The kiss went wild.
Time lost all meaning. Will losthimselfas their tongues slid and danced. The taste of her—champagne and strawberries—made his blood sing, and he devoured her, slanting his mouth over hers again and again, drinking deep, drawing her into a glorious, dizzying haze of passion.
Her perfume filled his lungs and he reminded himself to slow down, not to scare her with his ardency, when what he really wanted was to strip her naked and kiss every inch of her, to pleasure her with his hands and his mouth and his body until the two of them were sweaty and limp with satisfaction.
Glorious.
He almost groaned her name as he pressed a kiss to the skin beneath her ear, and he could hear her rapid, panting breaths as her fingers tightened in his hair, urging him on.
“Will.”
His own name—a shivery, almost-inaudible sigh—escaped her and he froze in shock. Did she even know what she’d said?
Did she know she was kissinghim? Or was she imagining him, while thinking she was kissing another?
Bloody Hell. This was madness.
Will’s blood was pounding, urging him on, but the insistent, nagging voice of sanity refused to be silenced.
This was wrong. So wrong. What was he doing?
He absolutely shouldnotbe kissing Lucy Montgomery.
If the two of them were discovered there would be a scandal. The kind of scandal that would end with them hastily married to satisfy the gossips, or leave her ruined, and himself with a reputation as a shameless cad.
He wrenched himself from her arms, even though it almost pained him to do so. He caught her shoulders and thrust her away to arm’s length. And then he said her name in the most shocked tone he could muster, as if he’d only just made the discovery that it was her.
“Lucy? What in God’s name are you playing at?”
Her gasp was audible in the darkness.
He was glad that he couldn’t see her face. He had to put a stop to this farce before he found himself on his knees at her feet, begging for her hand.
“Arden!” She staggered back, almost falling into the tall hedge behind her in her effort to escape. “I . . . you . . oh, God.” Her voice was a strangled whisper.
“What are you doing out here?” he demanded, employing his best disapproving-older-brother tone. “You’re supposed to be safe in the ballroom, not skulking about the gardens, kissing strange men in the shrubbery.”
“I wasn’t skulking. I was just getting some air when—”
“—yougrabbedme,” he interrupted, trying to sound outraged. “And kissed me. Most thoroughly.”
“No,” she countered hotly. “Youkissedme.”
“Because I thought you were Cressida Bonham!”
She sucked in a breath at his lie, and he forced himself to slide the knife home. “Why on earth would I want to kissyou?”
His own cruelty made him wince, but it was for the best. He was about to return to France; she needed to be free to pursue her own adventures. There could be nothing between them. Ever.
“Why indeed?” She sounded more mortified than haughty, and his stomach clenched at the thought of causing her pain. “Let’s just agree that this was a terrible mistake and never mention it again. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” he said solemnly.
She gave him a firm shove in the chest. “Stand aside, then.”
He sidestepped with a sarcastic flourish. “With pleasure. Do you think you can make it back to the house without assaulting another innocent bystander, or do I need to accompany you?”
Her snort of disgust almost made him laugh. “I wouldn’t dream of dragging you away from Cressida’s superior charms. Goodnight.”
