Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 18

Her lips parted.
“I want to kiss you.”
He tugged at her hand, pulled her toward him.
“Very much.”
She wanted to ask him why. No, she didn’t, because she was quite certain the answer would be something that would only melt whatever portion of her resolve still remained. But she wanted to . . . Oh, good Lord, she didn’t know what she wanted to do. Something.
Anything. Anything that might remind them both that she was still in possession of a brain.
“Call it luck,” he said softly. “Or serendipity. But for whatever reason, I wish to kiss you . . . it’s very enjoyable.” He brought her hand to his lips. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
She nodded. However much she wanted to, she could not bring herself to lie.
His eyes seemed to darken, from azure to dusk.
“I’m so glad we are in accord,” he murmured. He touched her chin, tipping her face up toward his. His mouth found hers, softly at first, teasing her lips open, waiting for her sigh before he swooped in, capturing her breath, her will, her very ability to form thoughts, except that . . .
This was different.
Truly, that was the only rational, fully-formed idea she could manage. She was lost in a sea of breathless sensation, driven by a need she barely understood, but all the while, she could feel this one thing inside—
This was different.
Whatever his purposes, whatever his intent, his kiss was not the same as the time before.
And she could not resist him.
He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Not when he’d found himself strong-armed into accompanying her on a stroll, not when they’d walked down the hill, out of sight of the house, and not even, really, when he’d mocked her with: Shall I kiss you again?
But then she’d made her mushy-blobby speech, and he couldn’t do anything but agree with her, and she looked so unexpectedly fetching, fighting her hair, which had completely escaped its coiffure, all the while staring him down—or, if not precisely doing that, at least standing her ground and defending her opinions in a way no one did with him. Except maybe Grace, and even then, only when no one else was present.
It was in that moment that he noticed her skin, pale and luminescent, with the most delightful sprinkle of freckles; and her eyes, not quite green, but not brown, either, lit with a fierce, if suppressed, intelligence.
And her lips. He very much noticed her lips. Full, and soft, and trembling so slightly that one would only notice if one stared.
Which he did. He couldn’t look away.
How was it he had never noticed her before? She’d always been there, a part of his life almost as long as he could remember.
And then—damn the reasons why, he wanted to kiss her. Not to control her, not to subdue her (although he wouldn’t mind either of those as an added boon), but just to kiss her.
To know her.
To feel her in his arms, and absorb whatever it was inside of her that made her . . . her.
And maybe, just maybe, to learn who that was.
But five minutes later, if he’d learned anything, he couldn’t tell, because once he started to kiss her—really kiss her, in every way a man dreamed about kissing a woman—his brain had ceased to function in any recognizable manner.
He couldn’t imagine why he suddenly wanted her with an intensity that made his head spin. Maybe it was because she was his, and he knew it, and maybe all men had a primitive, possessive streak. Or maybe it was because he liked it when he rendered her speechless, even if the endeavor left him in a similarly stunned state.
Whatever the case, the moment his lips parted hers, and his tongue slipped inside to taste her, the world around them had spun and faded and dropped away, and all that was left was her.
His hands found her shoulders, then her back, and then her bottom. He squeezed and pressed, groaning as he felt her mold against him. It was insane. They were in a field. In the full sun. And he wanted to take her right there. Right then. Lift her skirts and tumble her until they’d worn the grass right off the ground.
And then he wanted to do it again.
He kissed her with all the mad energy that was cours-ing through his blood, and his hands moved instinctively to her clothing, searching for buttons, clasps, anything that would open her to him, allow him to feel her skin, her heat. It was when he’d finally got two of them open at her back that he regained at least a portion of his sensibility. He wasn’t sure exactly what had brought reason back to the fore—it might have been her moan, husky and accommodating and completely inappropriate from an innocent virgin. But it was probably his reaction to the sound—which was swift and hot and involved rather detailed images of her, unclothed and doing things she probably didn’t even know were possible.
He pushed her away, at once reluctant and determined. He sucked in his breath, then shuddered an exhalation, not that it seemed to do anything to calm the rapid tattoo of his heart. The words I’m sorry hung on his tongue, and honestly, he meant to say them, because that was what a gentleman did, but when he looked up and saw her, lips parted and wet, eyes wide and dazed and somehow greener than before, his mouth formed words with absolutely no direction from his brain, and he said, “That was . . . surprising.”
She blinked.
“Pleasantly so,” he added, somewhat relieved that he sounded more composed than he actually felt.
“I’ve never been kissed,” she said.
He smiled, somewhat amused. “I kissed you last night.”
“Not like that,” she whispered, almost as if she were saying it to herself.
His body, which had begun to calm, started to fire up again.