Page 23 of The Lady Knows Best

When it was all over, Cami might throw up her hands and send her back to Dublin—if she were fortunate. There, Daphne could . . . why, she could spend her time writing a treatise on the education of girls, something that wasn’t about accomplishments and angling for a husband.

Despite Miss Busy B.’s advice, Aggrieved in Grosvenor Square hadn’t chosen contented spinsterhood on the heels of her apparent ruin.

If all went to plan, Daphne still could.

She thrust out her hand. “Do we have a deal, my lord?”

Mischief twinkled in his eyes. He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he used his leverage to tug her away from the desk. When she stumbled a bit, his arms were there to catch her.

“Given the nature of the bargain, my dear,” he murmured, “I’d prefer to seal it with a kiss.”

CHAPTER 8

Miles had always loved kissing. The anticipation. The first, tentative brush of lips. The melting sweetness that transformed one thing into something else entirely, like crystals of sugar dissolving in a cup of hot tea.

Sometimes he thought he might even prefer kisses to the things that usually followed them—though that position was hardly consistent with his status as a rake. And in truth, he rarely had to choose.

One hand at her waist, he raised the other to cup her face, careful not to dislodge her pretty hairpins. When he brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheek, tracing the contour of her heated blush, her pupils flared and her lips parted on a silent gasp. But she made no attempt to pull away.

And thank God for that. He lived by the motto that pleasures were only pleasurable when shared among the willing—but he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from kissing Daphne Burke.

In the candlelight, her wide, unblinking eyes were the same steel-blue shade as her gown. Her suit of armor, he’d thought to himself when he’d first glimpsed her across the drawing room. But beneath his touch, the fabric was soft and warm, she was soft and warm. He closed his eyes and dipped his head lower.

She’d never been kissed before. Although he didn’t make a habit of kissing innocents, that much was clear to him the moment his mouth found hers: puckered and tremulous and oh, so sweet.

Tart, too, of course. He could still taste a hint of lemonade on her lips.

Pushing aside every doubt, every question—Why was she so ready to give up her search and marry a man she clearly despised? What sort of man would he be if he allowed her to go through with it?—he concentrated instead on making her first kiss one to remember.

He knew how to shape his mouth to hers, the way to fit the sharp peaks and soft contours of their lips perfectly together. He knew how to nibble and coax, knew when firmness would give way to a gentle caress.

But every bit of his experience was suddenly rendered meaningless when, God help him, she began to kiss him back.

One tentative hand slipped between his coat and waistcoat to rest over his heart, an anchor as she rose up on the balls of her feet and sighed into his mouth. Artless, uncertain, she advanced and retreated—innate desire doing battle with her better judgment.

Flexing his fingertips against the edge of her skull, stroking his thumb along the hollow of her cheek, he urged her to relax her jaw, to savor each sensation, to relent.

The sounds of the pianoforte rose from the drawing room below as breath and lips and tongues came together in a sensual dance, erasing every memory of last night’s ballroom disaster. He’d suspected all along she had put on a performance of awkwardness, though he hadn’t been entirely sure why.

Never mind Miss Busy B., this—this—was the woman she’d been trying to hide. From him. But most especially from herself.

He had knowledge that could ruin her.

And some part of her wanted to be ruined.

At least on this occasion, however, the sensible part of her won out. After another moment, she sank back on her heels and, with a none-too-gentle shove from the palm still resting on his chest, wedged their bodies apart.

He’d been careful not to muss her soft brown curls. But she still looked thoroughly kissed, her lips pink and slightly swollen, her eyes heavy lidded and dazed.

“My lord!”

He thought she’d intended the words as a scold for him, but in her breathless state, they sounded more like blasphemy.

“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I think we can dispense with the formalities. Call me Miles.”

She drew the back of her hand over her mouth, as if the revelations of this moment could be so easily erased. “I most certainly will not.”

“As you wish,” he replied easily as he took a step backward and tugged his waistcoat smooth. “Though you will have to say it once. In front of the clergyman. I don’t have a great deal of experience with weddings, but I’m quite sure that’s a rule. And afterward, of course, you should be prepared that a continued insistence on addressing me as my lord will set a certain tone with respect to conjugal matters. Particularly in the marriage bed.”