A Gentleman's Guide to Scandal (33 page)

Then hesitation was gone. He pressed his lips to hers and her body against him, his hand at once firm and impossibly light on her back. She nipped his lower lip, sending a shiver
through him she felt to her core. His hands ran into her hair, down her shoulders, as to map her by touch, settling at last at her neck and the small of her back, gentle pressure holding her in place. He parted her lips with his. His tongue slipped into her mouth. She returned the gesture playfully, and then hungrily. The hand at her back crept to her ribs. His fingers chanced against the underside of her breast. Then—

He drew away abruptly. They stared at each other.

Elinor
. Her promise. She cursed herself and looked away from him, trying to ignore the hammering beat of her heart.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“You apologize too much,” she chided him.

“Then I shouldn't be sorry?” His voice was low. It sent a shiver up her spine. She swayed into him, reached up. Tangled her fingers at last in that dark hair, gave a tug. He let out a sharp hiss of pleasure. She rocked her hips against him, lifted herself onto her toes, and kissed him. Slow and sweet, this time, once more and for the last time.

She fell back on her heels. He leaned in toward her. She stopped him, her hand to his chest. “You should not be sorry,” she said. “But we cannot do that again.”

He folded his hand over hers and lifted it to his lips. They touched each finger in turn. She bit her lip, held her breath.
Let me go
, she thought, and hoped he wouldn't.

“I would never let anyone hurt you,” he said. “Never let anyone touch you.”

“I cannot be what you want me to be,” she said.

“What is it you think I want?”

“I—” She didn't know. She had thought he wanted only to look after his cousin, but that kiss left all such thoughts in ruin. He was not a man to lie with his kiss. She tasted enough such lies to know the difference; told them, too, with moans and sighs and false caresses. She had not lied, either. She wished to write essays worth of truth on that skin. She tilted up her head, squared her shoulders. “You will say you want to wed me, but that is only because you are a man of honor confronted with dishonorable desire.”

“I do desire you,” he said.

“But not a wife.”

He did not answer. She'd hit her mark, square in the center, and they both knew it. It didn't matter that she had no desire to
be
a wife; he would never ruin his cousin by making her his lover, and she would not betray Elinor that way. Nor him.

“I think I shall try to sleep after all,” she said. When she moved past him, he made no attempt to stop her, or to follow. She kept a steady, forced pace until she reached her room and the door was shut behind her. Then she leaned her head against the wood and pressed her hand between her breasts.

“You fool,” she whispered. “Oh, Joan, you fool.”

The darkness gave no comfort or reply.

*   *   *

Martin watched her go and said nothing. He wished her accusation were unjust. He wished that he could fall to his knee then and there and pledge that it was her hand he wanted, above all else. And he did want
her
—not only her body, but her company, her trust. But not marriage. Not yet, at least.

He could not propose to Daphne without telling her about the search for Charles—ensuring that she understood that his title was a tenuous thing. And he could not tell her that without telling Elinor, and he could not tell Elinor yet. Not until he was certain, one way or another, what had happened to Charles. He couldn't bear to raise her hopes only to see them dashed.

Maybe he could go ahead with it. Propose, explain later. He would still have his money if Charles was found, and he liked to think that kiss had nothing to do with the
lord
before his name. But that would mean proposing under false pretenses.

He knuckled at his brow at the point between his eyes. What if he called Hudson back? What if he let Charles stay dead, and stayed Lord Fenbrook? But, no. He could not abandon hope of seeing Charles again, of making peace with him.

He struck the mantle with the side of his fist. Perhaps he
should go back to London, so that he did not have to see her each day. It was a kind of madness, this preoccupation. Watching the mask slide on and off, straining to catch those moments when she laid it intentionally aside. She wanted him. He wanted her. Why could it not be as simple as that?

But there was Daphne, and Daphne's role. There was Martin, and the title. The inconvenient half could not be tossed aside, however much they ached for it.

God, though. That kiss. Not her first, clearly, which was a prospect he did not care to contemplate. But however she had obtained the practice, the result—

He touched his lower lip, imagining he could still feel the slight bite of her teeth upon it. When she had pressed against him, her breasts against his chest, her hips rolling forward to push against him . . . He was getting hard at the memory. He'd wanted to pin her against the wall, to let his mouth find all the places she
hadn't
been kissed. To hear her moan again.

He wrenched his thoughts from that path. Charles, first. And the truth of what had happened to Daphne. When he had the proper picture of things, he'd know what to do. How to win her. He could wait. Pure torture as it was, he could wait.

Kathleen Kimmel
is the author of the Birch Hall Romance series, which began with
A Lady's Guide to Ruin
. She works in the video game industry, writing for games on such varied topics as Jane Austen, supernatural detectives, romance visual novels, rubber ducks, and true love. She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and a small, cat-shaped demon. Visit her online at kathleenkimmel.com.

Looking for more?
Visit Penguin.com for more about this author and a complete list of their books.
Discover your next great read!