Will you kiss me? The moment the words left her mouth, he knew he’d been thinking about just that very thing since taking her onto the terrace.
And he wanted the kiss for his own, entirely selfish reasons. Not to convince her he was sincere in his attention, not to own a situation he was very much not in control of, not even to avoid speaking for a moment, so he could stop feeling so befuddled, but just because he wanted to kiss her.
“Yes, Lady Charlotte, I think I will.” He’d never anticipated a kiss so much before. Usually, it was a foregone conclusion that there would be kissing, followed by other activities. The kissing was just a prelude, a precursor to the rest.
As he stared down into her warm-brown eyes, he knew he wanted to savor every moment of this kiss. With her. Out on this terrace, possibly in full view of all of London Society.
His hand was on her waist, and he tugged her closer, so close that the skirts of her abominable gown tangled up with his legs. He could sense the warmth emanating from her body, luring him in with its promise of closeness, of belonging, of unity.
Slowly, Marchston, slowly, he warned himself.
This close, all he could see was her face. A face he was beginning to think was beautiful, albeit in its own way. Her skin was porcelain-fair, a faint blush staining her cheeks. Of course she’d be blushing now; judging by how her breathing was growing faster, he didn’t think she had ever been kissed.
He was going to make it a memorable first kiss. She deserved that much.
He lowered his mouth to hers, feeling his eyes close as his lips met hers. Soft, so soft. His fingers splayed at her waist, holding her still for him. Not that she was struggling to get away; in fact, she’d slid her hand up to his neck and her fingers were coiled in the hair at his collar, as though anchoring him to her.
He pressed his lips, still closed, to her tender, luscious mouth. Particular parts of his body responded to being this close to her, and he was momentarily grateful others were nearby, because he wasn’t sure he could deny what his body wanted if they were truly alone.
Only momentarily grateful only, though. He wished they were alone, so he could lavish all the attention on her he wanted to give—to show her what a long, slow, meaningful kiss could be, to run his hands over her body, finally to see her unencumbered by her dreadful wardrobe.
Her shawl and gloves were only the beginning of what he wanted to remove.
She sighed into the kiss, and he felt her body melt into his, her breasts pressed into his chest.
He licked at the seam of her lips, and she opened her mouth for him. He didn’t think she knew she had his hair in a tight grip, keeping his mouth close against hers, making sure his body was as close to hers as possible. He knew she wasn’t thinking about how anyone could walk onto the terrace and see them, pressed close in an obvious embrace.
He teased her tongue with his, sending a jolt of lust straight to his groin. If he could get this aroused with only a kiss—dear Lord.
She made a sound, deep and low in her throat, and his body reacted immediately.
His body was quite responsive, it seemed. To her, at least.
But since the point of the kiss was not to lead to other activities, he had to do something before his body took over for his head. Plunging both of them into immediate scandal was definitely the opposite of what he should be doing.
He gave her one last kiss and drew away, every part of him—save for what sense remained in his head—clamoring that this was totally the wrong decision.
His head, thank goodness, won out. For now, at least.
And almost lost when he saw the dazed, sensual look in her eyes.
She blinked and stared up at him, her mouth moist and open from his kiss. From their kiss, because she had participated nearly as much as he had.
Already he wanted to dip his head low again and take her mouth, to delve and explore her soft wetness.
Everywhere.
“That was … lovely,” she said, her mouth curving up into a sly grin at the last word. “My first kiss. How perfect it was with you.”
He disentangled his hand from hers and tried to slow his breathing. “Why perfect with me? Not that I’m arguing, of course; any man likes a lady’s first kiss to be with him, and to be perfect.”
She poked him in the chest with her index finger. “Because you are you, and you are perfect, and it was a lovely, lovely kiss.”
Her reasoning escaped him, but he was grateful she seemed to enjoy it as much as he had.
And he was very aware that he wanted to kiss her again. Frequently.
***
Goodness. If that was how kissing felt, it was a wonder that married couples ever even made it out of their houses for an evening. Although it could be because the kissing was with him. She still trembled from it, wanted more, even though she wasn’t quite certain what “more” was. Just that she wanted it.
And judging by the expression on his face, and how he had moved closer to her, and put his hand at the small of her back as though to hold her tight against him—well, it would be false modesty to pretend he hadn’t wanted it as well.
She was exceedingly glad she had opened her mouth, once again, and said what she wanted to rather than what she was supposed to.
She didn’t think anyone had seen them, out on the terrace, although it wouldn’t have been horrible if someone had. Anyone who looked as he did could get away with more than what other, normal-looking gentlemen could. And she would be elevated in people’s eyes as well, even as she was plunged into scandal.
She’d already seen how people reacted to him, giving him an extra glance as he wended his way through a crowd, or spoke, or made a request.
She was the same as them, though, wasn’t she? Now that was a lowering thought.
“Is kissing always like that?”
He looked beyond her as he considered. Good, she thought, it isn’t always like that. If it were, he would just quickly say yes, and that would be that.
“It depends.” Which was one of the worst answers she’d ever gotten, since she had no idea what it depended on or if it meant the depending made it better or worse.
“Depends on what?” She plucked her gloves from his pocket, where he’d stuck them prior to kissing her—a very prepared gentleman, he was—and began to put one back on.
He frowned as he watched the motion of the glove sliding up her skin.
“Depends on the moment, and the person—or people, as kissing isn’t a solitary exercise—and the emotions.”
Charlotte pondered that. She moved past him to retrieve her shawl from the wall, but draped it over her arm. She didn’t want to startle him unduly. “Hm. So the next time we kiss, if there is a next time, it might feel different?” That sounded fun. Like an adventure where you weren’t quite sure what would happen next.
He smiled. Whether at her, or in anticipation of their next kiss, or something else entirely, she didn’t know. “It will happen. And it will feel different. I promise.” His voice held a thrillingly dark tone, an underlying sensual promise that even she, naïve as she was, understood.
“Good. I very much look forward to it, then.” She couldn’t resist. She rose up on her tiptoes and touched her lips to his in the barest of kisses. She felt the motion of his hand as he reached for her, but by the time he’d moved, she was back down on solid ground again. His face wore an expression of disappointment, which pleased her almost as much as the kiss had.
“Would you care to take a drive with me tomorrow, Lady Charlotte? My brother loaned me his phaeton, only I haven’t driven one since leaving here.”
She nodded. “I should be nervous, I know, but somehow that makes it all the more thrilling—doing something you haven’t done for a long while, as well.”
Apparently she’d said something without meaning to, because the look in his eye turned dark and predatory. Just as it had the last time she’d mentioned riding.
And she liked it.
“Yes, it should be an adventure,” he said in a low voice. Then he seemed to give himself a shake, adding in his normal tone, “Perhaps I can answer more of your questions.”
“Since you haven’t answered any of them yet,” she found herself pointing out.
“Precisely,” he said with a laugh, glancing around them. A few couples had found their way to the terrace also and were engaged in their own various conversations. “We should return to the ballroom. Your mother will be wondering where you are.”
Probably not, Charlotte thought, unless she was hoping to get her into a conversation with Mr. Goddard, just to make sure someone married her daughter.
Meanwhile, Charlotte was just wondering when David would just kiss her again.
***
It was remarkable how just a minute or two of someone’s lifetime could be played over and over again in your mind.
Thankfully her mother hadn’t noticed her absence, nor had she noticed the way Charlotte kept touching her mouth—just there; he’d kissed her there—nor that many eligible gentlemen had asked her to dance, many more than usual.
It was remarkable, as well, how being the object of interest of someone so stunning resulted in others finding you interesting as well.
But nobody told her she wasn’t ugly, nor did they ask why she was wearing what she was or pointing out just how blunt she was. They did ask if she was enjoying the evening, and the music, and the refreshments, and on that latter question, Charlotte had to admit that, no, she did not particularly enjoy the refreshments. The hosts had recently imported a French chef, straight from Paris, and apparently his genius was such that every item of food had to be a tiny morsel, adorned with wispy fronds of herbs or some such. So you didn’t really get to taste the item, it was too small, but there was a high likelihood of having a wispy frond stuck in your teeth.
And even as she was discussing all of these scintillating topics, her mind kept track of exactly where he was, and what he had said, and how it had felt.
He was dancing with Lady Anne at the moment, and Charlotte felt proud of herself that she was not at all jealous, even though Anne had taken her advice—her fashion advice, no less—and worn a more advantageous color that better complemented her hair.
“Lady Charlotte,” said a voice that came from just behind her, “may I have this dance?”
Drat. Mr. Goddard, in all his width and widowerhood. Not that she begrudged him having those things, but she wished he would go have them with someone else.
“Certainly, Mr. Goddard,” she said, hearing her mother’s sigh of satisfaction behind her. At least she was fooling her mother thus far.
It was a country dance, thankfully, which meant there wasn’t a lot of opportunity for conversation. The steps were easy to do, but there were a lot of them, and Charlotte found she had to glance at the floor to get her bearing.
He was a good dancer, she had to give him that. Every time she met his gaze, there he was, smiling at her.
If she squinted, she might almost say his expression was pleasant.
But squinting gave her a headache. And she knew why he was smiling.
And she found herself smiling, too, but for entirely different reasons. That kiss. With him. She was being entirely shallow, but if she had to be shallow over someone, she thought it might as well be the best-looking man she’d ever seen in her entire life.
Or would see.
Drat. That meant that whomever she really did end up with—if she got an offer at all, that is, besides Mr. Widower—would never compare. Looks-wise, at least. Had her first kiss already been the peak of her romantic experience?
And how would her future unknown husband react when she told him it was a fine kiss, but it wasn’t quite as wonderful as the first one she’d had out on a terrace in the middle of a ball?
Well. If she told him that before he proposed, that would likely dissuade him.
A potential strategy, in fact. A man could marry for a fortune with no cost to his reputation, but let it be known his wife found another man more attractive, and a better kisser—well, she knew that would be too much to bear.
“Mr. Goddard,” she said, when the steps allowed, “what would be the worst thing a lady could say to you?”
He stumbled; likely he was not expecting that question. He was probably hoping for her to say something along the lines of “Wasn’t the room warm?” or “Goodness, how many people are here this evening.” Which would be two ways of saying the same thing, after all.
He frowned, and they separated for a few steps.
“I cannot answer that, Lady Charlotte, since anything so unpleasant would not be appropriate for a lady’s ears.” He sounded like he was delivering a lecture.
And she did not like being lectured. She got enough of that at home.
“But is there a worst thing a lady could say to you?” Because if there was, chances were—given her blunt speaking—that she would hit upon it eventually. A bright spot to being so outspoken?
“I suppose.” He clearly did not wish to answer. His mouth had tightened into an annoyed line, and he wasn’t meeting her gaze any longer.
Ha! Maybe just the act of asking was enough to dissuade someone.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” She offered him a wide smile, with just a touch of vacuousness in her eyes so he wouldn’t suspect she was up to something.
At last the music stopped, and he bowed, and they stood together in silence.
“Lady Charlotte,” he began to say, just as she spoke.
“Mr. Goddard.”
“You first, my lady.”
Drat for a third time. She’d entirely forgotten what she had been about to say. If she said anything like what was really on her mind, such as, “Don’t try to marry me just because you want my money,” he would tell her mother. If not everyone else in Society.
She couldn’t do that to her family, so she was going to have to find some other stratagem for dissuasion. “I was just going to say that I have quite a fondness for parrots.”
“Parrots?” He sounded as surprised as she was. Where did parrots come from?
“Yes,” she said firmly, feeling more in control of the subject. “Parrots. You see, when I was young, I read all the pirate stories I could. And pirates always had parrots. Ever since then, I have adored parrots. They have the most wonderful plumage, you know.”
He blinked slowly. At least he wasn’t lecturing her.
“My dear Lady Charlotte, parrots are a useful obsession.” He paused as she absorbed his comment. “And,” he said, casting a quick glance at her gown, “I can see how your obsession has affected your own choices.”
She would have laughed if Lord David had made the same observation, but it wasn’t humorous coming from Mr. Goddard.
“Yes, well, I am wondering if you have thought about a parrot’s diet. They eat seeds, fruits, nuts; things of that nature. I am considering going on an all-parrot diet, just to see what it would be like.”
Now he wasn’t even blinking. Just staring.
Good.
“Is that what young ladies are doing to reduce these days?” Again, that quick glance down at her figure. He did not just imply that she was … Did he? “It is admirable that you would wish to adopt a parrot’s way of eating for that.”
He did imply it. If she hadn’t been close to disliking him already, this would take him over the top in her esteem. Or under the bottom, depending on how she was measuring the esteem in question.
In either case, she didn’t like him.
And she definitely did not wish to be courted by him, much less to marry him.
She’d rather marry a parrot. Then, at least, she could compliment her partner on his garb and not be hypocritical.