Page 17 of To Steal a Kiss

Alice lay in bed, one lazy finger trailing back and forth across her lips. It had been nine days since she’d seen him. Nine days since her life had changed.

Nine days since she had changed.

Her family thought she was acting a little out of character. Her mother said it was too many late nights making her brittle and short-tempered. At least they’d given her a reprieve from their constant arranging of her life and—except for a series of dress fittings—she’d only attended one event this week: a musicale where she’d spent the entire evening reliving every moment of that magical night.

Alice had kept to her room apart from that, agreeing with her mother that she was tired and out of sorts, and daydreaming about a man with golden hair and eyes that glittered with amusement and desire. Desire for her. At least that way she need not be in her parents’ company and need not listen to them harping on about her upcoming betrothal. The betrothal she would fight tooth and nail. Perhaps her mother would think she’d need more sleep when she told them that too. No doubt they’d think her hysterical with fear at the idea of being a married lady.

She snorted at that.

Little did they know. Though Mr Bindley could make her hysterical with fear, she supposed, Mr Bindley could also spur her on to do something bold—like meeting a man on a balcony, and feeing alive for the first time in her life—or like discovering she didn’t have to be the wilting wallflower. Alice could be someone else; she could be herself, her own person. One she’d kept at bay for so long, but no longer. Not that she’d burst from her chrysalis and exploded upon the world as a tall, lovely goddess with the power to make men fall at her feet. Well, perhaps in her dreams, but not in real life.

In real life she was just testing the limits, pushing herself to speak up when someone assumed what she wanted; saying what she thought, when she thought it, rather than holding her tongue. It wasn’t easy. It was easier to let them assume and take control, but that had gotten her nowhere and nothing. Nowhere and nothing were the path to misery, loneliness and, heaven help her, the Honourable Mr Edgar Bindley.

She shuddered.

Mr Bindley had repulsed her from the start. Now, with Nate’s kisses still burning her lips over a week after that astonishing night, Mr Bindley made her heart cold with terror and fear. She would not let that be her fate. No matter how fanatical her parents’ desire to climb in society, she would not be the rungs they trod upon to gain that lofty position.

With a sudden burst of energy, Alice sprang from the bed and called for her maid. It was the Eversley’s’ ball tonight. Mrs Eversley was not good ton, but her husband was one of the richest men in the country and everyone who was everyone would be in attendance. Not just the cream of the ton, but interesting people, writers and artists, poets and musicians. What a chance to meet a man she could actually fall in love with. A man who could even love her.

The image of the golden Adonis who had kissed her so tenderly on a moonlit balcony swam before her eyes and she sighed. Perhaps he would be there.

Stop it, she scolded. Matilda had arranged that. He was likely an actor himself, playing a part, pretending his desire for her. The thought put a little dent in her courage, and she forced it away. No. Nothing would spoil this, nothing would impede her newfound determination. She would not marry the odious Mr Bindley. She’d find a man of her own, no matter if it was a brilliant match or simply a good man with whom she could find happiness. Either way, the choice was hers to make and make it she would.

***

24th June 1814. Half Moon Street, London.

Nate walked into the parlour to find Matilda, dressed and ready for the Eversley’s’ ball.

“You’re looking very handsome tonight,” she commented as she looked up and saw him. “Where are you off to?”

“Why I’m going with you, of course,” he said, as though that ought to be obvious.

“With me?” Matilda stared at him in astonishment.

“Yes,” he replied, a little irritated. “You’ve been nagging me for weeks to attend this blasted party. Surely you haven’t forgotten?”

Matilda pulled on one long evening glove, narrowing her eyes at him as she held out her wrist for him to fasten the buttons. “I haven’t forgotten. Neither have I forgotten that you said you’d rather be roasted slowly over the fires of hell.”

Nate winced and wished he’d been a little less vocal on the subject.

“A jest, sister dear. What could be more agreeable than chaperoning you for an evening?”

“Accompanying,” she corrected tartly. “I have no need of a chaperone. Besides I have Mrs Bradford to see propriety is served.”

“Of course you do,” he said, as she offered her other wrist to him. “And Mrs Bradford is about as suitable a chaperone as … well, as I am, but let us not argue the point.”

Matilda snorted and gave him a suspicious look. Nate held her gaze, doing his utmost to look nonchalant, and not the least bit guilty. Not, at least, like a man who’d been dreaming about her friend Alice, the slender, red-haired temptress, every night for over a week. His sister’s shy little friend, the one Matilda had insisted was the most fragile of wallflowers, had invaded his every waking moment too. Her kiss still seared his lips, and the touch of her small hands still lingered on his skin. It was intolerable.

He was losing his mind. There was no doubt about it. Every thought in his head revolved around her, about where she was, what she was doing now. Daydreams of a life he’d forgotten how to live invaded his heart, tempting him, beguiling him into wanting more. It scared him that it wasn’t just desire that burned under his veins. He wanted to know her, to know everything about her, the sweet little redhead who carried barley sugar in her pocket and kissed like a fallen angel. He’d even caught himself considering things during the week, changes to his business, what colour waistcoat he should wear, would it rain today… and pondering, what would Alice think?

He was in deep trouble.

The only thing to be done, he’d reasoned, was to see her again. If he saw her in different circumstances, under the blaze of candlelight rather than the silvered light of the moon, perhaps he’d break the spell she’d cast upon him. Surely then he’d see she was just as Matilda had described her: a stammering little waif of a girl who wouldn’t catch his eye under normal circumstances.

Problem solved.

Oh, God.