Page 73 of Miss Delancey’s Tragicomedy

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, whirling about to see him emerging from the shadows near the shelves.

“I needed a few minutes away from the inanity of Lord Hayworth’s conversation. You?”

She gestured, mouth pursed with annoyance, to her hair.

“Ah.” He nodded. “It is the color of winter wheat, did you know? Come here. I think I can fix it. I briefly studied architecture at school.”

“I thought you couldn’t do droll tonight.”

“Come here.”

His tone was strange. Insistent, commanding, pleading. All of those. She crossed the floor and stood in front of him.

“Closer.”

She took another step. She was near enough to breathe in the woodsy scent of his cologne. He lifted the loose lock of her hair and twisted it once around his hand.

“Have you the pin?”

She put it into his free hand. He circled his wrist to wrap another loop around it. Shortening the slack. Tightening his hold. Her scalp tingled. Whatever he intended, she wanted.

“Are you very angry with me?” His voice was soft. Suggestive. “For…flirting? It was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it.” He lowered his head closer to hers. “I shouldn’t do this.”

She held her breath as he kissed her forehead. The tip of her nose. Then, using his hold on her hair, he tilted her head to run kisses along her jawline, sending a strange shock of heat down her neck.

She gasped. “Trentham.”

“May I?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

He touched his lips to hers. She yielded, clumsily, she thought at first. But his kisses grew firmer, guiding her, until self-consciousness deserted her and she gave in to all the wanting blossoming inside. How long had they been dancing toward this? The embrace deepened into something more frantic, more needful, tasting each other, breathing one another’s air, then abruptly, it all stopped. Trentham disentangled his wrist from her hair and stepped back.

“That wasn’t very proper of me, was it?” He averted his gaze. She saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall.

“No,” she breathed. “I—I’ve never been kissed before.”

He was quiet a moment, his expression surprisingly blank. Then his lips twitched and he said, “I’m not sure of the correct response to that, given…well.”

She tried to smile but couldn’t. Of course, she’d been kissed before. He had kissed her. But this was so different, the other had not been a kiss at all. “I—I think I had better go find Milly. To fix my hair.” She wanted him to say don’t. She wanted more. She wanted—

Oh, for heaven’s sake! How weak she was!

“Yes.” He sighed. “Go. You had better. I don’t trust myself.”

The charming flirt. She shouldn’t trust him either.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Returning to the party, Trentham was of two minds: sick with worry over his sister, and—common sense and propriety be damned—inexplicably lighthearted. How was that possible? He should be furious with himself. He’d behaved like a scoundrel at dinner, distracting himself from his morbid brooding by playing a deliciously risky game with Miss Delancey. And then he’d gone further. Too far. Kissing Miss Delancey had been impulsive and out of line, but when she’d walked into the library, it was like a wish granted. Or a treasure delivered into his hands. It was wrong of him. So wrong. And yet, he didn’t feel nearly guilty enough.

A low hum of conversation coming from the parlor alerted him that the ladies were back. He entered, catching sight first of Lady Elizabeth, who was with Dessie and Lady Melvin. The girl’s gaze slid to him, then away. He decided to spare her his company, and instead join Lynch and Hayworth over by the mantel, Lynch talking, and Hayworth nodding. As he strode forward, he cast his eye about the room and asked, “Where is Miss Delancey?”

“Upstairs,” Dessie answered. “Her hair fell out.”

“Did it?” he asked. “All at once?”

Dessie giggled. “No, just a clump.”