reached his ears. “Yes, I promised to find you a husband. And so I shall—inside.” Where the light of a hundred candles would hold this feral temptation at bay.
“Come,” he said, tucking her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “I’m going to give you a lesson about the true nature of influence and the selection of worthy suitors.”
She gave him a puzzled look.
He clarified, “We are going to dance.”
He led her back inside and had her swept up in the waltz before anyone could notice their return.
She was an inexperienced dancer, he could tell—she couldn’t have had much opportunity to practice on that speck of a tropical island. But still, they glided through the room effortlessly, in perfect time with the music. Because Toby was an excellent dancer, and she gave herself over completely to his lead.
“You dance like a dream,” he told her. His dream, likely tonight. Perhaps for weeks to come.
“No, I don’t,” she replied. “I’ve never been fond of dancing, but…”
“But…?”
She released a sigh scented with brandy and resignation. “But I’m enjoying dancing with you.”
Well, praise God for small victories.
“Miss Grayson,” he said, feigning shock, “don’t tell me you’re enjoying yourself. And at a ball?” When she blushed, he murmured, “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. But only if you make me a promise.”
“What kind of promise?” she asked, giving him a guarded look.
“Promise me you will not marry Whittlesby. Not him, nor anyone like him.”
“I’ll promise you nothing of the kind. Who are you, to tell me whom I should and should not marry?”
“Who am I?” He laughed. “I’m the gentleman you charged with finding you a suitable husband. Whittlesby and his ilk are categorically unsuitable.”
“But you don’t understand. I have goals, priorities.” She looked to the ceiling. “I wish to become a lady of influence. It’s the only way to have any measurable effect on society. If I do not marry above my rank, I may as well remain unmarried.”
“If you do not marry your true equal, you will regret it the rest of your life. Listen to me, Isabel.”
His use of her Christian name startled her. Good. Now she was paying attention. Plus, he liked saying it.
“Isabel, you are intelligent. You are young and idealistic and brimming with passion. You don’t lack for fortune or family. And you’re the most intriguing, beautiful woman in the room. That arsenal of persuasion could bring the whole of London to its knees, if judiciously applied. For God’s sake, don’t chain yourself to some pudding with a title. The power you seek—it already resides within you.”
“Please, spare me your nonsensical flattery.”
“Why?” he asked. “Because you might start to enjoy it?”
She set her jaw and stared stubbornly over his shoulder.
“I’m not speaking nonsense, Isabel. It’s the most rational thing in the world.” Toby shook his head. How could he make her see? “It’s like this,” he said calmly. “Imagine true disaster were to strike. Imagine you found yourself married to me. A lowly, dishonorable, too-handsome sir, unsuitable in every way.”
“I never said lowly!”
“I know,” he teased. “But you blush so prettily each time you protest. My point is this—if it’s influence you seek, there are any number of ways to achieve it. Even by allying yourself with such a hopeless case as me.”
He pulled her closer, ostensibly to whisper in her ear. But he could not help but enjoy the rustle of silk against his boots and the swell of her ample bosom brushing his chest. “Don’t make a show of looking,” he murmured, “but everyone in this room is staring at you. Can you imagine why?”
