The kiss deepened, grew firm. When his tongue touched the seam of her lips, she parted them eagerly to his invasion. But he pressed no further. Instead he teased her, little flicks of slick sensation that had her chasing and darting after them, until her tongue was right inside his mouth, and he was sucking on it, drawing her in, drawing her down. Proving she could be tempted. A moan of longing rumbled in her throat, and she was not ashamed.
Still, she did not close her eyes. He held her gaze as she held his, and it was more intense, more intimate than the dance of their tongues, the kneading hand at her bottom, the hot weight of his erection against her belly. She was lost, utterly lost in his dark eyes. This was the descent, the fall. The end. She had been wrong about not being ruined. This was not her first kiss, but it would surely be her last. It would ruin her for any other.
Her left hand rose and met her right at his nape, fingertips tangling together in his hair where it fell over his collar. Did the tug of her searching fingers give him pain? If so, his only answer was to hitch her higher against him, to plunder her mouth with a kiss so greedy, breath was an afterthought. Then his eyelids drifted closed at last, breaking the spell.
Before she knew it was over, she was standing apart, her feet flat on the floor, her hands sinking to her sides. As free of his embrace as if it had never happened. Cooler air slipped between them.
He tugged one coat sleeve into place, an entirely unnecessary gesture. Did she look as unmussed, unrumpled, unaffected by their kiss as he? Well, she might lack his expertise in such matters, but she would not be bested by his practiced composure. She forced her ragged breathing to slow, though her nostrils flared at the effort. Perhaps, in the dimly lit room, such a small detail would go unnoticed.
No such luck. A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth as he reached up to straighten her skewed spectacles. The movement made her aware of smudges across each lens. Mastering her annoyance, the way her fingers itched to tug them off and wipe them clean, she met his gaze. Squarely. Sternly.
In answer, the curve of his lips shifted into something that threatened to melt her insides. “Am I always to be the subject of such careful study, Camellia? Well, the next time I kiss you, you’ll close those eyes.”
It wasn’t a threat, or even a command. It was a promise. A promise that one day, he would offer safety enough to conquer her fears, knowledge to quench the thirst of her curiosity. A promise that part of her longed for him to keep right that moment. Her breath came faster, despite her best efforts. “Next time? But we can’t—”
“Don’t be tiresome, my dear. Obviously we can. We did.” He crossed his arms over his chest and arced one brow. “The only question now is whether we will do it again.”
What about Felicity? her conscience prompted. She tried to shake off the question. Felicity did not want his kisses. But one day soon, she’d have them, whether she wanted them or not. Something very like jealousy flickered through Cami at the thought. Oh, how could she be attracted to the man who was supposed to be her perfect villain? What had she done?
She squared her shoulders and tipped her chin upward. “We must not.”
The familiar sardonic mask slipped over his face as he bowed and stepped aside, freeing her to walk away. “You see, I was right. You are a wise woman.”
Not truly wise, no—but wise enough to take the avenue of escape he offered this time, her steps measured at first, then quicker as she drew closer to the door. What had she been thinking when she had left the safety of the salon to meet him?
On the one hand, she had extracted an unexpected promise that Felicity would come to no harm. Truth be told, Felicity might be better off as Lady Ashborough than she was now, the pawn of a family driven to desperation. And strange though it might seem, Cami trusted him to keep his word. He had always been honest with her, even about his villainy. And she had never been certain that all of the things that looked like villainy really were.
On the other hand, he had behaved as badly as she had hoped he might, touching her, kissing her…. But what did it change? As he himself had pointed out, no one had ever denied his reputation for petticoat chasing, or anything else. Her aunt and uncle had known of it from the first and were still resigned to his suit; Felicity grew more so every day.
On the…well, she was out of hands, but there was still a third point to be raised in this internal, infernal debate: She had wanted his kiss. Still did. Fought with each footstep not to whirl around and race back to his arms and betray her weaknesses, rather than expose his.
In the end, she had mustered proof not of his wicked nature, but of her own.
As she exchanged the dimness of the gallery for the brightness of the salon, she paused to polish her spectacles, stopping near two gentlemen in earnest conversation at the back of the room. Who could be blamed for seeking some distraction from the shrill yet flat notes of a duet that was hopefully winding to a close? She would have gone by without
