Perfect Kisses

intrigued her so much. The unflappable deportment mixed with latent sensuality. The dry wit mixed with the wicked gleam in his eyes. Arrogantly arched brows over glances filled with pure male appreciation.

Such as the glance he was heating her with right at this very moment.

Sophie took a deep breath. She had chosen her day gown of soft green trimmed in darker green ribbon because it was her best. The long sleepless night had been spent wondering if the marquess’s attraction to her had been spurred by the late hour or if he would still desire her in the light of day. Now that she knew the answer, she had even more to consider.

She held no illusions. Nothing could ever come of this attraction. A man of Justin’s station could not marry a woman in her position and mothers did not become mistresses, at least not this mother. Despite this, she worried that she would succumb to his seduction if she remained under his roof. He had awakened a hunger in her that had gnawed at her all night. She could not take the chance that feeding it would not appease it.

“Lady Sophie,” he murmured in that warm, rich-as-honey voice. “Lady Cardington.”

Fontaine took her grand-mere’s arm and led her to the table. Sophie followed. Once the countess was seated, he turned to her. “Shall we?”

He gestured toward the covered salvers on the buffet. She nodded and joined him, taking in his fine form so elegantly displayed in brown breeches and coat, with a multi-colored embroidered waistcoat to counter the austerity. It suited the man he had become, somber yet possessed of a more colorful side that he showed only rarely.

“You steal my breath,” he whispered.

She looked away, afraid her expressive face would reveal too much. “Thank you.”

“Thank you. Already my day is complete, now that I have seen you.”

As Fontaine reached for a plate, Sophie reached for the pepper with a shaking hand. As she sprinkled the spice into her palm, she glanced at the two women at the table and noted that they were engrossed in a discussion. She exhaled sharply.

“Do you remember the time we picked flowers and I had a reaction to one of them? The pollen or some such?”

He stared at her quizzically. “Of course I remember. You sneezed for hours.”

“Do you recall the treatment?”

“It was long ago.”

“I changed my garments, blew my nose, and applied a cold compress.”

“Are we reminiscing?” His mouth curved fondly and she was struck by guilt. “If so, I remember more pleasant memories.”

“Forgive me,” she whispered. Then she lifted her hand and blew him a kiss, which also served to blow pepper-

– right up his lordship’s aquiline nose.

“Good God!” he shouted, staring at her in wide-eyed horror. Then he sneezed.

And sneezed.

And sneezed.

“Dear heavens,” the dowager cried, pushing back from the table in a rush. “What is the matter with you, Fontaine?”

His reply was a sneeze. Then another. And another. He doubled over, sneezing like a madman.

Patting his back sympathetically and ignoring the fulminating glare his reddened eyes shot in her direction, Sophie said, “I cannot be certain, my lady, but it appears he is having on olfactory fit of some sort.” She leaned over and stared at him, then leapt back when he sneezed violently.

“Heinous!” he gasped at her, covering his mouth in a vain attempt to curb his pulmonary spasms.

“What could it be?” the dowager asked, as she hurried over to them. “I have never seen him like this.”

“He is having a paroxysm, obviously,” the countess pronounced, joining them at the buffet. “A violent reaction to something that does not agree with his constitution.”

“If he has never been this way before, perhaps it is my presence that distresses?” Sophie suggested.

“Ridiculous!” the countess and dowager negated in unison.

Sophie shrugged. “Of course you both would know better than I, but it seems that the offending smell would have to be recently introduced, and I just thought-”

She was cut off by more sneezing and offered a sympathetic glance that was met with a scowl. “It would probably be best for me to break the fast in my room. If his lordship improves, then we shall know it’s me. Perhaps my perfume? He told me yesterday evening that it was-” she winced-“not to his liking.”

“My lord!” the two women chastised, sounding every bit like offended mother hens.

“Vixen,” Justin hissed.

“Fontaine!” the dowager protested. “It is not Lady Sophie’s fault that your olfactory sense is overly sensitive. Personally, I think she smells lovely.”

“He could be allergic to me,” Sophie continued, raising her voice to be heard over the noise the marquess was making. “The removal of my person should rectify the problem. If he worsens, then we will have to search for another culprit.”

Stepping gingerly away, Sophie noted the watery eyes and reddened nose of the Marquess of Fontaine, and felt odious. But an hour or so of discomfort could spare them a lifetime of regret. When considered in that light, her actions were somewhat less reprehensible.

“I do hope you feel better soon,” she said to Justin, meaning every word.

His lordship replied with a galvanic sneeze.

“Has Lord Fontaine’s condition improved?” Sophie asked her grand-mere as they sat in the private sitting room that bisected their two chambers. Decorated in pale blue and white with delicately carved furniture, it was a relaxing retreat, yet Sophie was anything but soothed.

“Yes.” The countess sighed. “He felt better soon after you retired.”

“Oh, good.”

“It is not good. Not at all.”

Sophie looked down at the book in her hands and felt awful to have caused the disappointment she heard in the beloved voice. “You can still enjoy your visit with Lady Fontaine. I can keep myself occupied.”

“That is not the point. Fontaine is a powerful man who occupies the highest strata of society. His friendship is extremely valuable, and he has a tendre for you.”

“He does not!” Sophie felt the blush sweep up her cheeks and into her hairline. How obvious was the attraction between them?

The countess shook her head. “Child, he may have grown past it now, but he was once quite smitten with you. Affection for first loves lingers for a lifetime.”

“He was not smitten!” she denied vehemently, even as her heart leapt at the thought. “I would have known if he was.”

“I wondered if you were blind to it.” Her grand-mere sighed. “Why do you think he accompanied his mother so often? A man of his station had more important matters to attend to.”

Sophie snapped her book closed and rose to her feet, agitated. “You are mistaken. He…he…”

“Do not think to say that he came because of his mother. Fontaine is not the type of man to be tied to any woman’s apron strings.” The countess abandoned her needlepoint on the small walnut table beside her, and linked her fingers in her lap. “Did you never wonder why he ceased to visit after your betrothal was announced?”

Sweat misted Sophie’s forehead. “He was always so critical…so chastising…he-”

“Critical? Or concerned? You were forever involved in some scrape or another. You were angry and unruly, most likely due to the premature death of your parents. You took unnecessary risks and defied convention. I was worried about you, but knew that the more I intervened, the more you would resist. I expected you would outgrow such behavior, which you did. However, Fontaine was less patient.”

“He wanted me to be someone I am not!”

“He wanted you safe. Did he ever ask you to curb your mischief? How often did he depart with ruined attire from following you into another mess?”

Spinning away, Sophie found herself breathing with difficulty, images from the past rushing forward in a deluge.