Page 39 of Kiss Me Lady One More Time
A curious thrill shot through him. He’d forgotten. Or not fully processed the notion that she’d been in his rooms without him. Observing. Evaluating. Judging.
He snorted at the thought of her earlier worry, fearing that she wouldn’t fit in with the young ladies of theton. She wouldn’t. She was so much more than any other young woman he’d met. She was complex, with layers of thought, empathy and curiosity. He found he cared what her reaction might be. What had she thought of his rooms, his things, the atmosphere he’d created that was essentially an extension of himself?
He wanted to demand that she tell him.
“Oooh,” she breathed. She had uncovered the painting. He came to stand at her shoulder and see what had delighted her.
It was a portrait. A woman looked back at them. English countryside stretched out behind her and she stood in a bower of green, dressed in the wide skirts of an earlier age. She wore an expression—
“What is that?” She asked, enchanted. “Not impatience. Not disgust. It’s . . . exasperation! Who poses in such a way for a portrait? And what is she exasperated with? The artist? The process? Her entire life?” She glanced at him, all alight. “Oh, I hope Lady Tresham arrives soon. I have so many questions.”
As did he. “You meant it when you said you find people fascinating.” But it came out a statement, rather than a question.
“I did.” She gestured. “Just look at her! There is a story here, about a real person. Who was she? Does she live, still? Is shestillexasperated?” She laughed. “Is it not fascinating?”
“Yes,” he whispered, stepping closer. “It is.”
She halted as a flush crept up and spread along her jaw to creep into her hair.
“You like people,” he said. “All of them? Everyone you meet?”
“I like toknowpeople. But no, I do not like all of them.”
She liked him. Just as he liked her. No matter how he told himself he shouldn’t get entangled, he wanted to know more.
“Hot pennies,” she said suddenly. She spoke low and the rough edge of her voice vibrated along all of his nerve endings. “The coin in your room, encased in glass—is it from that ceremony?”
He shouldn’t answer. There was no point to it. She was devastatinglyaliveand attractive. By this time next year, she’d be betrothed, or even already married. And it wouldn’t be to him. He was in no place in his life to keep her safe and secure, let alone comfortable and indulged.
But they were here together now, on equal footing. For the first time, he wanted to share pieces of himself, just as he wanted to know more and more of her. It was a first. And this short, intense time of sharing and flirting was all he would get of her.
He wanted all he could get.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Tell me about it. It must have made an impression, for you to keep it like that.”
“I just . . .” His gaze unfocused and suddenly he was back there, standing up high, watching two very different scenes play out before him. “I was young. Ten years old, perhaps. I stood up on the balcony with my father and his cronies. They were laughing and warming pennies and taking turns tossing them to the crowd. Below, the townspeople scrambled to get the coins, but they laughed as they dove and grabbed and shoved each other away. I felt . . .”
Her green eyes shone, bright and interested, but she merely waited.
“I felt . . . far away, perhaps. I could see both groups, but I didn’t feel part of either of them. I was watching with new eyes, somehow, as if I could see the bands of connection forming between the rowdy crowd below and also between my father and his friends as they frolicked. I remember feeling sad, because there was no real connection between the two groups. And I could sense the differences between the two. The townspeople were competing against each other, but there was still a light-hearted sense of community about them. But my father’s group had a darker tone to their bonding. It felt slightly malicious and tinged with a superiority and a disdain that made me uncomfortable.”
She watched him closely. “The bonds,” she said slowly. “That’s why you like rituals and are interested in badgers and their dens and those sorts of subjects.”
He hesitated again, but his reluctance didn’t stand a chance against the longing to have her understand, to have her know him—and find him worthy.
“Yes,” he said, suddenly urgent. “Everyone in the natural sciences is eager to find something new. They are all looking for the unknown, for something we’ve never seen before. But it’s the interactions between those creatures we already know I find to be more interesting. It’s why I’m always looking at nesting behavior, territorial disputes, pack relationships.”
“And how rituals affect humans?”
“Yes. That and more. How our cultural connections define us. What makes us feel as if we belong? With whom do we connect and why? What gives us a sense of community?”
She stepped closer and he suddenly snapped back, all senses fully engaged in the present.
Her breath came quickly and as he watched, her tongue came out and swept along that bottom lip. “I believe,” she said huskily, “that in most cases, a connection begins between just two people. After that—”
She didn’t get any further. Pushed past bearing, he took her in his arms, kissing her with a fierce possessiveness. She made a sound of surprise, but surrendered, melting in his embrace. Kissing him back, she ran her fingers along his jaw, down his neck to his shoulders, and finally buried her hands in his hair.
