He stroked a hand down her smooth cheek. Her lashes fluttered in pleasure at the slight caress. She was so responsive, so eager for his touch. He cradled the side of her jaw within his palm and leaned forward, his mouth brushing over hers in one of many intended kisses.
3
Cecelia had never been kissed. Even when Lord Brightstone had pursued her initially to court her, he had kept a respectable distance between them.
His mouth was warm on hers, his lips soft despite the hardness of his features. He wrapped one of those strong arms around her waist, embracing her with the same confident potency he had during the waltz. His forwardness was intoxicating and awoke anticipation for the excitement that used to reside within her, something she had long since squelched in favor of caring for her family.
Her hands slid up his powerful chest, noting how firm he felt beneath his robes, and gripped the folds of fabric to lock him against her. A low growl hummed in his throat, and he tilted her head, so her lips parted as he brushed his tongue into her mouth.
She ought to be scandalized, but she was intrigued. Tentatively, she touched the tip of her tongue against his. A thrill charged through her at her boldness.
He groaned and leaned into her, fitting her gently against the wall with the pressure of his body. Never had she been so close to a man, let alone grant him such liberties. At that beautiful moment, she forgot herself and everyone she had to tend to.
There was only Hermia and Demetrius. Writing their own passionate story.
The sound of retching came from somewhere near them in the garden.
Cecelia stiffened.
“It’s only some poor sod in his cups,” Demetrius murmured against her lips.
Except that poor sod might likely be her father.
She drew back when he tried to kiss her again, though it took every ounce of willpower to do so. Demetrius stopped immediately and stepped away. “Forgive me,” he said in a gravelly voice that stroked a chord deep within her. “I appear to have forgotten myself.”
The choked cough of another retch met her ears, followed by the rustle of leaves.
She tried to maintain her calm reserve. “Please go inside first, so it does not appear obvious we were outside together.”
“And leave you with that man?” He demanded.
“He’s hardly in any position to cause me harm.” She used one of Sophia’s bright, imploring smiles. “Please.”
And it worked.
He bowed. “If you do not reappear shortly, I shall come out here to ensure your safety.”
She nodded but said nothing since she would not be returning to the ball if the “poor sod” was indeed her father. By the time Demetrius came to find her, she would be gone. However, she would have her footman return with a message for Aunt Nancy to convey to Demetrius that she had been afflicted with a sudden headache and had cause to leave.
Demetrius—no, the magic had been broken—Lord Brightstone—strode from her, his steps less sure than they’d been all night. Before he opened the door, he took one last long look at her, as though he suspected her ploy, then went inside.
She rushed to the low, miserable moan near a tree and found her father. He’d mustered the strength to pull himself up and was now precariously propped on the thick, rough trunk.
She knew her father drank, yes, but he seldom did so to this point. “Come, Father, let us get you home.”
Before anyone could see them. He had caused enough embarrassment to their family.
“You meddlesome girl,” he slurred. “Leave me be.”
“You cannot stay here,” she hissed.
“I didn’t want to come.” His voice took on a petulant tone.
No, he hadn’t. Cecelia had asked him to so that she might attend. If it weren’t for her, he would never have been there at all.
Not only was she no longer needed, but she also wasn’t even any benefit to the family.
The realization stung.
