His face slowly broke into a grin. “Prove it.”
The brims of their bonnets mashed together as she threw herself into his embrace.
His mouth was familiar and forbidden, his heat a cocoon from which she never wished to break free.
Without dislodging his lips from hers, he rose from his chair, pulling her to her feet and closer to his chest. His heartbeat was as syncopated as hers. As her knees melted from the heat of his kisses, he cradled her to his body. Protecting her. Plundering her. Branding her with his kiss.
Bean had always said that, to the right person, she would be visible, memorable, worthy of love exactly as she was. His words had proven true only for members of their family. No one else had ever seen beyond the bland mask to the woman just behind it.
Until now. Until Faircliffe.
No—untilLawrence.
His hands glided down her spine, hungry, searching. He was learning her dips and curves just as he’d learned her lips and mouth.
He had wanted a pretext to see her again, she realized. He had missed her. He had hoped she would return soon. He had spent his evening not at Almack’s but hunched over his table, pinning silk flowers to hats for her.
She kissed him for every feather, every wax grape, every bloom, and every ribbon. She kissed him for the plain bonnet with nothing at all, because he hadn’t wanted her to feel obliged to do anything she wasn’t ready for.
He didn’t realize she wanted everything he could give and everything he could not. She longed to spend the rest of the afternoon there in his arms, losing herself in each new sensation until she was dizzy with desire.
Her siblings hoped Tommy found their painting quickly, but Chloe prayed the hunt would last all the way until the end-of-season gala. Even if she could now ask Lawrence for the painting, she wouldn’t do so unless she had to. She wasn’t ready to lose him. To be invisible again.
Once the painting was in their hands, the game was over. No more bonnets. No more kisses.
No more Faircliffe.
18
Lawrence reveled in Chloe’s kiss. He was more addicted to her taste than an opium eater to laudanum. Each kiss was drugging, beckoning him deeper, filling his every sense with the warmth of her soft curves and the jasmine scent of her hair.
He hungered for the forbidden contours of her body. He promised himself that each kiss would be the last and proved himself a liar over and over again.
An infinity of kisses would not be enough.
The more he gave, the more he felt whole. He adored that she adored his silly hats. He adored that, out of all the fantastical options, she’d immediately chosen the one he’d created.
He felt disproportionately proud, as though he had not decorated a bonnet but climbed a mountain and brought her the moon. He wanted to give her so much more than silly hats and stolen kisses. He could not shower her with gold, but he could spoil her with pleasure.
His body grew hard at the thought. Her mouth was sweet and demanding, her curves supple and tempting. He would rather tear their clothes off than pile more adornments on. Kiss her all over, leaving no inch untouched by his mouth and tongue. He pressed her closer to him to resist the temptation.
No matter how much he longed to sink between her thighs and bring them both to pleasure, he could not indulge such desires.
Chloe’s fingers slid into his hair, dislodging his bonnet from his head. As she stroked the hair at his nape, his entire body felt like purring in pleasure. It required all of his willpower not to pet her even more intimately in response. To show her just how sensual a touch could be. He wanted her to luxuriate in his kisses, to come apart in his hands.
But these were not gentlemanly thoughts. These were the craven yearnings of a man who took far more than he ought to have. To keep kissing her would risk offering more of his soul than he was prepared to give.
In an act of self-preservation, he wrenched his mouth from hers.
She blinked up at him, her eyes sleepy with passion, her lips plump and kissable, her hands still twined about his neck. If he did not find a chaste distraction quickly, he would tumble her onto the closest sofa and lose what little good sense remained.
He wracked his jumbled thoughts for an activity that might not lead to lovemaking.
“Come see my”—he floundered for a suitable word—“library.”
The corners of her eyes crinkled. “All right.”
And just like that, his rampant desire was washed out by an icy wave of dread.
