Page 50 of A Taste of Miss Honey

Chapter 16

Opportunity Knocks.

Hyde Park, London, 24th March 1816

Even if she’d been prepared for it—and how a girl could ever be prepared for a kiss like that was beyond her—she could have done nothing to stop it. Or, more accurately, she would have done nothing to stop it. Despite lurching between hating him, missing him, worrying for him, and wishing him to the devil, she had never ridded herself of the memory of that kiss.

Her gloved hands slid over the smooth wool of his coat, and she longed to take them off, despite the icy bite of the wind that tugged at her skirts. She wanted to slide her fingers beneath his coat and seek the warmth of his body. She remembered too vividly the feel of his hot skin beneath her palms, the smooth, muscular planes of his chest, the way she had tangled her fingers in the wiry golden hair. All that lay beneath this perfectly tailored exterior, a façade that he wanted to use to keep her at a distance, even though she had tempted him this far. But she tempted herself just as much, her stupid heart wanting things she wasn’t certain he knew how to give.

And now here she was, compounding her idiocy by doing it all again, and she was powerless to stop him.

Well, no. Not powerless. She had learned via Angel, who had been taught some fascinating lessons by Black Jack, that there were ways a lady could defend herself, and not just with a pistol. The most effective being the swift application of a knee to the delicate place between a fellow’s legs that most gentlewomen pretended did not exist. Or, she could just have said no. She suspected, despite the swagger of Boreas, and the less than gentlemanly persona he had adopted as Benedict Midwinter, that he would never dream of taking advantage of her. That, after all, was why he’d behaved like a heartless brute after he’d kissed her last time. To save her, or some such nonsense.

Even as her grip tightened on his lapels, as he pulled her closer and deepened the kiss, a little voice warned her in the back of her mind. He’ll do it again. Just wait and see.

She didn’t doubt it, lost as she was in the tantalising scent of him, it was faint—clean male skin, the faintest trace of bergamot, and the chill of the day that clung to him. Yet his lips were so warm, so soft, and she wanted only to throw herself at him and hold on for dear life. His wits were already returning, though. She could feel him withdraw from the kiss as he remembered where they were, who he was, and her reputation. And so, just to be clear that she was not some little pea-wit he had overwhelmed with his masculine beauty—although it wasn’t so far from the truth—she grabbed the back of his neck and held him in place, refusing to let him up.

He made a choked sound and held her tighter, before finally coming to his senses and reaching up, unwinding her from his person. Still, she could not deny a thrill of satisfaction as she saw the wicked light in his eyes, the dark glimmer of something she knew was dangerous but wanted to provoke rather than run away from. He stepped away from her, glancing around them to determine if anyone had seen the outrageous display, but somehow they had escaped notice. His beautiful eyes, usually so cold, burned with desire and frustration as he turned back to her.

“You are the wickedest girl that ever lived.”

The words thrilled her, but more so the deep growl of his voice that made shivers run down her spine. That she could have the slightest effect upon a man like this, one who lived in such a dangerous world, who risked his life for king and country, was thrilling.

“Does that mean you’ll take me driving again?”

He huffed, looking as though he was torn between throwing her in the Serpentine and kissing her again. “If Lord Beaumarsh has any sense whatsoever, he’ll not let me within ten miles of you. I cannot believe he allowed it once.”

“I didn’t tell him,” she said simply. “Or Clementine.”

He looked so utterly horrified that she had to bite her lip to keep herself from laughing.

“I told the butler just before I left. They’ll know by now.”

He threw up his hands and stalked away a few paces before turning on his heel to glare at her. “Marvellous. So, not only am I wanted by every revenue man along the south-east coast and being hunted down by a ruthless traitor, now I’ll have your brother-in-law wanting to string me up by my tender parts from the nearest lamppost. Thank you so much, Miss Honeywell. You continue to make my life difficult.”

Izzy shrugged, unimpressed. “There’s no need to become hysterical. If not for me, you’d not have a life to make difficult. Besides, you enjoy it.”

“I am not the least bit hysterical,” he retorted, though she could not help but wonder just how badly he wanted to throttle her. “And I do not enjoy the way you seem intent upon giving me heart failure. Come along.”

He took hold of her arm, towing her back towards the phaeton.

“Stop manhandling me,” she grumbled, pulling her arm free. “I do wish you would stop acting like I’m a child in need of protecting. I am not.”

“Oh, I think I’ve proven beyond a doubt that I do not think you a child.”

He smirked and she fought a blush, knowing he was being deliberately crass to make her hate him again. Well, not this time. She knew his modus operandi now and would not let him fool her again.

“No. You seem to enjoy kissing me a good deal. I’m glad, for I thought it was very nice too.”

Izzy waited, knowing she ought not to provoke him but finding the temptation to do so irresistible. He stopped walking. There was a taut silence.

“Nice.”

Izzy stopped too, turning back to regard him quizzically. “Yes.”

“Nice?”

His eyes flashed with a dangerous light, tension thrumming through his broad frame and communicating itself to her in ways she did not entirely comprehend. She felt it, though, a dangerous thrumming beneath her skin that made her feel hot everywhere, despite the icy wind that stirred her skirts and tugged at the ribbons of her bonnet. She returned her most angelic expression, the one that made people believe she truly was as sweet and innocent as a vicar’s daughter ought to be.