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Although her coughing had subsided,Priscilla found it exceedingly difficult to breathe. He stood so close the fabric of his coat scraped against her breasts through the thin muslin of her gown.
He did not release her. “You were saying?”
What exactly had she been saying? Her mind blanked. The nearness of Timothy’s lips to hers overshadowed everything else.
He’d kissed her before—as Emma. Perhaps . . .
“In your letter, you mentioned your memories of Emma. Would that we could return to that cottage and I could be her again. To have you kiss me once more.”
The incredible moss-green of his eyes darkened, his lids lowering to half-mast, then dipped to her lips.
Her breath hitched as he closed the distance between them and pressed his mouth to hers, nipping gently at first, teasing, tasting, testing, then becoming more insistent.
With one large hand, he grasped both of her wrists, still holding her arms aloft, then snaked his other arm around her waist, pulling her tight against him.
She sighed, her lips parting with the exhalation, and Timothy’s tongue swept inside, setting her afire.
More glorious than the first kiss, presumably because she was awake to appreciate it and participate fully, she prayed it would never end. If she could but stay like this with Timothy forever, her life would be complete.
And yet . . . she wanted more. Bits and pieces of Nash’s words broke through her muddled mind.Pleasure of a kiss magnified one thousand times. Surpassing any other. With someone you care about, perhaps love, especially the first time.
She would marry Mr. Netherborne in five days. Did she want her first time to be with him, a man who elicited none of the effervescent excitement currently bubbling through her like champagne?
Unequivocally not.
Was it wrong?
Perhaps.
Probably.
Very well—yes.
However, she wasn’t about to hone her moral conscience at such a moment, at least not concerning Mr. Netherborne and his strict standards for behavior. There would be plenty of time to do her penance in the countryside—years, in fact.
Honoria was another matter entirely. Priscilla had no wish to cause her injury.
Timothy pulled back, breaking the heavenly contact, and rested his forehead against hers.
She gathered her wits—what little remained after that mind-numbing kiss. “Have you proposed to Lady Honoria?”
His arm around her waist grew taut, and his fingers pressed against her back more firmly. “No.”
Thank goodness.
“And your feelings for her haven’t changed, grown deeper?”
He shook his head. “What concern of it is yours?”
“Your answer determines the course of my next action. Had you secured a betrothal to Honoria, or even admitted to a greater affection, I would have bid you goodnight and left.”
Releasing her, he stepped away, putting respectable distance between them and taking all the glorious heat with him. “And since I haven’t? What now, Priscilla?”
A warning sounded in her head. Upon arriving at Timothy’s, her intention had been precisely as she’d stated—to answer his questions and correct his misunderstanding. To have a maid, or even Victor, with her would have kept her from speaking the truth fully and freely.
The kiss changed everything. She would spend the remainder of her life in regret if she did not make her request. He could very well say no and send her packing with a sound shove out the door. Nash’s advice, albeit designed for a man, rang in her ears.
