Page 43 of My Own True Duchess
Theodosia took his arm again, this time without him having to pointedly offer. “So you are scandalously wealthy in your own right?”
In her present mood, he didn’t dare name sums. “Afraid so. Does this bring us to the part about why you don’t care for my kisses?”
They were ambling down the alley, a peaceful, sun-dappled strip of cobblestone shaded by tall maples and enveloped in the quiet of a placid neighborhood. Birds flitted overhead. The scent of horses came from the mews twenty yards on.
“Your kisses are much like the money,” Theodosia said. “You are the first man to express a respectful interest in me since I put off mourning. I say this not to flatter you, Mr. Tresham. The prospect of your kisses strikes me rather like the prospect of buying out all the shops in Mayfair. Such a use of my resources would be unwise and unnecessary, and yet, I am sorely, sorely tempted.”
Jonathan drew her into the shade of an oak. “If that’s not flattery, then what is it?”
She looked up and down the alley, her expression stern. “That is a warning, Mr. Tresham.”
Then she kissed him.
* * *
Theo dared not allow Jonathan Tresham to court her. Such a notion would be dangerous and absurd. But in what manual of bearable widowhood was it written that a woman could not enjoy a kiss with a willing swain?
Where was it written that she must deny herself even a moment’s pleasure and comfort? The alley was deserted, and Mr. Tresham had haunted what few dreams she’d stolen from the night.
“Theo…”
She allowed him those two syllables, in case he sought to demur. Instead, he imbued her name with tenderness and humor.
Also with encouragement, so Theo looped her arms around his neck and dived into an exploration of the wonders of his kiss. Her first impression of Jonathan Tresham was his big, fit male body. Had her life depended on it, she could not have toppled him. Broad shoulders, muscular arms, long legs, and all of it pressed as close to her as clothing allowed.
Bodily sensations confirmed that she was, truly, intimately embracing a man she ought not to be touching: The hard bone and taut muscle of his shoulders, the more subtle feel of his watch chain trailing across his abdomen to a buttonhole. Below that, irrefutable evidence of masculine desire.
A bad moment ensued, when memories of Archie pushing himself against her without invitation tried to contaminate pleasure with anger. Mr. Tresh—Jonathan—must have sensed the intrusion, because he lifted his mouth from hers and cradled her cheek against his palm.
If Theo gave him the least indication, he’d doubtless step back, drop his hands from her person, and maintain a gentlemanly silence while she sorted her thoughts. That reliable consideration, that attentiveness, had her turning her face into his caress and kissing him again.
As a girl, she’d viewed kissing as a forbidden but safe pleasure. A stolen kiss seldom ruined a young lady, if it was a chaste stolen kiss.
Chastity had been nothing more than Society’s window dressing on an ignorance that benefitted everybody but the young lady, and Theo was finished with honoring Society’s convenience above her own.
She moved into Jonathan’s embrace, pulled him closer, and seamed his mouth with her tongue. His lips curved, a smile, then a welcome, and holy celestial bodies, he knew what he was about. His hand on the back of Theo’s head let her relax, giving him her weight and her balance. His arm about her waist was another assurance that all she need do is enjoy his kiss.
I have you. That message came through in the curve of his body, his confident stance, the deft touch of his tongue at the corners of her mouth. He was aroused, more so with each moment, but such was the patience and curiosity of his kiss that Theo need not monitor his responses. She could instead revel in her own.
To desire a man. To desire him, rather than endure marital pawing, dreading the possibility of conception. Oh, the years and years…
How could joy and sadness be so exquisitely present in the same instant?
Jonathan’s hand moved over Theo’s back in slow caresses as she eased away from the kiss. She needed his support to remain upright, so ambushed was she by sorrow.
Not for Archie. His situation had been tragic, but she’d given him the mourning he was due. The sorrow was for herself, for her innocence and trust in the world, for all that might have been and could not be.
“Do I take it,” Jonathan said, “that you would allow me to pay you my addresses?”
His voice was rough, his breathing deep. How could any woman say no to such a question when she wanted to push the man who asked it against the nearest wall and resume kissing him?
And yet, she must refuse.
He brushed a lock of hair back from her brow and tucked it over her ear, the touch gentle and intimate, though not overtly seductive.
Except that for Theo, small considerations and caring gestures could seduce her common sense right to Bedlam. She must refuse him firmly and soon.
But not just yet.
