A KISS FROM A MARQUIS

“Trust me. I will not harm you, or worsen our situation.” Con stilled, praying Charlotte would go with him.

“Very well.” Once again, she seemed as if she was working out her path as she spoke.

He threaded their way through the crowd to the French windows closest to them. Turning right, they walked to the end of the terrace, and there, in the shadows where no one could see them, he placed his hands on her small waist. “I want to kiss you. Like we did before.”

She would not know that it had been years since he’d experienced such an innocent kiss, and the innocence had been on his part.

Charlotte stared at him for a moment, as if she would discover something she didn’t know. “Yes.”

He lowered his head, and their lips touched. He moved his mouth over hers, waiting for her to return the caress, then she placed her hands on his cheeks, raised up, and kissed him back. The purity in her touch almost brought him to his knees.

“Thank you.” Con touched his forehead to hers.

Even in the dark, he could see her blush. “You’re welcome.”

He brushed his mouth across hers again. “We should go back now.”

Charlotte hadn’t known what to expect, but it was not a kiss as sweet as Kenilworth’s. Once, she had seen Merton kiss Dotty. That kiss had been demanding and full of passion. If Kenilworth had attempted anything like that, Charlotte would have hit him and run. Yet now, now that she had felt his lips on hers again and his hands tightening around her waist, she almost looked forward to the other type of kiss . . .