Page 31 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord
He wasn’t certain she believed him, exactly. The men in her world were not renowned for their faithfulness to their marriage vows or for their chastity before them. Mistresses were commonplace; an open secret that most women likely only hoped their husbands would be discreet about. Probably she hadn’t imagined him arake, per se—but Hannah was the evidence, to her mind, that he had not lived like a monk, eschewing all matters carnal.
But he hoped she would understand that he’d had no reason to lie to her. She’d agreed before his admission.
“Will you take down your hair?” he asked.
“My hair?” Her brows lifted above the silver frames of her spectacles.
“It’s pretty.” Long and lustrous and black as a raven’s wing. A hint of a curl held there within the dark strands, and it rippled down her back like a sheet of silk when it was down. “You leave it down on occasion, before you go to bed. I like seeing it.” He’d like touching it better. Sinking his fingers into those soft, silky locks.
Her lips quirked into an awkward sort of smile, but she lifted her left hand—the one not wrapped in a bandage—and began to pluck the pins from her hair one at a time, tucking them away into the pocket of her wrapper as she did. “You don’t have to say such things,” she said.
“What do you mean?” He was briefly distracted by the fall of a thick tress of dark hair that slid down over her shoulder as she pulled free another pin.
“I mean I don’t require empty flattery. This is—simple curiosity, nothing more.” She spoke the words as if she had to convince herself of them. As if by merely speaking them, she could force them to be true. “It’s only a kiss. Really, you are doing me a kindness.”
A kindness! As if it had beenpitythat had moved him to make such an offer. “Diana, you’re mad if you think I asked to kiss you for any reason other than the desire to do so—and you areblindif you think I have offered you empty flattery. Surely you possess a mirror; youmustknow how beautiful you are.”
But she didn’t. She didn’t—he could see it there in the eyes that wateredbehind the lenses of her spectacles. Shedidn’tknow, because there had never been anyone to make her feel beautiful.
Before she had arrived here, he had never let her pop into his mind for more than a moment at a time, and he hadn’t let himself feel the guilt he ought to have for abandoning her. Hannah had needed him more, naturally—and he had never imagined her as anything less than the cossetted daughter of a marquess. But she’d never been that, not really. She had just been a woman, too often overlooked by those who ought to have embraced her. Ten years of it had done more damage than he ever could have anticipated. More damage thansheprobably knew.
“Ah, hell, Diana,” he said, and he wrapped one hand around her wrist and pulled her down into his lap. Startled by the sudden gesture, she landed heavily with a little squeak of surprise. She hadn’t yet managed to pull all of the pins free from her hair, and he released her wrist to slide his fingers through the half-loosed locks, shaking free the rest with a sort of impatience he hadn’t experienced in years. They scattered to the floor with a few smallpings, and then her hair fell free in its entirety, rich black locks spilling over his hands.
“My spectacles,” she said, in a strange little voice, as if he had flustered any propensity to protest straight out of her. He’d nudged the earpiece in his efforts to relieve her of her pins, and the spectacles had slid straight down the bridge of her nose, landing askew. She blinked above the rims.
With one hand, he carefully removed them, setting them aside on the table. “They don’t make you look like a governess,” he said, lest she attribute their removal to a dislike of them. “I think they’re quite pretty on you. But I don’t want to smudge the lenses.”
“I can hardly see you,” she whispered, blinking those thickly-lashed dark eyes at him. Her irises were a deep chocolate brown, so dark they were nearly black.
“Really?” Probably she didn’t know she’d acquired a few little freckles just across the bridge of her nose; a consequence of too much time spent in the sun without a bonnet or a parasol.
Her shoulders moved in a tiny shrug. “You’re very blurry.”
He could work with blurry. Might even be a bit more convenient. She stiffened, just a little, as he slid one arm around her shoulders. “Comfortable?”
“Not really.” Her toes didn’t quite touch the ground; her legs dangling over the side of his thigh. “I don’t think I’ve sat in anyone’s lap since I was achild.” Her hands lay in her lap, her right hand cradled in her left. “What should I do?”
“Nothing.” For the moment, all he wanted of her was exactly this: a perfect moment to commit to memory, with the sudden certainty that it would become etched upon his heart rather than within the recesses of his mind. He tucked a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, skimming his fingers along the delicate skin there. Her lashes lowered, shading her eyes. Her skin was so soft, so smooth—she wore no perfume that he could detect, but still she smelled fresh and clean. It took just the slightest nudge of his fingers to her chin to turn her face toward him just a bit more. “There,” he said. “Perfect.”
She held very still as he leaned in, and she took a quick breath and held it. It slipped out on a sigh as he pressed his lips just to the very corner of hers. Hardly a kiss at all, really, but it served to release a bit of the tension that had lingered in the perfect straightness of her spine. “That tickles,” she said. “Your beard, I mean to say.”
“I haven’t got a beard.” The words drifted across her cheek with the pass of his lips.
“You’ve got the beginnings of one at least.” A tiny ripple of a laugh; her left hand lifted to touch his shoulder and settled there with a light grip. She shifted just slightly, listing toward him.
Beneath the palm he laid upon her back, he felt her soften just a bit. Not quite so uncomfortably rigid, not quite so stiff. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll make certain to shave first.”
“Nexttime? I—” Whatever she had meant to say was smothered beneath the press of his lips. A shiver raced up her spine as he traced the seam of her lips with the point of his tongue. Those delicate fingers carved divots into his shoulder, nails curling through the fabric of his shirt to embed themselves into his flesh.
Her head tilted, ever so slightly. And—there. A soft breath, and she parted her lips, let them mold to his.Perfect. Like she’d been fashioned to fit him. Her eyes had closed, long lashes curling over pink cheeks. Could she hear the pound of his heart in his chest?
She tasted of sugar and of the faint bitterness of over-steeped tea. More pleasant now, upon her tongue, than it had been in the cup. Another little wriggle as she shifted closer to him—somehow she’d ended up in the crook of his arm, her head notched against his shoulder. Her right palm landed against his chest, fingertips coming to rest just above the collar of his shirt.
She made a warm little sound at the back of her throat, and her tonguetouched his in a hesitant parry. Subtle, tentative mimicry, following where he led. His thoughts grew dim, primitive. Buried somewhere deep within them was the knowledge that he’d already let this go on a good deal longer than he’d intended. Just as quickly it drifted away from him in favor of the plump softness of her lips, the gentle, breathy sighs, the warm weight of her pressed against his chest and draped across his lap.
Her fingertips drifted from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, sliding through the thick strands. He’d never known anything could feel as good as this, had never considered that a simple kiss could stir him straight to his soul—that asimple kisscould turn out to be anything but.
It wasn’t until he realized that he’d been toying with the laces of her gown that his head trilled an alarm. It was an effort—too much of one—to force himself to pull away when all he wanted was to sink back into that glorious, soul-rending kiss. Any man would wage wars for a kiss like that one, for a woman who felt so warm and soft in the circle of his arms.
