His hands cupped her face, cradling her gently even as he demanded entry into her mouth, claiming her with his tongue as well as his mouth.
This was a different kind of kiss.
Shockingly intimate and deliciously erotic.
She had goosebumps everywhere, despite being enveloped by his heat, with her bodice pressed tight against his chest.
A spinster could get used to kisses like these.
Cynthia could get used to Nottingvale, in specific.
Breathless, she broke the kiss while she still could.
Within a week he would be betrothed to some other woman. It would not do to indulge a tendre for a man she could not keep.
Cynthia was not so silly as to risk her heart.
She hoped.
Chapter 8
Alexander was spoilt for choice.
He had met all of his potential brides, spoken with all of his potential brides, dined with all of his potential brides, danced with all of his potential brides...
And he was no closer to betrothing himself with any of them.
The Yuletide party was performing its function splendidly. It was Alexander who was dragging his feet.
In order to allow his guests time to sleep, he had planned no morning activities other than breakfast, which was laid out on the dining room sideboard at dawn and kept fresh until luncheon.
Afternoon activities were many and varied, most of them arranged by his mother. Society rules dictated that a female hostess preside over house parties, and Alexander’s mother was happy to fill that role until her son could produce a wife.
Alexander was happy, too. Those same rules kept his guests entertained and his mother busy, leaving him free to moon out of a side window unobserved.
Where had Miss Finch gone at eight o’clock in the morning?
Why had she beenawakeat eight o’clock in the morning?
Was she ever coming back to the party?
For years, it had been her habit to slip away for an hour or two, usually in the mornings before the day’s engagements began.
But last night, she had been up late playing the pianoforte. And kissing Alexander. Who had barely slept as a consequence, except to dream of kissing her again.
Nuncheon had come and gone with no sign of Miss Finch.
Guests were playing Commerce in the blue drawing room, dicing in the red parlor, performing a pantomime in the ballroom, taking chocolate and chatting in the dining room...
Not Miss Finch.
She hadthingsto do.
He wondered what they were. And if, whilst doing them, she occasionally recalled certain kisses she’d shared with the Duke of Nottingvale.
Whose Yuletide party she wassupposedto be attending.
A knock on the front door sounded down the corridor.
