The deep timbre of his voice was unmistakable, setting off a shiver of awareness she could not fight. Eugie turned to find him striding toward her, unfairly handsome in his evening wear. He had been the perfect gentleman ever since the night he had trespassed in her bedchamber.
The Prince of Proper in truth, always impeccable, always above reproach. She missed his kiss. Part of her—perhapsallof her, even—liked him wicked.
“You followed me,” she accused without heat.
For in truth, something inside her came to life at the sight of him. After little time alone over the last few days, the chance to be with just him appealed.
“I did.” The grin he sent her was unrepentant. Boyish, almost. He stopped, near enough to touch. “But not before securing a handful of raisins at the expense of my fingers.”
“Did you burn yourself?” Without thought, she reached for his gloveless hands, turning them over for her inspection.
Just as quickly, he flipped her hands over, clasping them in his warm grip. “It stung, but I shall live.”
His scent washed over her, and her body’s response was instant. She was falling into his eyes. And she was oh-so aware of everything—the space separating their mouths, the crackling of the fire in the distance, the blowing of the wind beyond the walls of Abingdon House, the heat rolling off his big body.
“Do you realize where you are standing, Eugie?” he asked softly.
Unwisely near to him, but she could not bear to take a step away. Could not bear to break the connection of their hands or gazes.
“Right here,” she said.
“Look up,” he told her, his sensual lips curving into a smile so tender, she felt it in her core.
There was such promise there, so much delicious intent.
For a moment, she could do nothing other than stare at him, drinking in the sight of him in the candlelight, this man with whom she had shared such shocking intimacies. This man who felt so familiar and right.
But then she forced herself to look up at last, and when she did, it was to find a sprig of mistletoe hanging overhead, suspended from the beam supporting the second floor of the library. Hunger flared to life. Desire began as a throb between her thighs and turned into a great, pulsing need that threatened to consume her.
She glanced back to find him watching her in a manner that stole her breath.
“Oh,” was all she could think of saying.
Not even a coherent sentence.
Because she felt unaccountably shy in this moment. It was different. Their other kisses had been sudden and reckless, or hidden in darkness. They had been covert and secret. They had not been in the well-lit library where anyone could come upon them at any moment. They had not been after he had declared his intention to marry her.
“I am obliged to steal a kiss,” he said.
“And then my dowry,” she quipped, forcing herself to recall all the reasons why he was wrong for her. Why this was wrong.
Why she must not allow a kiss with him to cloud her judgment.
“I am the best kind of fortune hunter you can find, Eugie Winter,” he told her, drawing her nearer by their linked hands. “An honest one.”
Yes, he had been truthful with her, had he not?
He had been candid about his debts, his scoundrel father. He had promised her a mutually beneficial solution to their problems instead. She had no idea why that seemed so appealing to her.
Cottage, she reminded herself.Think of the cottage. The roses.
“There is no good kind of fortune hunter,” she forced herself to say.
But she did not break their entwined hands. Nor did she step away.
“Mayhap you might think of me as a man instead,” he suggested, his gaze dipping to her lips. “A man who wants you very much. A man who wishes to be your husband. A man who is going to kiss you.”
And then, his mouth was on hers.
