She had kissed Theo, obviously. They had intended to marry, after all.
But comparing the touch of Theo’s lips to Alex’s was like equating a candle to a bonfire.
One was merely a pleasant point of light.
The other . . . a consuming conflagration.
Heat licked between them, curling her toes in her slippers and sending a cascade of sparks shooting through her chest.
His lips were a brand, marking her as his own.
Alex pulled back first, eyes glazed and stunned. His chest heaved under her hands.
“Why do you kiss me?” he whispered, brows drawn and baffled.
Oh!
The truth fell from her before she could catch it.
“Because my head was too heavy to resist gravity—” She paused, and then continued on a sigh. “—and I needed your lips to pillow my fall.”
14
Was it possible to die from mortification?
Lottie feared it might be.
Worse, the one person she could pose the medical question to—namely one Dr. Alexander Whitaker—was the very source of her embarrassment.
How could she have kissed him? Why had she done it?
She had rushed out of his bedchamber as if her skirts were on fire. Which, given the heat of her skin in that moment, was a legitimate concern. She took supper in her rooms and then lay awake for half the night, marinating in acidic mortification.
What should she do?
She could not avoid Cousin Alex forever.
Or, rather, she did notwantto avoid Cousin Alex forever.
But she did need a small amount of distance.
Time to clear the darts of attraction and temptation from her brain.
Time to sort through the wonder of their conversation and wrangle her wayward emotions into order.
She tossed and turned in her bed, unable to fall asleep. The clock in her bedchamber struck two.
As was typical in the middle of the night, her thoughts twisted through strange paths.
She mourned Papa and Gabriel and little Anne. She never forgot them.
Some days, she still expected to hear Papa call out to her—Lottie-love, have you seen my spectacles?Or to feel the mattress sag as Anne sneaked into her bed for a cuddle. Or to watch Gabriel layer paint on a canvas.
Their absence was a gaping hole, and Lottie struggled to rebuild the shambles of her life around the chasm of their loss.
Of course, pondering her ever-present grief did not logically follow from her mortifying kiss.
However, theywereconnected for her.
