“Ah. I see.”
“And what am I supposed to say about kissing? Tell me, Lady Emma, what could I say that would not shock theton? That it’s the first thing a fellow should do? That it is actually quite essential to knowing which lady is right?”
“Hm.”
He grabbed another blade, sent it flying. “Hmdoes not help. Quite vague,” he grumbled.
“I was ruminating. About the kissing. You are correct that you could not openly promote such behavior. You could have simply said nothing.” Her turn to pick up a blade, balancing it on her palm. Not as heavy as she’d thought it would be. “But more than that, I’m curious about how crucial kissing is to a match. I myself have never suggested a kiss for determining compatibility before.”
“Why are we always talking about kissing?” he mumbled. Then he sighed and said louder, “A point of agreement between us. What do you suggest, then?”
“Conversation. Particularly of subjects the couple disagrees on. If they can maneuver through a bramble patch successfully, there is much hope for their future.” She wrapped her hand around the knife’s hilt.
“Makes sense.” He stepped closer. “You’re holding it wrong. May I?”
She nodded.
And he grasped her wrist with one hand, the knife with the other. Thank God for her gloves. She’d been skin to skin with him before, and it had been a dream, a warmth of heaven running through her blood that she was supposed to forget.
“Thumb on the hilt like this,” he said, moving that digit away from her fingertips and settling it onto the soft wood. “Excellent. Would you like to throw?”
“We-we’re not finished talking about Lady Felicity.”
“Perhaps we are. Perhaps we need time to consider the matter of kissing and the right woman. And knowing.” Each word brought him closer to her until his arm wrapped around her shoulder while his opposite hand still gently grasped her wrist. He guided her to stand centered with the tree trunk at the end of the room.
Think aboutkissingandknowingwith his arm around her, with the lean muscles bunched and taut and steadying? With his breath on her neck and his voice so low in her ear, she could think of nothing else. Yes, she could do that.
But it had nothing to do with Lady Felicity.
Chapter Eight
Samuel didn’t take risks. A man like him had little room for error.
But he would teach the matchmaker how to throw a knife, by God, no matter the dangers it posed.
And it did pose dangers, as thick in the air as the cinnamon scent of her. Because she didn’t laugh at him when he talked about his Guide. She didn’t stare at him as if he were mad. And even though he likely was, her calm questions, her reassurances he at least had some of it right, made him feel a bit less lost.
Dangerous, too, because their conversations seemed to always come back to kissing. And when it did, he could think of nothing but their meeting in the garden, the softness of her lips, the warmth of her breath.
Hell. Touching her was like walking into the Seven Dials—not safe in the least. He’d be hurt. But damn, he wanted her to know how to wield a knife as well as his sisters could. Better him hurt than her.
“Gloves,” he said, voice husky, giving him away.
She stepped away from his arm, gently removing her wrist from his hold and encircling it with her own fingers. “Pardon?”
He stole her wrist once more, lifted it between them, and ran his thumb along the hem. More flowers embroidered there in the cream color of her glove—a secret hidden for someone close enough to touch her to discover. He was close enough, but he’d discovered it before then, somehow seeing what was hidden about her as well as he saw the armor she wore for the world. “These. Your gloves. Pretty.”
“I”—she cleared her throat—“I embroider them myself.”
“Do you?” He circled the center of a bloom with his thumb. “Extraordinary. Why don’t you use contrasting colors? So others can see and marvel at your talent.”
“I do not do it for others. My mother was better with a needle than I, and she used to put little flowers hidden along the seams and hems of my clothing. When I found them…” She shook her head, tried to steal her wrist back, but he held tight with just enough pressure she could not break free without causing a scene. “This conversation serves no purpose.”
“When you found them, what? Did it delight you?” As it did him.
She looked away, and he took the knife from her, replaced it in the box, then traced his fingertips up and over her knuckles to tug on the fingertips of her gloves, loosening them. He revealed her wrist first. It was not delicate. Why would it be? Her hands would possess the strength and dexterity of a seamstress. But freckles scattered across it, constellations across creamy skin he’d never have the bliss of tracing, of kissing. They extended across her hand, too, he saw as he tugged the glove free. Then the other. He placed them on the table next to his knife case, then he handed her a blade smaller than the one she’d held before.
She wrapped her hand around it. Strong fingers, capable, perfect. He should have known he preferred this type. More beauty in strength and daring than in delicacy.
