Page 29 of Miss Dignified
Her smile was slight and gorgeous. “You will not let me forget that, will you?”
Hewould never forget her words, and after the conversation they’d just had, he was compelled to be honest with her in one more regard.
“I am fond of you, too, Lydia Lovelace, and while I would never presume on your person, I would like to kiss you again.”
She considered him as he petted the cat, her expression unreadable. Dylan wanted to explain—he was not like those employers who treated a housekeeper or comely parlor maid as a convenience. He was fond of her,respectfully fond, and she’d just heard more from him about the war than his whole family put together had.
“I think not,” she said, gently easing the kitten from his grasp.
Well, hell. He was apparently to blunder his way through the whole day. “I understand. My apologies. We needn’t—”
With some arranging of skirts, Lydia settled closer. “This time, I will kiss you.” She leaned in, such that the cat was nestled between them, and the moment when she pressed her mouth to Dylan’s, the rumbling from the cat became more palpable.
The confluence of sensations and emotions was the sweetest Dylan had ever felt, and he wished the kiss would never end.
Lydia knew how to kiss—or so she’d thought.
Hostilities with France had ensured that an endless stream of fellows from the Tremont surrounds had kissed Lydia farewell. No dashing soldier was judged for taking such liberties, some of which Lydia had actually enjoyed.
When those same fellows came home on leave, they’d kissed her in greeting. At quarterly assemblies, more kisses had been stolen beneath various full moons, until Lydia considered herself thoroughly schooled in the overrated business of kissing.
She had the knack of it now. Swoop in, pucker up, land about thirty degrees off-center of the other party’s mouth to avoid bumping noses. Tilt to the other side, repeat. Linger a moment mouth to mouth, but not long enough for the fellow to get untoward ideas. Sigh. Linger again about two inches from his mouth. Retreat. Lean for a moment. Step back. Sigh and step back farther if he looks to be getting ideas.
Not complicated. The actual kissing part could be kept quite brief, particularly if the fellow hadn’t recently used his toothpowder. Denying some men a kiss was an invitation for them to become more importunate, and besides, Lydia hoped that one day, she’d meet a man shewantedto kiss.Logic decreed that bringing some experience to that happy encounter would enhance her chances of succeeding at it. To find a man worth kissing only to put him off with ineptitude would not do.
Her strategy had served her well both at Tremont and during her sojourn to London under Aunt Chloe’s chaperonage. The change of location had not changed the characteristics of the men Lydia had kissed. Some were sweet, some were bold, some were bothersome.
None were particularly memorable.
Straddling Dylan’s Powell’s lap, Lydia could not remember what day of the week it was.
He did not merely press his lips to hers or try to breathe into her mouth. He stroked her hair, her shoulders, her nape. His touch was slow and sweet, as if merely caressing her arm filled him with wonderment.
He didn’t mind a little nose bumping and, in fact, nuzzled at her throat, then her ear—that tickled—then kissed the place where her neck and shoulder joined, which gave her the shivers.
Lydia’s list—pucker, tilt, press, whatever—melted straight into a puddle of pleasure as the captain’s hand slipped around her waist and traveled over her back. When he eased away from her, without allowing her more than that initial pucker-and-press, she grabbed him by the hair.
“More.”
He rested his forehead against hers. “The kitten, Lydia. Let me set aside the kitten.”
What? “Oh, of course.”
The captain passed over one purring little ball of fur.
“Up onto the bed,” he said. “She can’t get into trouble there.”
Lydia set Mab on the coverlet and gave her a little push toward the center of the bed. “Explore, cat.” The kitten blinked and made for the pillows.
“You explore too, Lydia.”
Lydia’s brain could not make sense of that command, as if she’d overslept on a rainy day and could not orient herself to the hour of the morning. “Explore?”
“Explore me.” The captain took her hands and placed them on his chest. “To your heart’s content.”
Some vague, officious voice in the back of Lydia’s mind tried to warn her: She would have to face this man over menus, make his bed, and curtsey to his sisters. She would return to Tremont, hopefully with Marcus in tow, hopefully soon, and resume the duties of an earl’s sister.
But all of that waslater. Another day, another life.
