Page 10 of How to Wed a Courtesan

Her lashes fluttered downward as his fingers gently caressed the softness of her skin. They were close enough for him to recall the sweetness of her mouth, the headiness of that moment of their first kiss. He shouldn’t, he knew. Not when they could be happened upon by those gossips she had mentioned.

Except that as he began to pull away she lifted her chin and rose up on her toes to press her smooth lips to his.

He closed his eyes and met her with a chaste kiss that set his heart pounding. After all, he hadn’t kissed her. She had kissed him. His mouth captured hers, guiding her towards a deeper kiss, a delicate brush of their tongues that made her gasp and left him aching and hard.

It was then he knew the kiss must end.

‘I wish to see you again,’ he said.

Her brow furrowed. ‘I’m afraid I stay rather busy.’

She looked at the ground, and for a fraction of a moment Evander feared she might tell him she could never see him again. The thought of being deprived of her brilliance would be a devastating blow.

‘But I walk this path every day.’ She lowered her lashes and turned her head away, hiding her face behind the delicate wall of her straw hat.

He put his fingertips under her chin and lightly brought her face, and her attention, back towards him. ‘Then I shall meet you every day so that we might walk together. If you will allow me to, of course.’

Her eyes searched his and he fell headlong into the endless blue. ‘I would love nothing more.’

Before he could stop himself, he kissed her once more, eager and swift, before bowing his departure and promptly exiting, lest he never leave. It was far too easy to bask in the company of Miss Lottie Rossington.

He met her again the following day, and the day after that, and the one following that. On and on he met her until three weeks had gone by.

In that time, he learned a lot about Lottie. Like how she and Lord Folton had become so close, how he’d been there to comfort her when her mother died. Admittedly the platonic way Folton cared for her made Evander find the other man less distasteful, despite his father the Duke of Somersville’s selfishness against Evander’s own father.

And Evander finally got to see her paintings—a blend of drawing and watercolour paints—after much encouragement. She had downplayed her skill considerably. Every painting she showed him was lifelike—as though it had been taken from reality and imprinted directly onto the page.

Evander shared details about his own childhood as well—how he and his sister had been close, until their father had struck her and Evander had stepped up to put a stop to it. He’d been promptly sent away to school, and when he returned, he found the occupants of the house cold and reserved in their reception of him, including his sister Eleanor.

He’d never spoken of it to anyone before that day, but somehow confessing it all to Lottie on one of those sunny mornings when they walked along the stream was so easy to do. There, amid the overgrown grass and wildflowers, he shared his heart. And she accepted him for exactly who he was.

That was why he fell in love with her. Or rather one of the many reasons why he did. She sparkled more greatly than any enticement London had to offer. Her wit made him laugh, and anything that made her solemn tugged at a tender place he hadn’t known existed within his heart.

He had become so enamoured of her he had postponed the meeting with his father’s steward to go over his report on the estates—something Evander had never once done since he assumed the task after completing his time at university.

She was beauty and kindness, altruism and grace, wit and sensuality—on and on the list went, with every reason why she was so remarkable.

He realised one morning, when he was bidding her farewell, that their small kiss had blossomed into something deeper, more intimate. She gave that delicious little hum in the back of her throat, as she always did, and held tight to him as their mouths parted to stroke tongues. Evander’s body was on fire with longing, but it was more than that, something far purer than simple carnal lust.

He didn’t want to leave Binsey. He didn’t want to leave her. The world that had meant so much to him only a month ago paled in comparison to the resplendent joy of her company. He wanted a lifetime of her.

The realisation dawned on him in a moment, and he did not shy from what had been unearthed in his own heart.

Love.

He straightened with the intent to tell her. She pulled him back towards her with a little whimper of protest and arched into him.

‘Lottie,’ he said raggedly.

Her eyes flew open. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t want you to stop kissing me. I wanted—I want—so much more.’ She flushed shyly and looked away. ‘Do you think that’s terribly wicked?’

‘Nothing about you is wicked.’

Truer words had never been said. No innocence rivalled that of Miss Charlotte Rossington.

He longed to draw her towards him, to tug off her bonnet and smooth his hands down her glossy hair in reassurance. And in the same moment, he had the nearly overwhelming urge to show her exactly what ‘wicked’ entailed.

‘Even if I like your kisses?’