“Oh, they’ve all worked so hard, I sent them to bed. Besides”—she picked up a candle and twirled around, holding it high—“I’m too happy and excited to sleep. I don’t want this lovely, lovely night to end.”
He could see that.
She cupped her hand behind the candle flame and blew, snuffing it out. She put it down and gave him a curious look. “You’re very quiet. I thought you’d be angry with us.”
“I am.” He took a step toward her
“Yes, but I expected you to be furious.”
“I am furious,” he said softly, and moved a little closer.
She laughed. “You’re not furious. I know how you look when you’re furious.”
A light breeze sprang up outside, bringing through the open door the scent of moist spring-damp earth and dewy flowers, stirring the air in the summerhouse, which was tinged with the smell of stale alcohol and recently snuffed candles. The remaining candle flames flickered, sending their shadows dancing. Leo raised a brow. “Oh? How do I look when I’m furious?”
She tilted her head, considering. “Well, your eyes go all hard and slaty. And when you’re really angry they practically throw sparks.”
“Sparks?”
“Sparks,” she affirmed. “And sometimes you get a little tic just here.” She reached up and touched a spot on his jaw. He jumped.
“But only when you’re trying to hide how angry you are,” she continued. “Sometimes you get these little white lines here”—a soft finger stroked a line out from the side of his nose—“and here.” She stroked the other side.
He couldn’t move. He could barely think.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “And then there’s your lips,” she murmured.
“What about my lips?” he managed to say. His voice sounded hoarse.
“When you’re cross, they almost disappear. You squish them together sooo hard.” She shook her head sadly. “You shouldn’t treat them like that. They’re quite nice lips, when they’re not being squished into hard lines.”
Leo swallowed convulsively. She had been drinking champagne, he reminded himself. For the first time. She was unused to its effect.
“But the biggest giveaway...” Her eyes danced with mischief.
They were talking about his anger, he recalled with an effort. He waited.
“The biggest giveaway, Lord Salcott, is that when you’re angry, your dimple totally disappears. But a few minutes ago your dimple”—she stroked a line down his cheek—“the one you claim doesn’t exist, came out to play.”
“Did it?” he breathed. Her hand now rested lightly on his chest. She was so close he could smell her: roses and vanilla and warm, enticing woman. He moved one step closer and now their bodies were touching, only just brushing, but he was achingly aware of every breath that she took. As for himself, he wasn’t sure whether he was breathing or not. Nor did he care.
She made no attempt to move away from him, made no attempt to remove her hand from his chest. It was barely a touch, yet he felt it clear to his bones. The mischief had vanished from her eyes. In the soft candlelight they were no longer emerald but luminous pools of darkness.
He cupped her chin in one hand. Her skin was like silk; her gaze didn’t waver. Slowly he stroked his thumb over her full lower lip, warm and satin soft. Her breath hitched and she swayed toward him.
Leo couldn’t help himself. He bent and kissed her, softly at first, a bare brush of skin against skin, a delicate invitation that took all his self-control to keep light. He felt a tremor pass through her, but she made no move to step away.
He kissed her again, still keeping it soft and light, though his body was shaking with the effort of restraint. She leaned into him, slipping her hands up over his chest. She found the opening of his shirt—he’d forgotten he’d come out here without coat or neckcloth—and slipped two fingers inside to touch his skin. Hot shivers ripped through him. His body hardened.
He deepened the kiss. Her lips quivered, then parted to receive him. She wrapped her hands around his neck and pulled him closer, melting against him, angling her mouth to fit him as she kissed him back. She was all heat and softness and sweet, luscious acceptance. Fire licked through him.
He wrapped her hard against him, deepening the kiss, lost to the moment, inflamed by the taste of her, her soft responsive body signaling a welcome and sparking a craving deep within him that he’d never before experienced. Or even dreamed was possible.
She pressed herself against him, arching her body like a sinuous little cat, moving restlessly as she slid her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer. Small hums of pleasure escaped her from time to time. They made him feel ten feet tall.
She ran her palms down his body, returning to the opening of his shirt, over the hard muscles of his chest and then up the column of his throat, caressing, exploring, making him harder with every touch. And all the time kissing him, her mouth warm, sweet and generous.
Her fingers stroked along his jawline. They were cool against his suddenly heated skin. He hadn’t shaved since morning, but she didn’t seem to mind the roughness. Quite the contrary. She stroked her thumbs back and forth along his jaw, as if enjoying the friction.
