Page 43 of Better Off Wed

Jeremy couldn’t think of an answer. Every drop of blood seemed to have fled his brain, and he couldn’t for the life of him remember what had possessed him to take the book from the library. When he finally did remember—because he believed the mistaken chess move might not be a simple misprint and wanted to study the pages at greater leisure—it wasn’t an explanation he could offer to her.

And all the while, he was wondering how long one kiss might have lasted, how far they might have tested the limits of no more, if the spine of Philip Stamma’s contribution to the game of kings hadn’t jabbed Laura in the leg.

At the moment, he wished he’d let the damn book burn.

“Um. Well, you see…”

She tipped her head, the better to look him in the eye. “You did seem to be rather flustered by that naughty chessboard and in a hurry to get away. I suppose you must’ve accidentally—”

“Exactly,” he agreed, snatching the book from her with one hand and running the other through his hair, as if by doing so he could set her appealingly tousled curls to rights. “Simple absentmindedness. I’ll just take it back down now, shall I?” He tucked the volume under one arm and set about stuffing the hems of his shirt back into his breeches—when had they come loose? “You, um, you should retire for the night,” he told her, nodding toward the bed and trying not to take pride in the fact that her breath was still a little ragged.

A frown flickered across her brow. “Are you…are you certain?”

“Yes,” he lied. “I’m certain.” One of them had to pretend. “Best if I—if you—well.” She had lifted the sheets and was slowly sliding her bare legs into the bed. Oh, how he wanted to follow them, wanted nothing more than to revel in her kiss-swollen lips and her heavy-lidded eyes.

He picked up the candlestick. “I think I’ll look around the library a bit more. Don’t wait up.”

She shuffled down in the bed and drew the covers up to her chin so that when she spoke, her voice was slightly muffled and he could no longer judge her tone. Disappointment? Mockery? “You’ll take a chill.”

God, he hoped so. A dip in an icy pond wouldn’t go amiss, at the moment.

Except that even the thought of the cold, dark library made him want to stay and snuggle into the warm, downy bed with her.

“Your wifely concern is most touching.”

Her smile peeked from beneath the linens, and some of the usual wry self-assurance returned to her expression. “You see? I told you that just one kiss would improve our performance as newlyweds.”

He dipped his head. “I should never have doubted you.”

“In future,” she said, yawning as she settled into the pillow, “see that you don’t.”

“No, my lady.” He stepped away from the bed, taking the candlelight with him. The shadows stretched between them. “I have learned my lesson.”

He did not believe her passion had been an act. He knew his had not. Nevertheless, their fiery kiss was fresh proof that playing parts could be dangerous.

It was high time for him to remember his proper role: secret agent to the Crown.

* * * *

Lady Sterling had been kissed by half a dozen rakes, always with one part of her mind focused on evading their grasping hands, and the other part picturing the prize she intended to steal. She’d forgotten those kisses before they were over.

Laura herself was more of a novice in the art of kissing, having never had so much as a beau. Most of her experience was limited to listening to maids talk of bad breath and slobber, of tongues forced between lips and nearly down throats, and wondering how anyone could take pleasure in such an act.

Until tonight. Until that moment on the stairs, in Jeremy’s arms, when she’d wanted…something. A closeness that wasn’t merely practical, that definitely wasn’t proper. Surely, in comparison to asking him to undress her and insisting he sleep in her bed, a simple kiss would be harmless?

Kisses, as it turned out, were not simple. They were wonderfully complex. A Shakespearean prologue that introduced the characters and established the tone and even revealed the plot—all without spoiling the play. Knowing how the story ended still left ample room to wonder how it got there, to wander the many side paths leading to that destination. Such a prologue merely whetted one’s appetite for more.

And that, of course, was the problem. She had explicitly agreed to no more, and at the time, she had meant it. But kisses were quite pleasant after all when one liked the person doing the kissing. More than pleasant. Somewhere along the way, a kiss that had begun as gentle and tentative had transformed into something that did not quench fires but fanned them.

When had she grown cruel? Cruel to herself, for she still ached and wanted, even more than before. And cruel to him, for she felt certain he ached too, alone in the cold, dark library, where he’d so obviously fled rather than risk doing a dishonorable thing.

Not that kisses—or even more than kisses—were dishonorable in her view. What mattered was whether they were wanted by both parties.

Then she recalled the strange expression in his eyes. He’d been an eager participant in the kiss once things had got started, but she could not say that her suggestion of it had been precisely welcome. That glimpse of…something, rising from blue depths. Anger, she had thought at first. Frustration. Wariness. As if he’d bottled up some persistent pain until it was no longer recognizable as such—at least, not to those who did not wish to see it.

Hard on the heels of that enigmatic look had been his declaration that he would not marry her. Well, she neither wanted nor expected an offer of marriage. Not from him. Not from anyone.

It had smarted a bit, though, when he’d insisted that she would never be Lady Sterling in earnest, that hint that he did not think her worthy of sharing his title.