Page 29 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
He leaned lower over her, his arm a steel support against her lower back. No man had touched her there, and the newness of the embrace ignited sparks along that reach of skin and bone he’d claimed. The sparks climbed higher, igniting every inch of her and turning her lungs to ash, making her heart beat the rhythm of a racing horse. Her lungs came back to heady life, though, resurrected with an inhalation of nighttime wafting off Lord Lysander’s skin. He smelled of night, yes, but of sweat and wine as well. He smelled… good, the type of good that gave rise to another word—more.
But more of what?
His arm tightened, pulling her closer as he dipped his head, and soon her belly pressed up against his. Hard, so very hard where she was soft. So surprising. But that shock dissipated in the eventuality of his lips, drawing ever closer to her, the charming rogue decimated from his gaze, the determined scoundrel alone left there. That scoundrel focused more than she’d seen him all night, and on her.
But why? A jeweler’s daughter and forger, the bane of his existence, yes?
His nose almost touched her own, and he inhaled, pulling in a deep breath on which he shuttered his eyes. He meant to close the scant remaining distance between them. And kiss her. And her stomach tumbled over itself, her hands knew not what to do, that space at her back where his arms held her to him screamed for things she did not understand, and inexplicably, her breasts tingled, tightened, and she panicked.
She snapped her head to the side between one breath and the next, and the kiss that should have been stopped, his lips oh-so-lightly brushing her cheek, his breath fluttering warmth there. And now she did not have that kiss, she cried, her heart a sobbing mess because she wanted it, and she hated herself for giving into fear.
She slammed her eyes closed, so she felt, not saw, the hand that cupped her cheek, that nudged her face back to center, felt the feather-light brush of his lips skimming the skin of her other cheek and finally, finally, resting at the home of her lips. The kiss was as light and soft as the body that held her was hard. Nothing to be feared at all. In fact, something to be… savored. She parted her lips on a breath, and he surged closer, sucked her bottom lip, his fingers digging past clothing and all propriety to mark her very skin.
No wonder she gasped.
A surprise when he startled, broke their connection.
His hold on her loosened, disappeared entirely as he clasped his arms behind his back and took one seemingly enormous step away from her. She sought out his gaze for an answer. Why had he stopped? And when she found his eyes, she found them closed, his eyelids an adamantine gate shut between them. And that severance rocked shame up her spine. She dropped her gaze to the ground between them so she did not have to see the disappointment, the mockery in those dark eyes of his.
She cleared her throat and whispered into the wind, “William Turner is my favorite artist.”
London settled languid as a lazy cat around them, stilled for a moment, uttering not a single sound. No harness jingles or horse neighs, no boots on gravel or gates creaking open. No angry wives calling husbands home or children chasing one another down puddle-dotted streets. And in that silence, he offered her his arm. She took it. As if they’d never kissed. Better to pretend so because she’d quite obviously embarrassed herself with her cowardice and then her inexperience.
“William Turner,” he said, returning them to the slow amble toward her home. Their footsteps crunched with a faster pace now. Now that he likely wished to be rid of her. “A talented man, indeed. My favorite, too.”
Awkwardness forgotten, she swung her head around to peer up at his face. “Truly? Many think him too modern. Too different.”
“Many don’t like to feel uncomfortable, and his work will do that to you.”
He understood.
“You and I, though.” He squeezed her arm to his side, a brief return to the iron closeness of before. But soon, too soon, he freed her and held her lightly once more, an escort for the short remaining distance to safety only.
Should she talk about what had not happened between them? Assure him, first, that she had not minded the kiss. It might have been gentlemanly guilt that had stopped his lips from exploring her own. Then she would let him know that, yes, she had not known what she was doing, but she could learn, could improve, but—oh—what a folly that was, yes? Did she want him to kiss her again? To teach her how to do it better? No!
Maybe.
It did not matter. For he did not seem intent on such a conversation, or an education, and perhaps she should follow his lead. But the need to speak her mind crept like insects all over her insides.
He rattled her arm. “You’re bouncy.”
“Apologies. I am, but—”
“We’re here.” He brought them to a stop and looked up at the line of terrace houses that cast his face in shadows.
“Yes. Lord Lysander, I want to say—”
He dropped her arm and stepped away from her, sweeping into a low bow. “Good evening, Miss Frampton. I shall alert you as soon as I hear from a potential buyer for our nonexistent Rubens.”
She reached an arm out toward him, to stay him. “Yes, but, Lord Lysander—”
The sharp turn of his body sliced her sentence in two, and the unsaid half of it fluttered useless to the ground. His long strides took him out of reach quick as could be, and she turned for home, found it warm and loud and welcoming.
But not for her. If she joined her family, her father’s face would turn into granite and her mother’s eyes would fill with worry.
“I’m home,” she called, then made her way upstairs alone, what she’d meant to say to Lord Lysander still brimming inside her. Before she could shut her bedchamber door, Posey was at her side, and they entered together, speaking at the same time.
“What do you think the duke’s new design is for?” Posey asked as Fiona said, “Have you ever been kissed?”
