Page 28 of The Lady’s Deception

He’d been right, of course. Her swift peck had not been a kiss—not if one judged by the sweet, soft movement of his mouth over hers. And she felt quite certain that she would measure any future kisses against this one.

A muffled whimper of pleasure rose in her throat as his mouth grew firmer, more demanding. Awareness shot through her, every place where they touched and even where they didn’t. Her pulse fluttered in her chest and in the second, secret heart between her thighs. When the gentle pressure of his lips coaxed hers to part, she gave in to the inexplicable need to taste him, to take him into herself and to be taken.

As if startled by her eagerness, he stiffened and jerked her closer, her breasts tight against his chest. Below, she could feel the growing sign of his arousal. Lifting his head, he broke the kiss and his eyes bored into hers. “Miss Gorse,” he began, his voice a gravelly whisper.

“Rosamund,” she corrected brazenly.

His brows lifted. “Rosamund, then. Will you do me the great favor…?”

It was her turn to catch her breath. “Yes?”

“…Of informing me as to whether or not my sisters have given this infernal creature a name? I wish to be precise when I rain curses upon it.”

Baffled surprise warred with mortification, then stifled laughter, as the soft tips of pink ears appeared over his shoulder, followed closely by the rest of the kitten. Eileen wobbled a bit before finding her balance and sitting down near Paris’s collar, her white fur set off nicely by his black hair and the color of his coat.

“I am sorry,” he said. Was he was apologizing for kissing her, or for stopping?

Either way, the spell was broken. Rosamund slipped free of his embrace and reached up to retrieve Eileen, who was clearly pleased at last to have made a successful climb, purring as she curled into the hollow of her palm, still warm from Paris’s touch. Rosamund stepped back and tucked the kitten close to her breast, cradling her with both hands, while Paris tugged his coat collar into place.

When he was done, he shot a narrow-eyed glare at Eileen—at least, Rosamund hoped he was looking at the kitten. The thin, old nightgown she was wearing didn’t leave much to the imagination. “I suppose an interruption from some member of this household was inevitable,” he said. And fortunate?

She nodded, darting her eyes toward the door, then back to him, not allowing her gaze to fasten on any one feature, in the vain hope she would not be tempted to catalog them when he had gone. “Good night, Mr. Burke.”

“Good night, Miss Gorse.”

He closed the door behind him, but she waited until she heard his booted tread descending the staircase before she allowed herself to sink to the bed and cuddle the kitten to her burning cheek.

For just a moment, she had forgotten to be the prim governess. A moment more and she might have let herself forget to be a proper young lady.

Never had she exhibited such a shocking lapse of judgment. Yet she regretted only Eileen’s disruption. She’d wanted that kiss, the heat of his palm rising from her waist to brush the underside of her breast. But she wanted something else, too.

Behind that wry smile that occasionally turned up his lips—the one he deployed so ruthlessly, both shield and weapon—she’d glimpsed something else. And for some reason she couldn’t quite put into words, she wanted to know what it was. She wanted to see inside him.

Eileen squirmed, asking to be set free, and Rosamund obliged. In another show of daring, the kitten leaped from the pillow to the desk and explored for a bit before sitting down atop The Botanic Garden and beginning to groom herself, making it impossible for Rosamund to resume reading.

Probably for the best.

When Rosamund collapsed backward on the bed, Eileen paused in her ministrations to send a firm glare of blue-eyed disapproval. A huff of silent laughter lifted Rosamund’s chest at the sight of the kitten’s pink tongue paused in mid-lick. If only the library below contained books that had to do with something other than plants. Or the law. She needed an entirely different sort of book. A guide to animal nature. Preferably one with a chapter on cats.

And two chapters at least on men.

Chapter 11

Paris woke with the sour tang of whiskey in his mouth. Too familiar, but surely preferable, at least in some small way, to waking with the sweet taste of Rosamund’s kiss on his lips. Waking to proof he’d fallen so far, he was capable of debauching the governess. The prim, prickly, oh-so-English governess…

Unfortunately, that string of adjectives was proving far more appealing than he liked.

But by God a gentleman was accountable for his actions, even if he could not always control his wayward thoughts. He deserved every pang of guilt that had wracked him through yet another interminable night. Even now he could not be certain what he’d meant to do when he’d grabbed her wrist. Stop her from issuing a second invitation, he’d told himself.

If only he’d been strong enough to decline the first.

Molly appeared in the doorway to the drawing room bearing coffee on a tray, for once a welcome distraction. “Och, here you are, Mr. Paris,” she called as she sailed into the room and deposited the tray on the table beside his chair. “Up early I see.” For a housemaid who found his bed undisturbed more mornings than it had been slept in, she oughtn’t to sound so surprised.

He’d fully intended to retire last night, though. He’d even allowed himself to imagine a night of undisturbed rest. Then he’d heard Miss Gorse’s muffled cry of distress from the neighboring room and the evening had taken rather a different turn. Afterward, he’d been unable to bear the thought of lying for hours in the darkness of his own chamber, knowing Rosamund slept just a few feet away. So he’d retreated to the darkness of the drawing room instead, taking a perverse sort of comfort in the least comfortable chair he could find. He’d allowed himself a single dram of liquor, just enough to dull the too-sharp memory of her lips and what might have happened if not for…

“That damned kitten,” he muttered aloud—a phrase he’d never expected to say. Certainly not in a voice tinged with jealousy. But he could not deny that he’d wanted to be the beast cradled against Rosamund’s perfect breast last night.

Molly sighed and shook her head as she poured. “Likely it won’t be any worse than Miss Erica’s hedgehog.”