“Oh,” she said, because she honestly could not say anything more intelligent.
“I think it would be pleasurable for both of us. And if we don’t suit, you may say so now, and we bypass any further embarrassment.” He was so very close to her.
“Okay,” she said.
“What does that mean? O and K?”
“Sorry, it means yes.” She stared up at him dumbly, not wanting to be the ninny who waited for a man to take action, but also unable to make her limbs move. It was not how she envisaged herself as a widow. She had thought she would be the seductress. Except, she had no idea how.
“Excellent.” He bent his head down, brushing his lips slightly against hers, and then pulling her in slowly as he deepened the kiss.
For her part, she felt as if she were falling. No kiss with Gregory had ever melted her knees. The taste of him was so different, the smell of him unlike the men she’d known. She reached up to pull him closer, finding the soft hair on the back of his neck. Softer than Gregory’s. His entire touch was soft but scorching. As if she burned every place they connected.
He pulled away, leaving her breathless. “Goodbye, Mrs. Cabot,” he said, his accent breaking apart each syllable as if cut by a diamond. “Please send word when you are ready for another appointment.”
Prudence reached for the doorknob behind her, and fairly fell out of the study into the foyer. She closed the door behind her, feeling the cool air on her flushed cheeks. What had she just done? Who knew that a man as controlled as Mr. Moon had so much heat built up inside of him? The thought alone threatened to weaken her knees all over again.
No footman or maid appeared, so she gathered her bonnet and gloves herself and crept out of the house. She didn’t want anyone to see her dazed and bewildered face. As she walked back to her hotel—not terribly far from where Mr. Moon kept his house—she wondered how to proceed. Did she want to kiss Mr. Moon again? Absolutely. It had been more than she thought a mere kiss could be. But what would Gregory think?
That was a silly thing to even consider. Gregory’s approval was no longer needed, nor wanted, nor available. And she could be with any man she wanted now. Gregory had been her husband, but not her lover—not in the bigger sense that she’d wanted. She’d finally gotten to an age where she wanted romance, heart-stopping desire, and not the comfortable friendship she’d had with him.
Her hands felt cold, yet the rest of her felt hot. The sensations she’d felt in the span of mere minutes were shocking. As if she hadn’t felt so much in her entire life, and then her emotions sped through her like a steam locomotive. The connection she’d felt with Mr. Moon, and then the phantom guilt and disapproval.
In Spain, she’d attempted to flirt, but never felt the sudden frenzy of emotion that she’d experienced just now with Mr. Moon. Perhaps it was because she’d never seriously believed in the man’s interest or attraction. There had been games galore with those men, and it had felt more like she was playing pretend with her younger sisters than sussing out possible lovers.
Mr. Moon was different. That smoldering look in his steel gray eyes was clear. Even she couldn’t be so oblivious, as he had claimed she was with Lord Avendon and Mr. Ryksted and Mr. Reeves. But what made him so appealing? It couldn’t merely be that kiss. Or maybe it could. She’d never been kissed so thoroughly in her life. And after all, kissing was a type of wooing.
Chapter Three
LEO READ THEsame letter over and over again. His client, Mr. Philby III, wanted him to do a thing. But what was that thing? Dear God, Mrs. Cabot had positively ruined him. If the nights before he’d kissed her had been troublesome, the ones after had been excruciating. The dreams were in all manners—soft and loving, but also quick and hard—no. This was not the time or place to recall his illicit fantasies. He must focus on his actual work. Adjusting investment shares and confirming dividend payouts.
There was no magic to his work. It was merely tracking numbers, which required organization. It was his own nature that bent him toward secrecy. He glanced behind him at the botanical labels he’d used. The labels she had figured out with merely a glance. If only he could hire an assistant that astute. Should he redo his filing system? Any new label would still be obvious to her. He could use a code similar to semaphore. Or still use Morse code, but have a simple substitution code hidden inside that could be color-coded?
It didn’t matter. Unless he changed how the clients were systemically identified, there was little point in redoing the labels. She knew how he organized his business. That irked him. He didn’t like that she’d seen something in him that he hadn’t allowed her to see. But the look in her eye after they’d kissed led him to believe she didn’t remember much.
That, at least, was gratifying. His pride might be at the end of his priority list, but it still existed. Having a woman melt in one’s arms definitely buoyed one’s sense of self. He’d sent flowers the next day. Calla lilies. Not roses, not daisies. Nothing so obvious. There was the language of flowers that Society prattled on about, not that he cared one whit for it. He didn’t. Nor did he know what calla lilies meant. What he did know was that they were rare and expensive. They didn’t care for the constant damp of England.
He hoped she liked them. No note of thanks was delivered to his doorstep. Nor did she send a note regarding her availability for an appointment to discuss their actual business: the budget for the Ladies’ Alpine Society’s fundraiser. Still a ridiculous idea, but it wasn’t his society, and they didn’t want his ideas.
Still, he felt himself thinking about grand parties that had taken place in the affluent houses of his boarding school mates. There had even been descriptions of Mary Queen of Scots’s three-day party, where an entire boat was sailed into the dining room to serve guests their fish course. Complete with the Greek gods and goddesses draping themselves about the rigging.
At least thinking about a silly party would get his mind off of Mrs. Cabot’s honey-colored curls wrapped around his finger. The taste of sweetness on her lips. He needed to go for a walk before his body screamed for release. He stood, leaving a project undone, a letter unread, and his business scattered about his desk. So very unlike him. But he felt certain that if he could simply engage in this affair with Mrs. Cabot, his desire would fizzle over the course of the Season, she would leave on her asinine aspiration to climb that great Swiss hill, and he would get back to his regular routine.
This business was ideal for both of them, despite it costing him nearly every part of his moral decency to suggest. But he was glad he’d risked it, for both their sakes. He put on his hatand grabbed his walking stick. He didn’t require a cane, but it was still handy in case of urchins or bounders. As he walked, he found himself wanting to whistle—a strange occurrence as well. He was not a man who whistled, drew attention to himself in any way, or was so oblivious to his surroundings.
He curtailed the urge, and instead listened intently as he strolled in Hyde Park, catching fragments of conversations. Old habits died hard, and vigilance had kept him and his mother safe for too long. Fortunately, all anyone seemed to be talked about was the upcoming Season, and the cost of silk.
“Leo! I say, Leopold Moon, you old devil.” A man dismounted from a horse a few feet away as Leo turned to face him.
It took a moment to recognize the man, but it was Eyeball in the flesh. “Eyeball?”
The man laughed. His shoulders were twice the size they were the last time he’d seen his old school chum. Were they chums? Not really. Acquaintances. Fellow scholarship students and bullied outcasts. They’d both been scrawny things once upon a time. But Eyeball was the son of an impoverished viscount, who took up rowing. It broadened his shoulders. Suddenly, what the boys had all mocked him for—having one eye a different color than the other—became a siren song to older women. “In the flesh. As are you. I wondered what happened to you.”
Leo ducked his head politely. He had not taken up rowing—not then and not now. He’d found his safety in doing other boys’ work for a fee. He had the time, not to mention schoolwork was laughably easy. He’d been running gambling odds for his father for years. School had been simple. Except for the people part. “You’re a viscount now, I believe.”
Eyeball tried his best to look humble and sheepish, which he wasn’t terribly good at. Leo had always been able to see right through him. His avarice, his desire for his title and respect.
Before they entered university, he bedded an older wealthy widow. She kitted him out in fine clothes, personal effects, and taught him about the finer things in life. The correct wines, the best hotels. He’d worked his way through several women, garnering wealth each time. His name was his own, but Leo found Eyeball’s ways to be morally reprehensible. He used the women for their influence, money, and power.
