Page 30 of Lyon on the Loose

“Lissy.”

Her hand stilled, and he stood, turned, and brought his other hand to her cheek, tilting her face up. Her eyes were wide, luminous in the lingering daylight.

“You undo me,” he whispered.

She made the smallest sound—something between surprise and longing—and then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss was slow at first, careful, reverent; he didn’t want to startle her. But she leaned into him, her free hand coming to rest against his bare chest, and the kiss deepened. Warmth flooded him—comfort, desire, belonging.

When at last they parted, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Oh, Lissy, none of this was meant to happen. I’m so sorry—I think I know what I’m meant to be doing, what I’m going to do, but then I see you, and everything changes.”

She blinked at him, lips parted.

“Roland . . .”

He rested a finger against her lips. He didn’t want her to say anything—she had too much power over him. What if she didn’t feel the same? Could he bear it?

“Roland, I—”

But before she could finish, a distant voice echoed down the courtyard calling her name—Lady Beatrice, sounding impatient.

Lissy stepped back, flustered, her cheeks charmingly flushed.

“I should go,” she whispered.

She slipped through the coach house door and was gone, leaving Roland standing shirtless in the gloom, his shoulder still thrumming from the effect of the ointment.

He pressed his hand to his brow and let out a long, helpless sigh.

He, Roland Chetwynd—scourge of the card tables, veteran of scrapes and brawls, lover of the widowed and lonely beauties of the ton—was at risk of giving his heart away.

He was on the verge of falling for a scapegrace beauty with a scandalous past, just as the wags at White’s had wagered he would. How would he ever be able to show his face there again?

Chapter Fifteen

They were all right about Lissy—every one of them. She was a wicked, scandalous young woman who’d let down her family and her friends and deserved to be locked up in a tower for eternity.

Only . . . she was having the time of her life, thanks to her tantalizing liaisons with the Hon. Roland Chetwynd, and she wouldn’t change a single moment of it. No man had ever made her feel as he did—as if she were the most beautiful, most perfect woman on earth. His affection and admiration surrounded her like a cloak, enveloping her, heating her blood, making her more aware of her womanhood than she had ever been before.

Was this what it was meant to be like between a man and a woman? If so, her relationship with Oscar had been nothing more than a dried husk, an empty imitation of love. There had been no hot blood, no passion, no devil-may-care delight.

For the first time since her mother had proposed it, Lissy realized she was looking forward Friday’s masked ball—particularly if Roland attended and danced with her. Preferably, the waltz, because that meant they could be close again. Everybody would see them, of course, but with their masks, no one would know who they were. Her veins fizzed with delicious anticipation.

“What are you up to there, Lissy?”

“Latymer! Where’ve you been all this time?” Her brother had arrived the previous day, but had made no effort to seek her out. She climbed carefully down from the stepladder she’d been standing on to attach a branch of ivy above the door into the Great Hall.

“In my room. I had a sermon to finish so I’ve had my meals brought up. All finished now, and a very fine piece of work, I believe.”

Latymer took her elbow as she reached the ground. But as she moved to embrace him, he stepped back, his face stony.

“We are not children anymore, Lissy—no needless shows of childish affection are required.”

She’d forgotten how pretentious her older brother had become since acquiring his curacy.

“Latymer—you’re not in your parish now. Nobody is watching. You don’t have to behave like a boor.”