Page 16 of My Deceitful Duchess
Too quickly they had come upon Ambrosia’s servants’ entrance, and he knew he would have to relinquish her. A queer disappointment sizzled beneath the surface of his skin, perhaps almost a jealousy that he had to surrender her to something else, somewhereelse, when he wanted to keep her a little longer, hold her attention—holdher.
But she did not reach for the key he knew was secreted away with her pocket. Instead she sidled clear of the door, into the thick of the shadows beside it and he was obliged to join her, as her hand clung insistently to the crook of his elbow. And still that dimple glowed in her cheek, like a little kiss of sunshine she had carried with her into the darkness.
“Have you ever been kissed, Mr. Knight?” she asked, in a soft hum of a whisper meant for his ears alone.
“Certainly I have,” he said. “My mother is the demonstrative sort; she—”
That beautiful, sparkling laugh cut through the night, and he knew he had said something foolish—but that she had appreciated it nonetheless. “Notthatkind of kiss.”
“Oh. I see.” In the darkness he could only just see the ghost of a smile slide over her lips. Those lovely blue eyes had turned grey in the shadows, but they were still framed by such thick, long lashes. There was something about her standing there, so still, her back to the roughness of the brick behind her, that made him want to…crowd her in a little. Step just a bit closer and conceal her from anyone that might wander by. Sometimes she seemed so small, so fragile—the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. “You will sometimes have to be clearer regarding your meaning,” he said. “Occasionally, I understand only what issaidand not what ismeant.”
Her skirts collected around her legs, beat back against her by the press of his, but his advance had neither frightened nor intimidated her. She looked up at him, her head canted just a little to the right. “Buthaveyou?”
“No. I’m not the sort of man that women seem to want to kiss,” he said, and she did not flinch or pull away when he settled his hand at her waist. “However…”
“However?” There was a glowing note of interest in her voice, which he found he liked very much indeed.
“I have done quite a lot of reading.”
A sweet, low chortle. Pleased, not mocking. “Of course you have.”
“I think I could manage it.” Perhaps not as adeptly as someone with more experience. But the only way to acquire experience was to practice. “You really will have to tell me,” he said. “I am not…skilledat this kind of communication.” Atanykind of communication, really, but this kind was particularly challenging. There was a whole silent language that people used to express intentions with their bodies, with their eyes and faces and hands, and it had long eluded his grasp. Even if a particular expressionwasclear, often the reason behind it escaped him. The world was a dizzying blur of silent language and obfuscations and vaguehintsto which he felt perpetually blind and deaf. If ever a womanhadexpressed some sort of subtle carnal interest in him, it was likely that he had missed it entirely. He hadn’t a talent for reading the flutters of fans or lashes, and he hadn’t even met a woman in whom he had been interested besides.
Until now. Untilher. And he thought—he thought perhaps hecouldread her intentions. The bold press of her thigh to his, the slide of her palm up the wool breast of his coat. Those small fingers curling around his shoulder. She might not want an affair—not yet, at least—but shedidwant a kiss.
He thought. Hehoped. “Jenny?”
“Yes.” It was a dreamy little sound. “Yes, I want you to kiss me.”
Chapter Seven
Iam not going to have an affair with him, Jenny told herself, because it seemed the sensible thing to do. And she clung to that resolute sensibility even as she lifted herself onto her toes, even as his head dipped toward hers.
She had expected a degree of hesitance, of uncertainty—some sort of timidity, perhaps, that would reveal him for a man of inexperience. More fool her; she should have realized he would approach this with the same curiosity, the same straightforward interest with which he approached everything else. Inexperienced he might be—uncertain he wasnot.
His lips brushed hers, cool, soft, and savoring. A brief cling, simple, stirring. For a man who presumably did not grasp the finer points of flirtation, he did it rather well. Another light brush, teasing. Her lips parted as his palm flattened upon the small of her back.
His voice whispered across her lips. “You taste like brandy. And”—another slow brush, just a little deeper—“cinnamon.”
He was learning her, even now. A simple kiss was not so simple to a man like this.
Perhaps it wasn’t quite so simple to her, either.
Another brush; his tongue traced her lower lip as if searching for another hint of flavor. “Smoke? Ladies don’t smoke.”
Her breath puffed out on a little laugh. “I’m not a lady.” She hadn’t been in such a long time. Her fingers toyed with the ends of his hair, which fell well over his collar, disheveled both from the night breeze and his lack of attention to it. “I do all of those things that ladies aren’t supposed to do.” He sipped the last of the words from her lips. “Drink liquor,” she murmured. “Gamble. Smoke.”
“Have affairs,” he suggested mildly.
“No,” she said, on a little hum of amusement. “Not ever. Perhaps an occasional tryst—”
A rough little sound emerged from his throat, muffled by the sudden press of his lips to hers. “I would not be satisfied with a tryst,” he said, and his tongue boldly swept the seam of her lips. “Am I doing this correctly?”
“Yes.” It was a breathless sound, hardly even a whisper—but then it was difficult to do anything more than whisper under the circumstances. Somehow she had lifted herself onto her toes, threaded her arms about his neck. “Now—just—”
“Ah.” It was a sound of satisfaction; he had caught her meaning. Perhaps by the way her fingers tangled in his hair in an effort to pull his head down. “This?” His mouth blanketed hers, and however clumsy he might have been with his words, there was none of it in his lips, his tongue.
Hewasa quick study. Cleverer than most men, or at least not nearly as arrogant in matters carnal. He overwhelmed her not with forceful, possessive handling, but with searching strokes. Not just with his tongue—he framed her face with one hand, cupped her bottom with the other. There was something strangely reassuring about it; unique though he might be, he was still aman—taking more than the simple kiss she had offered.
