“I don’t even know you,” she whispered, a feeble protest when her whole being suddenly ached to be closer to him. She knew she should stop his presumptuous behavior immediately, but found herself unable to muster any retort. His scent, both spicy and warm, rolled over her when she inhaled. It was so different from anything else she could remember, masculine and mysterious.
“I’m easy to get to know,” he murmured back.
Rose knew what would happen next, but was still unprepared when he caught her face in his hands, then bent to brush her lips with his own.
Rose had been kissed before, rather often in fact. Men liked to take advantage of her blindness, and frequently tried to see how far they could press her. She always corrected such misapprehensions with cold finality.
But this kiss was different. Her body reacted instantaneously to his mouth on hers, her pulse quickening. As if he knew how sensitive she was to touch, he kept the kiss light––but not innocent. His mouth almost hovered over her own, sometimes pulling back so only his breath touched her lips. It was intoxicating, and she felt her body beg her to succumb to it, to let this encounter go where it would.
Then, he began to rein in the kiss, slowly letting her come back to herself, letting their bodies disentangle. Though they were both still sitting with perfect propriety––well, nearly perfect––on the bench, she’d felt just how much they had reacted to each other, how easily they had meshed.
“Why did you do that?” she whispered.
“You looked as if you needed a kiss,” he said, sounding far too calm when her own nerves were jangling like an out-of-key orchestra. “I’d apologize for doing so, but then we’d have to admit that it happened, and we should probably avoid that.”
“Indeed,” Rose breathed, thinking that her mother would faint if she heard about her daughter getting kissed in a garden by a stranger.
He found her hand in the darkness. “Let me take you back to your family. I wouldn’t want them to worry.” He rose and offered his arm, now the solicitous protector again.
Rosalind stood, gripping his arm rather more tightly than before. Absently, she ran her free hand over her hair and dress, hoping to smooth what must be a rumpled appearance.
“You look just fine,” he said quietly as he led them back to the house. “More than fine, in fact. No one would ever suspect you’d just…well, never mind. As we agreed, nothing happened.”
“Nothing at all.”
“You remain happily on your road to spinsterhood, which still seems an incredible loss,” he went on. “Men don’t get such a silly label. Though bachelor doesn’t make much sense either. A batch of what, I ask you? Oh, those steps are coming up again, Miss Blake. Six of them, first one just…now…there you go.”
“Thank you,” she said, then added, “I hope you are a bachelor. That is, I hope you don’t kiss girls in gardens when you’ve already got a wife.”
“Miss Blake, I’m wounded! Of course I haven’t got a wife. It’s rather a point of contention with my mother, as the whole world…knows…except for you…” He trailed off, then said, “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“You introduced yourself as Adrian Marsh, and I did assume you were telling the truth,” she said, exasperated all over again.
“I was, but there’s a bit more to it—”
Before he could say more, a very familiar voice interrupted. “Rosalind, where have you been?”
Her mother had found them.
Chapter 3
Mothers were Adrian’s nemesis.
And Miss Blake’s mother was not been pleased to see her with him.
To say that Adrian was not the person Rosalind’s family was expecting to meet would be an understatement. Mrs. Blake’s jaw dropped open when she saw him, and the young lady standing nearby held a walking stick, despite not looking as if she required it, and Adrian realized she must be the cousin Rose spoke of.
“Mrs. Blake, I presume,” he said politely upon facing the older woman, who was handsomely gowned in a light yellow dress that suited her dark hair, barely touched with gray. He could see echoes of Rosalind’s features in this woman’s face. “I do not believe we have met. I am Adrian Marsh, Viscount Norbury, at your service.”
“Where is Mr. Hynes?” Mrs. Blake blurted, too flustered to cover her confusion.
“Ah, yes. Hynes.” Adrian smiled benignly. He squeezed Rosalind’s hand, still resting on his arm, imperceptibly. “I cut in on the dance floor, I’m afraid. Utterly improper of me, of course. I beg your forgiveness.”
“There is nothing to forgive…my lord,” Rosalind said, squeezing his arm rather hard as she uttered the my lord. It was an unspoken rebuke of his lapse, and while the pinch did hurt a tad, he liked that the lady chose to deliver her opinion this way, instead of through a tirade.
“In that case,” Adrian said, carefully aiming his comment to Mrs. Blake, “I will return your daughter to you, knowing that my lack of manners has not completely hardened her opinion against me.” He drew Rosalind’s hand to the other young lady’s, so that she would continue to have a guide.
“Are you Miss Blake’s cousin?” he asked, knowing that the mother was far too flustered to deal with the dilemma of whether or not to introduce him to the lady.
