The Wedding Trap (20 page)

Her toes curled inside her slippers, and her entire body flashed hot. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips harder against his, driven by an instinct she hadn’t known she possessed.

His lips curved against hers as he smiled, wordlessly encouraging her to proceed.

In easy, gentle circles, he rubbed his thumb against the base of her skull. A whimper escaped her, followed by a delicate trembling that threatened to combust her already enflamed senses. She whimpered again and deepened their kiss, slanting her lips across his, greedy and hungering, wanting more and knowing instinctively that she would never, ever get enough of his captivating embrace.

This time Kit was the one to groan, the one to press his mouth harder and more passionately against hers.

She jolted when the hot, wet tip of his tongue edged out, skimming across the delicate, inner flesh of her mouth. Her lips throbbed at the contact, her pulse skipping as fast and hard as a stone across the glassy surface of a pond.

She broke away on a gasp. “Oh, my!”

His gaze roved over her heated features, his breath coming in shallow drafts. “Too much? Shall we stop?”

She trembled then shook her head. “No.”

“Perhaps we’ve gone far enough.”

“No.”

For an instant, he looked as if he was about to change his mind regardless, and put a hasty end to their lesson. Then she licked her lips.

The gesture was innocent but his response was not as his gaze darted downward to settle upon her damp mouth. Before she had time to consider his reaction, he groaned and captured her lips again.

Bold and brash, he plunged both of them deep. Eyelids fluttering, she gasped again at the renewed touch of his tongue on her mouth. Catching her lower lip between his teeth, he nibbled for a long moment before giving a gentle tug that coaxed her mouth wide.

Then his tongue stroked inside, astonishing her anew. Her senses spun as he teased and tantalized, exploring the contours of her mouth with an intimacy that left her blissfully shaken. Over teeth and tongue he roved, across the tender flesh of one inner cheek before moving on to trace the other.

She trembled as he pulled slightly away. “All right?” he asked.

“Mmm-hmm,” she murmured, half-dazed. “You taste like shortbread.”

He smiled and gave her a pair of quick, openmouthed kisses. “And you taste like honey.”

“I haven’t eaten any honey.”

“Then I guess you’re just naturally sweet.”

Before she had time to think about the remark, he kissed her again, tangling his tongue with hers in a powerful mating. In and out went his tongue. And in and out again, withdrawing after each foray until she realized he wanted her to come after him, to thrust her tongue into his mouth.

She quivered at the notion, her belly clenching in a low ache. Inside he came again, plundering and pleasuring until she scarcely had breath left in her lungs. When he withdrew again, she gathered the courage to follow, chasing his tongue, skimming past his teeth and forging deeper.

Time spun away after that as she lost herself to the sensations, lost herself to everything but Kit and the exquisite ecstasy of his kisses.

Restlessly she shifted her legs, thighs brushing against his thighs. She forgot where her mouth ended and his began as they tangled lips and tongues in an explosive coupling that threatened to blow the top off her head. She had wanted the earth to shift on its axis, and Lord above, it was shifting.

She cried out, reaching up to caress his jaw and smoothly shaven cheeks. Traveling farther, she plunged her fingers into his thick hair and pulled him closer.

He moaned and toppled her backward into the sea of plump sofa cushions at her back, following her down. Sliding his hand between their bodies, he cupped her breast, massaging her pliant female flesh. Her nipple tightened under his questing thumb.

A door slammed somewhere inside the house.

Kit stiffened against her and drew away, putting an abrupt end to their kiss.

She blinked in confused lassitude. “Kit?”

“Lesson’s over,” he said, his voice harsh and throaty as he sat up.

Lesson?
She had forgotten all about their kisses being a lesson.

“Sit up,” he ordered. “And tidy your hair.”

“Oh.” Deciding not to take offense at his brusque tone, she struggled upward out of the nest of pillows, then brushed her fingers through her curls. “Better?”

He cast her a hard look, then reached out and tugged a couple locks into place. “You’ll do. Thank God your hair is short. Otherwise…” He left the rest unsaid.

She reached toward him, but he jumped off the couch and began to pace. “That last…well, that went a bit further than I originally planned. My apologies, Eliza.”

Apologies? Was he already regretting what had passed between them, before their bodies even had a chance to cool?

“Kissing is like that sometimes,” he explained.

“Is it?” A sick sensation of dread twisted in her stomach.

“Yes. It’s easy to get carried away, to lose oneself in the moment.”

“I see.”

“Do you? I hope so, because there is no need for any awkwardness to exist between us in future. What we did amounted to no more than an exercise in human physicality. You wanted to know how to kiss and I showed you. Apart from that, it doesn’t mean a thing.”

Does it not?
she mused, sorrow crystallizing like ice shards in her blood. Maybe it meant nothing to him, but it had certainly meant something to her.

Kit folded his arms over his chest. “You were curious and now you needn’t be any longer. Though for your sake I suggest you not put your advanced knowledge to use anytime soon.”

Her jaw stiffened. “So you don’t think I ought to improve my technique this Season by letting interesting men lure me off behind the shrubbery?”

A fierce scowl ruffled his eyebrows. “Certainly not!”

“I don’t see why not. You do.”

“Do what?”

“Lead girls behind the shrubbery. I have seen you do so numerous times over the years, so I suppose that is where you come by your obvious experience in the seductive arts. Today’s lesson, I realize, was not the first you have ever given.”

His scowl grew more fearsome, if that was possible. “What I do, or do not do, with girls behind garden shrubs is none of your concern.”

She felt his rebuff like a slap. “No more than what I choose to do with gentlemen is any concern of yours.”

She glanced down, afraid of the anguish he might see in her eyes. “Well, thank you for a most enlightening instruction. There is a book I bought at Hatchard’s the other day that I have been longing to begin, so if we are through…”

His face grew shuttered. “Yes, we are through.”

She rose to her feet, smoothed her dress into place, then made for the door.

“Eliza?”

She stopped, her hand on the knob, her heart kicking into a faster rhythm. “Yes?”

“Just be careful, whatever you do. Don’t let yourself get hurt.”

“Pray do not fear,” she said in a breezy tone. “I am never anything less than careful.”

As for not getting hurt, his warning came far, far too late for that.

Chapter Twelve

Kit tossed back the last of the champagne inside his flute glass and watched Eliza whirl by in the arms of her latest dance partner.

When they’d arrived at the Lymondhams’ rout nearly two hours ago, she had been apprehensive.

What if I forget how to make small talk?
she had whispered to him in strangled tones as he assisted her from the ducal coach.

What if all the tips and techniques, everything you have taught me over the past weeks, flies straight out of my head?
she demanded of him as he had escorted her up the main staircase, Adrian and Violet in the lead.

What if
—a long, horrified pause—
no one asks me to dance and I begin this Season the way I began all the others—as a neglected wallflower?

But she need not have worried.

For one thing, she looked lovely—vibrant in a gown of rich rose satin that put color in her cheeks and brightened her eyes to a silvery shade that appeared anything but plain. Her dark curls bounced around her face in a pert come-hither, drawing more than one interested male glance.

The four of them had barely left the receiving line and their brief conversations with their hosts when a gentleman approached to solicit Eliza’s hand for the first dance. For a long moment, she had looked like a doe caught in a hunter’s sight. Flicking a nervous glance toward Kit, she had sought his support and his silent approval of the man—a perfectly respectable baronet’s son—which he gave with a barely perceptible nod. Only then did she find her voice and accept the offer with gracious alacrity.

The dance went well, though Kit played witness to a great deal of murmured speculation and any number of surprised stares in Eliza’s direction as he strolled casually around the ballroom. Many could barely reconcile her changed appearance, while others could whisper of nothing but the extent of Eliza’s increased fortune. Kit did his best to dismiss such comments, knowing people would talk regardless of anything he said or did.

At the conclusion of the set, the baronet’s son returned Eliza to Violet’s side and departed with a polite bow. Kit was wondering if he ought to seek out a fresh partner for her in case one didn’t turn up, when his friend, Lord Vickery, appeared at Eliza’s side and made her a bow.

Kit hurried forward to intercept the pair, reading the mischievous twinkle in the other man’s familiar gaze, having seen it more than a time or two across the card table. But it was too late, Vickery and Eliza were already strolling onto the dance floor.

A toast of the Ton and a wag with a cutting edge to his tongue, Vickery would shred Eliza for sure. Yet, less than a full minute into the dance, Vickery tossed his head back in great good humor, and not, Kit was relieved to see, at Eliza’s expense. Kit watched as Eliza slowly captivated his friend, Vickery returning with Eliza’s hand clasped over his arm as if the man did not wish to part with her.

She was being whisked away by yet another gentleman when Vickery stopped and slapped Kit on the shoulder. “I owe you a case of my best French champagne, old fellow.”

“Oh, what for?”

“For Miss Hammond, of course. I didn’t think it could be done, but you truly are a miracle worker. Not only has she turned pretty in ways I would never have imagined, but she is a delight. Told me some story about the duchess’s big dog that was as amusing as anything I have ever heard. The real Eliza Hammond has obviously been hiding, and you, clever boy, have found the key to set her free.”

Is that what I have done?
Kit mused.
Set Eliza free? Or has she done that for herself?

If she had changed since their lessons began, it was only because she had brought those qualities out of herself. Perhaps he had helped buoy her deflated confidence, beaten down by years of neglect, but it was her own depth of spirit that had helped her lead the way, allowing the woman inside to flourish and blossom like a radiant flower finally given sunshine and warmth.

He watched her swing by in yet another man’s arms, her face alive with merriment.

Deuced take it, he thought, when
had
Eliza turned so pretty? For that matter, when had she become so desirable?

Two days had passed since their interlude in the study and still he could not get their kisses out of his mind. Nor could he seem to rid himself of the taste and scent of her that lingered in his senses like a never-ending embrace. Her kisses may have been untutored at the start, but she had caught on to the game quickly enough. Caught on and joined in with an aptitude that made mockery of her quiet exterior.

Even now he could remember how warm and soft her lips had felt beneath his. How sleek and delicious the texture of her mouth and tongue. How his blood had beaten hot and strong, swimming in his head until he’d nearly lost all sense of propriety.

Though, to be perfectly honest, there had been nothing at all proper in what they had been doing. He should have refused her suggestion from the start. What madness had possessed him, agreeing to teach her how to kiss?

Kit reached for another glass of champagne, drank a long draught that bubbled over his tongue and eased the uncommon dryness from his throat.

Well, his and Eliza’s moment of mutual insanity was over, he thought, never to be repeated again. She was his friend—Violet’s friend, for God’s sake—more like a little sister really than a woman. Though he’d certainly never felt the urge to play a game of tonsil tennis with Violet, nor could his behavior toward Eliza be construed as anything remotely in the nature of a brotherly act.

But their lessons were finished now, leaving both of them free to continue on with their separate lives. Of course, he would keep a watchful eye open throughout the Season, always on the lookout for unscrupulous suitors—fortune hunters, rakes and rogues—to make sure Eliza came to no harm. But otherwise he felt confident she now possessed the necessary skills to pursue her own successful husband hunt.

So why did the knowledge lie like a greasy lump inside his belly?