Be curious about your surroundings.
Lady Ida’s Tips for the Adventurous Lady Traveler
“This room is for the young lady,” Mrs. Hastings said, opening the second door on the right-hand side.
Ida looked inside, almost unable to process what she was viewing as the tumult of emotions swirled inside her brain. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog of whatever it was she was feeling.
He’d held her hand. And she had held his.
Her skin tingled where they’d touched.
And he’d joked with her. In Latin. No wonder she was all tingly.
The room was small, but tidy, the bed in the center made up with a floral counterpane. There was a table beside the bed, a screen in the corner, and a chair in front of one of the two windows.
“It’s not much, but it’s quiet,” the innkeeper said. “I’ll send someone up to help you with your gown, since your own servant hasn’t arrived yet. Do you expect them tonight, my lord?” she said, twisting to look at Bennett.
“Likely not. I told them to find lodgings elsewhere if they could not get here by this evening.”
“Ah, then you’ll be needing my Mary’s help. She’s Eustace’s younger sister, and she’s been helping out in the inn.”
“That would be excellent. Thank you for thinking of it,” Ida replied. She drew a coin from her purse and began to hold it to the innkeeper, who waved it aside.
“You’ll pay me tomorrow morning for the food and rooms. You can save that for Mary, if she serves well enough. And you’ll let me know if she doesn’t.”
The innkeeper stepped back out into the hallway. “I’ll show you your room, my lord, and then wish you and your sister good-night. It’s just two doors away,” she continued, gesturing to a door on the opposite side. “If you need anything in the night.”
He would be leaving her. Alone.
“Good night, Ida,” Bennett said. He stepped forward and gazed down at her face, an intense expression on his face.
Dear lord.
“Good night,” she replied abruptly, shutting the door as she spoke.
She leaned against the door, her shoulders sagging. In fatigue? Relief?
Frustration?
For a moment, he’d looked at her as though he . . . appreciated her.
In a way she’d never been appreciated before.
In a way that looked as though he wanted to kiss her.
Ida had never been kissed. Obviously. Not only that, but she’d never even had the opportunity—she had yet to meet a gentleman she’d like to kiss, much less had one want to kiss her.
But she could imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like to have Lord Carson kiss her.
To have all that sleek handsomeness focused on her, on her mouth, on her reactions to what their lips were doing.
She hadn’t been kissed, but she did know the mechanics of it all. She’d taken a peek at some naughty books her older sister Eleanor had in her possession, and had done some further research when Eleanor had turned bright red and refused to explain.
So she knew technically what it entailed, but she knew full well that knowing something and experiencing something were two entirely different things.
For example, one could describe the deliciousness of strawberry shortcake covered with freshly whipped cream, but one couldn’t understand just how delicious it was until one had tasted it.
Lord Carson wasn’t precisely strawberry shortcake. But Ida had the worrisome thought that kissing him would be altogether far more enjoyable.
Shortcake left crumbs, and there was never the correct balance between cake, fruit, and cream.
Lord Carson would likely know how to achieve the best balance in kissing. And there’d be no crumbs.
She jumped as there was a knock on the door. She turned to open it, hoping she wasn’t blushing.
It was him. Of course it was him. Lord Shortcake.
“Oh,” Ida said in what she hoped sounded like a surprised voice. “I thought it would be the girl come to help me with my gown.”
“I wanted to—look, might I come in for a moment?” he said, glancing down the hallway. “Just for a moment,” he repeated as she held the door open wider for him to step inside.
“Of course.” She closed the door. And then they were alone. Again. In the room that was technically, for this evening at least, her bedroom.
Nothing she had ever read could have prepared her for how much she felt. She felt everything at this moment, so keenly alive and aware of the distance between them, how his eyes were focused on her, how much she longed to launch herself into his arms.
No launching, Ida, she admonished herself.
He leaned against the door, similar to her own position just moments before. “I just wanted to ask if you have everything you need to be comfortable.” He frowned in thought. “You don’t have any clothing with you, do you? What will you sleep in?”
Ida felt her cheeks heat. A gentleman was inquiring about her nightclothes.
Somehow, that felt more shocking than stealing a carriage and running away in search of an errant sister.
So much for her personal perspective.
“I’ll just—” she began, and gestured toward her body.
“We’ll buy clothing tomorrow. And not library clothing either,” he said with a grin.
She tried to laugh—she did find him humorous—but her mind was too engrossed in the current situation to actually emit any kind of chuckle at all.
Because she wanted, quite desperately, to kiss him.
Well. There it was.
And so here she was. And he was right there, so why shouldn’t she?
Ida’s first thought should have been, What am I doing?
But it wasn’t.
It should also have been the second, third, and fourth.
But it wasn’t.
Why haven’t I done this before? was what went through her mind as her mouth found his.
Dear lord, so this was kissing. She relished the warmth of his lips, of how it felt as though they were connected, not just there, but everywhere, as though sparks were traveling between them and they were enclosed in their own Faraday cage.
You’re thinking too much, a voice admonished inside her head. Feel.
And so she did, pushing everything away but how it felt, how her body seemed to be melting, leaning toward him, her very skin tingling with awareness.
And then he moved his mouth, opened his lips, and his tongue licked her, slid along the seam of her mouth, and she gasped, opening her lips as she did.
At which point his tongue went inside her mouth.
She knew that was how kissing worked, but she hadn’t expected it to be so—so fraught with feeling.
It felt as though she were a normal female, not Ida the Judgmental and Prickly Hedgehog. An apt description, if she were being honest with herself.
But now it felt as though she were a woman who could engage in this kind of activity without having it be something she was ashamed or embarrassed about.
Or something that anyone else was ashamed and embarrassed to do with her, either.
Dear god, don’t let him be ashamed.
But she could tell it wasn’t shame he was feeling as his tongue explored her mouth, tangled with her tongue, his breathing coming harsh and ragged on her face. It was an entirely different emotion.
His hand was on her arm, sliding up to grip her shoulder, moving so his palm was at the back of her head and he was pressing her closer, even though they were already connected at the mouth, and how much farther could she possibly go?
Without ending up on his lap, that is.
Did he want her on his lap?
But we’re standing, she reminded herself.
Thinking too much still, Ida, that voice reminded her.
Right. Keep kissing, stop thinking.
And then it was impossible to think as he intensified the kiss, even though she wasn’t certain how. Just that everything was more intense—it felt as though there were colors exploding inside her head, and her whole body felt languorous and at the same time as though she wanted to jump out of her skin.
She heard a noise, and realized it was she, and it was a moan. She was moaning, and now the hand not cupping her head was at her neck, fingers sliding over bare skin. She wanted to arch into his hand, place her body in his care, curl inside him and forget about thinking ever again.
It felt wonderful to be kissed. And to kiss. She found herself mirroring his action, brushing her tongue against his, wanting to make him react as strongly as she had.
“Nggh,” he said, removing his lips even though his hands were still on her. He leaned his forehead against hers, breathing heavily.
I did this, Ida thought in triumph. I rendered him inarticulate.
Before remembering that he was an unwanted encumbrance on her journey, him and his sleek handsomeness, his responsibility apparently extending to making sure she was safe, even though she’d told him she would be fine.
Although she had to admit that was thoughtful of him.
“Ida, you—” he began, then shook his head. He removed first one hand, then the other, and Ida wanted to beg him to put them back. To kiss her some more.
Did she really just think that?
Yes. She couldn’t deny the truth of what she wanted, even though she was entirely conflicted and had just made an irrational choice, which wasn’t something she ever thought she’d do.
First time kissing someone. First time being irrational.
“Well,” she said, stepping back from him, “that was educational.”
She heard his intake of breath, and wondered if she had said the wrong thing. All of her studying had not mentioned the correct thing to say after someone had put his tongue inside her mouth, and vice versa.
Perhaps she could make a study of that. Although she didn’t want to kiss any other gentlemen to have a control. That should alarm her, but she was too unsettled to be alarmed.
“Educational?” he echoed, sounding displeased.
Apparently educational was not to be on the list of post-kissing descriptors. Somehow his displeasure pleased her, which was another entirely irrational thing.
But if saying it made her less vulnerable, less prone to wanting to start it all over again—which she knew she shouldn’t, this was Lord Carson, after all, the gentleman who desired a soft, welcoming respite at the end of the day, of all things.
Definitely nothing close to Ida.
“Precisely.” She spoke in as sprightly a tone as she could manage, although it still sounded rather breathless.
“Hedgehog,” he said in an amused tone. As though he knew what she was doing.
Not only not dull, but intelligent and incisive to boot.
Drat.
“Thank you for that educational interlude, Lady Ida,” he continued. “There remains nothing more but to wish you good-night. Again.”
She froze for a moment, then nodded in agreement. “Good night,” she murmured.
She would not be discomfited by him, no matter how nonplussed, and yes, discomfited she was.
One kiss had rendered her oxymoronic.
She could not let it happen again. Even though she had been the one to instigate it in the first place.
Bennett walked slowly down the hall to his own room.
Had what just happened just . . . happen?
He rubbed his hand over his face, still feeling the imprint of her mouth on his lips. Her hand clutching his arm.
He glanced around the hallway, relieved nobody was there to witness his obvious befuddlement. And his erection.
He pushed the door open, taking a deep breath as he did so.
His room was similar to Ida’s, with what appeared to be a large, comfortable bed, a chair, one window instead of two, and a desk. Mrs. Hastings had set a candle on the bedside table. The room was lit with a flickering glow that made it look very homey, and suddenly Bennett realized just how tired he was.
And how much he wanted to return to her room and continue what they’d started. Not finish it, he wouldn’t risk that situation, knowing she wouldn’t want that herself.
But if he could just touch her. Caress her skin, and kiss her mouth, and make her make those low humming noises he’d heard from her when they kissed.
The reality of it brought him up short. Lady Ida. Lady Ida the Prickly Hedgehog had kissed him. She’d begun it, and she’d seemed to truly enjoy it. Lady Ida. And him.
“You are ridiculous,” he muttered to himself as he drew his shirt over his head. He ran his hand absentmindedly across his chest, then paused as yet another thought that did not belong in his usually practical brain appeared—what if it were her touching his chest? Sliding her fingers over his stomach, through the hair on his upper body, down to there?
His cock throbbed at the thought.
No. He couldn’t think about that. It wasn’t right. No matter how enthusiastic his cock was at the idea.
He folded his shirt and put it on the chair, then took his boots and trousers off so he was just in his smallclothes.
He hadn’t planned on taking this trip, so of course he didn’t have anything to sleep in. Like her. Was she sleeping in her chemise? Just a thin scrap of fabric over her body?
Or wearing nothing at all.
Stop thinking, Bennett, he thought as he got into bed.
He closed his eyes firmly, placing his arms on top of the covers and willing himself to think of anything but her.
Bills for equipment, the average life cycle of barley, the correct spelling of “clandestine.”
There. That should do it.
And if he ended up staying awake all night in a torment of suspended sexual frustration, well then, he would be so exhausted he wouldn’t be able to muster any kinds of thoughts at all—either salacious or appropriate.
Wonderful. Frustration or fatigue, with the distinct possibility that it would likely be both.
“Good morning,” he called out as he reached the bottom floor, relieved to see her already sitting downstairs.
He’d wondered if she would try to leave without him, but short of sitting outside her door all evening—which would provide its own different temptation—he couldn’t control that.
“Good morning,” she replied in that low voice of hers, one he couldn’t help imagining saying dangerous things close in his ear. “Did you sleep well?”
No, I lay awake trying not to pleasure myself as I thought of you.
He’d finally managed to drift off around three o’clock, only to wake up a few hours later as the other guests in the inn started stirring.
They were back downstairs in the public area, a few other people staring blearily at the wooden tables at which they were seated. They looked as bad as he felt.
“Absolutely,” he lied. “And you?”
She lifted her chin as though daring him to refute her. “Yes, wonderfully.”
She had to have spent at least some of the night thinking about it, even if it was only weighing its educational value.
“I’m surprised to see you this morning,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
Her expression shifted into that prickly defensive one that seemed to be her default. “Why?”
“I thought you might have tried to leave without me.”
She swallowed, and glanced away. Aha! She had thought about it, at least.
“Why didn’t you?” he continued.
Then she did look at him. “Well, I did consider it, of course. You knew I would. But your reasoning makes sense, and I judged it better to run the risk of utter scandalous ruin by traveling with you rather than run the risk of utter scandalous ruin by traveling on my own. With whatever dangers there are out there.”
He felt himself exhale in relief. “Thank goodness. You are not as stubborn as it first seemed.”
“I am too!” she said, making him burst into laughter.
She hesitated, and then she started to laugh too. “Oh, I’ve just proven . . . something,” she said, smiling.
“Now that that is settled, we’ll need to discuss the terms of the journey,” he began. “We were fortunate this time to secure two rooms. But as we proceed, if I believe that it would be safer for us to share a room during our journey, we will. And I will also say that you cannot argue the point if I make that judgment. You have to trust me.”
“I think I do,” she said in a wondering tone. “I trust so few people, it’s remarkable.”
He was struck by the sincerity in her tone.
“I am delighted that you do trust me, although I’m not certain I’ve earned that trust. All I’ve done is not marry your sisters. Hardly something worth trusting another person for.”
“If not marrying my sisters were something to trust a person over, that would mean I would only distrust two gentlemen in the world.” She lifted her gaze to him, and he was caught by the intensity of her expression. “And I have to say, I do trust those gentlemen. As I do you.”
“That is settled, then,” he replied, feeling the warmth of her words—her trust—wash over him.
“What’ll you have this morning?” Mrs. Hastings said as she approached the table. “We’ve got tea, oatmeal, eggs, and toast. Nothing else.”
“Tea and oatmeal, please,” Ida said. “With lemon, if you have it.”
“Tea and eggs.”
Mrs. Hastings placed napkins and cutlery on the table.
“So,” she began, after Mrs. Hastings had bustled away. “About last night.” And then she turned bright red, but he couldn’t laugh at her, not with her feeling so clearly vulnerable.
“So . . . ?” he said.
He could practically see her brain clicking and whirring as she processed her thoughts. He liked watching her think.
“Are you all right?” he asked, unable to resist poking his hedgehog.
Wait, not his. The hedgehog with whom he happened to be keeping company. And kissing.
“I am fine, thank you,” she replied stiffly. “We cannot—that is, I do not—” She faltered.
He stretched his hand out to place it on top of hers. She looked at him then, her eyes wide, her expression almost confused.
The confused hedgehog. Not quite as prickly, but just as adorable.
He did not think she would appreciate the adjective.
“Do not what? If you wish to apologize for kissing me, that is fine, but no apology is necessary. I quite enjoyed it,” he said, winking at her for good measure.
Her cheeks flushed red, and her eyes sparkled with a militant light. There you are, Ida, he thought. There’s my girl.
“I was not going to apologize,” she sputtered, and then he almost laughed aloud, although he knew she would likely storm off, and that would be awkward, since he would have no choice but to chase after her. “I was going to say,” she continued exaggeratedly, “that I will understand if I have made you uncomfortable.”
“In other words, you want to apologize,” he said. Wicked, he knew, but he just couldn’t resist teasing her.
“I—well, I—I suppose, yes. I am sorry.” Her tone was sincere, and he squeezed her hand in response.
“There is no need. I am not uncomfortable. It was a kiss. You were curious about what it would be like to kiss me, I presume.” He shrugged, looking at her from out of the corners of his eyes. “And now you know, so we may proceed.”
He smothered a smile as he heard her mutter some sort of disgruntled noise, then withdrew his hand and glanced around the room, pointedly not looking at her. This was definitely the most fun he’d ever had.
And it had only been one kiss.
What would it feel like if there were more?