Page 11 of The Lady Was Lying
His hips thrust against her belly, the solid presence of his arousal offering irrefutable evidence that he was enjoying himself.
Vague annoyance settled over her.
It wasn’t fair.
The man whose tongue was thrusting into her mouth was undeniably gorgeous and obviously experienced, but neither her head nor her body cared about either. Frustrated with herself, she broke the kiss only to have him nip at her mouth and whisper, “Would you consider accompanying me to my lodgings? They are just around the corner.”
She shuddered. Not because he had propositioned her, but because their kiss had not motivated her to say yes. Refusing his advances was as good as admitting that she had been unmoved. It was another failure in an endless line of disappointments.
With despair clawing at her, she released him and stumbled backward until she hit the opposite bookshelf. “I’m expected at home,” she said, offering an excuse rather than a direct refusal. It didn’t change the result, but it was slightly less horrid than admitting she had used him for her own experiment.
Rubbing the back of her hand across her mouth, she tried to wipe away the taste of him. Tobacco and something sweet lingered on her lips—or her conscience—and trying to rub it away did nothing to diminish it. If anything, struggling to remove it made her more aware.
“I could call on you tomorrow,” he offered. “Take you for a jaunt in my phaeton and then continue what we started here.”
“I’m sorry, but that would be…disastrous.”
She gave up on attempting to remove the remnants of his kiss.
“I am exceedingly discreet.”
“Disastrous for you,” she clarified, brushing her hand down her bodice and confirming that she was not outwardly disheveled. Her motives had never been pure when she’d kissed a man, but this was worse than normal. Inconsiderate. Unkind. Selfish. There were too many words that could be used to describe her actions. None were flattering.
He nodded slowly, and his lack of recrimination made her want to disappear. Why wasn’t he furious with her? She wouldn’t blame him if he were.
“I’m sorry,” she told him again, and then, for the second time in a matter of hours, she spun on her heel and fled. She rushed out of the bookstore and onto the street as fast as her feet could carry her. Without making a conscious decision, she headed back toward her brother’s townhouse.
Her thoughts were, once again, spiraling.
Her sojourn into the bookstore had made everything a million times better and a million times worse. On the one hand, she had encountered a man who desired her, which meant the world was as it was supposed to be, and her confidence was restored. On the other hand, she had broken her own rules, and even though she had, she hadn’t enjoyed herself.
Stomping along the pavement, she dodged people and tried not to allow herself to dwell on the fact that the total number of men who had kissed her had increased by one while her desire for any man remained at zero.
Acknowledging it would only put her in a bad mood.
A worse mood.
Chapter Three
Before James could venture out again, he had no choice but to confront his mother. Joining her in her private sitting room, he allowed her to steer the conversation while she poured the tea. She seemed much improved as she chattered about how disappointed she was to have missed his first ball. He was loathe to extinguish the slight twinkle in her eye, especially since it had been so long since he’d seen it. But when she asked if anyone had caught his interest, he ruthlessly ignored the memory of the woman in the garden, took a deep breath, and said, “I need you to tell me about my real father.”
He meant for his voice to sound gentle, but his words were, perhaps, too abrupt, because her hands flew into the air and the cup she had been holding clattered onto the table.
Tea soaked the tablecloth and dripped onto the floor.
“Oh my,” she whispered, her face ashen and her expression pained. With trembling hands, she dabbed ineffectively at the spill with a handkerchief.
Reaching out to still her frantic movements, he said, “Mother. Stop. Don’t worry about the tea. Can you just…tell me?”
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stammered. “Your father…was…the Duke of Avondale.”
“Please don’t lie to me. I already know the duke wasn’t my real father.” James spoke calmly and deliberately as he recalled the conversation that had changed his life. “Before he died, the duke told me he was proud of me, and then he said, ‘I never considered myself particularly lucky, but it was the greatest blessing of my life when you were born. You might not share my blood, but you’ve always held my heart.’ His eyes widened a fraction after he spoke, and he began coughing before he could say anything else. Over the next few days, his condition worsened, and he never improved enough to explain further. I might not have been able to question him, but I did not mishear him.”
“The duke was your father,” she replied frantically.
James didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “He was my father, but another man…”
“No,” she whispered, her face losing even more color as she clenched her skirts. Her skin was so ashen that if she hadn’t been sitting down, he would have worried that she was going to faint. Was the truth more painful than he’d expected? Was his real father a reprobate? “The duke didn’t know what he was saying half the time. He was delirious at the end. In and out of consciousness. Completely lucid one second and then lost in memories the next.”
