Page 15

I must say something, mustn’t I? But nothing came to mind that didn’t make her feel like a fool. She could thank him again, but too many thanks would begin to seem counterfeit. There was always the weather, which was at least not so cold as when they first met, but there was no way to speak on such things without sounding superficial. “You look quite handsome in that color,” she said once he’d picked up the reins. She looked away, eyes widening. So much for speaking without thinking.

“Truly?” He glanced down at his coat, as if just noticing its existence. “I never give much thought to navy. I’m pleased you find it suits. I daresay not nearly so well as blue suits you, however, Miss Harcourt. Every artist in Bath must be desperate to paint you.” He spoke easily as he got the reins in hand and flicked them to start the horses moving. Somewhere, Arabella was mounted on Lady Summersby’s favorite mare.

Elinor craned her head to glimpse her cousin, suddenly certain she should look anywhere but at Asherton, and laughed to see Arabella and the mare prancing away from a wide-eyed stableboy. “There are far more beautiful and willing subjects to sit for the artists. My eldest cousin, Mary, would garner their attention long before they ever noticed me.”

“I really must meet this mythical cousin. Between you and Miss Weston, her elder sister sounds something of a living siren.”

“I hope you may someday…” Noting Arabella to be at a safe distance, she turned to Asherton and lowered her voice: “I wish to apologize for yesterday, my lord. I fear you caught me in a somewhat altered state. I may have been too, er, open.”

“You were a perfectly amiable companion, Miss Harcourt. I assure you, I noticed nothing amiss in your conversation.” He glanced sideways at her, his expression amused. “Was there some particular concern you felt in our discussion yesterday?”

“None that I can remember, my lord. Though I feared I might have said or done something I did not remember.” She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and finally allowed herself to smile at him. For him. I’m going to hell, aren’t I? But Arabella’s right. I must learn… “I am much relieved to hear I did not offend you. I value your good opinion, so I am glad I did not give you cause to think less of me.”

“Anyone who would judge a friend for speeches made after drinking my sister’s cordials deserves a healthy dose of the same medicine. You were remarkably well-spoken, under the circumstances. Had I not known you to have taken a dose, I would never have suspected.” He offered her a smile in turn, a gentle curl of his full lips that did strange things to her heartbeat. “Now, be sure to tell me if the pace is too rough on your leg? I solemnly promised Evelina not to jostle you, even if Miss Weston should beg for a race.”

“You are too kind,” she said, relaxing even more at his assurance. “And I am quite well. Better than well. I have spent too long indoors, I think.” She closed her eyes, tilting her face toward the sky as if soaking in the fresh air.

Asherton nodded, falling quiet for several minutes as they turned off the house’s private lane onto the public path, though they did not head toward the village. “I confess, I was concerned that perhaps my actions yesterday led you to be concerned over your own. If I overstepped our familiarity, I apologize, Miss Harcourt.”

She opened her eyes and watched him carefully. Was he regretful? Perhaps she should have been more proper and recoiled her hand when he first touched her yesterday. But maybe he was referring only to the kiss on her hand? That part she definitely shouldn’t have allowed, but she would charge any feeling, unwed lady in that position to do anything differently. “There is nothing to apologize for, Lord Asherton,” she told him in a soft voice. “You did nothing wrong.”

He watched her with those intense hazel eyes for a heartbeat too long, and then steered the horses along the quiet lane, stopping under a tree so he could turn to her. Somewhere far too distant, she heard only birds, and Arabella—so faintly—calling to Lady Summersby’s maid, who’d accompanied her on another filly. How had they gotten so far away? “Perhaps you should chastise me now, Miss Harcourt. I confess, I wanted to kiss you yesterday. I fear if you do not set me back, I might imagine more to this familiarity than you desire.”

She forgot how to breathe, and she blinked hard to test the reality of the moment. But her dreams of him were all watercolor pastels, and this…? This moment was all too vivid. Even the navy of his coat seemed too bright. And she could smell that infuriatingly delicious cologne. Damn. She didn’t mean to lick her lips as he gazed into her eyes, and when she finally let out a breath, the soft sound that came with it startled her enough to remind her she needed to say something. “How could I possibly chastise you when I…” want to be kissed. Hell. Try again, Elinor! “Forgive me, my lord. I am having trouble finding the right words. I—” His fingertips touched her chin, tipping her head up until she fell into those bewitching eyes and leaned in closer. So close. It wasn’t proper at all. She shouldn’t feel his breath, or the heat of his words.

“The right word is ‘yes,’ Miss Harcourt. Unless you don’t want to be kissed.”

The word fell from her as easily as her breath. “Yes.”

Like magic, his lips touched hers, a simple press of warm flesh. Polite. Chaste. If not for the heat roaring through her. Elinor had been kissed before, but no secret childish trifle ever had the same mind-shattering effect as Evelina’s cordial. She’d have remembered that. Would have remembered her limbs becoming heavy and her chest aching, her hands lifting of their own accord, ready to seek his shoulders. Slowly, she opened her eyes, not sure what she expected but gratified to see his eyes were dark as the sinful thoughts parading through her imagination. “I … I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“By what?” he asked, drawing back enough she could see his angelic face. The large, heavy hand at her waist slid up along her back, beneath her pelisse, and instinctively she leaned closer.

“That you should kiss so well.” She didn’t understand. How was it that a man like Tristan—kind, funny, thoughtful, and infuriatingly handsome—did not yet have a wife? At least a lover, surely? He must. It didn’t make any logical sense. But thank the stars he was available for this moment.

“Do I? You’ve had only one demonstration. It might have been luck that it came off so well.” Asherton chuckled, but the hand teasing her waist continued a slow, sinful slide along her body—not quite touching anything that would’ve been too outrageous in a waltz, and yet she couldn’t remember any waltz achieving this particular effect. She’d never dare dance it again if every partner’s touch lit an inferno in her blood. “Would you grant me leave to kiss you again? So you can better judge?”

I’ll be lost if I do. But who ruddy cares?

“I somehow doubt luck had anything to do with it, my lord,” she said, daring to lift a hand to chest. Surely he’d think no less of her for taking the chance. He felt as exquisite as she thought, and did she imagine his breath hitched just then? “But, you do raise an excellent point, and I agree a more thorough inspection is required.”

He touched her cheek again, then recaptured her lips. This time his tongue touched her, a shocking enough tease that her lips parted, and like quicksilver the kiss changed. Deepened. She gasped but did not demur. How could she? The caress of his tongue against hers sent a shiver down her back all the way to her toes. Elinor melted against Tristan, her hand tightening at his shoulder—a much-needed anchor. When he started to draw back, she sought his lips again, not wanting it to end. Needing it. And God, he answered just as hungrily.

She thought it might never stop, until at last Asherton cradled the back of her neck, holding her still as he pulled away, though he left with a few soft, lingering kisses on the corner of her mouth. His eyes met hers, warm and sweet and smiling. “And what is your verdict now, Elinor?” he asked in a whisper.

She couldn’t speak yet, so instead she let out a breathless laugh to give her mind time enough to gather the correct words. “I was wrong. You are far too talented to be accused of only kissing well.”

“I believe the result has more to do with having a partner who matches one’s passion than talent.” His thumb trailed along her chin, setting sparks through her heart. “No more for today. If I bring you back with swollen lips as well as rosy cheeks, the whole county will notice. But I do hope sometime you will let me kiss you again.” He leaned close, his voice falling to a wicked whisper. “I would like to see your lips swollen with kisses, and your cheeks red with pleasure.”

Oh, that thought was going to keep her awake tonight. And quite possibly a lot of other nights. Her shoulders slumped which had the unintended effect of pressing her breasts more firmly against him. “Are you sure they’d notice?”

A muffled sound escaped him, something like a groan. He pulled his hand from her pelisse, setting it on the outside this time, a loss she felt with uncomfortable sharpness, even as he rubbed her back, holding her close. “It’s a chance I’m not willing to take with your reputation. Even this was a reckless risk, though I trust your cousin and Saunders not to whisper if they saw anything.”

“No, they wouldn’t.” Elinor blinked at him, feeling hot and achy and momentarily questioning the entire point of reputations, honor, and anything that wasn’t Tristan’s mouth on hers and his hands on her skin, and … and more…

“But I couldn’t resist. We aristocrats are selfish devils, and I am not immune to the flaw.” He took a breath, she felt his lips ghost along her cheek, then her forehead. “You have indicated how precarious you feel your position, and though I’m selfish, I’m not monster enough to compromise you.”

She didn’t want him to be right, but even as she tried to figure an argument against his words, she couldn’t help but see their truth. This had been a risk, and had she not been so distracted by his lips, his words or his gorgeous eyes, she’d have realized that. Drawing back, she waited for the same, the guilt to hit her. But all she felt was longing. “I do not think you a monster at all, Tristan,” she said softly, risking his Christian name. God, it felt so good to say, and by the spark in his gaze he didn’t mind hearing it either. “Though I wish otherwise, I know you are right.”