However, her body had a mind of its own.
Her arms wound around his neck, and the rest of her moved nearer, pressing her breasts into his chest, absorbing the solid strength of his masculine frame. His lips feathered over hers in the lightest of kisses, leaving hers tingling and wanting more.
“Better?” he asked.
Yes and no. What was happening to her?
Instead of answering with words, she tugged his head back down to hers. The kiss deepened. And then the most delightful thing happened. Wilton’s tongue slipped inside her mouth. He tasted faintly of champagne. Delicious. The musk of his scent invaded her senses next. Shaving soap and man.
He sucked on her upper lip. There was no urge to giggle any longer. Instead, there was the urge to align her body more fully to his. To feel those lips on her skin.
As if he had heard her body’s inner request, the viscount pulled his mouth from hers to plant a teasing line of kisses along her jaw, all the way to her ear. His breath was hot, his breathing gratifyingly ragged.
Good.
So was hers.
More than she cared to admit.
And her heart? Why, it was galloping fast and furious. She had never been so affected before. Which was preposterous. Perhaps she was soused. Too much champagne. Yes, surely that must be the reason why, instead of putting an end to this madness she had begun, she tipped her head back. Why a low moan of pleasure fled her as his knowing lips found the particularly sensitive skin of her throat.
The trail of kisses he made to her collarbone had her aflame.
Her fingers slid into his hair. It was thicker than it looked, soft and luxurious as silk. His mouth traveled lower, to the top of her left breast. Lightly, he delivered kisses there. He did not attempt to paw at her as some men had. Instead, his gentle, teasing seduction had her on the edge. Her nipples were hard and aching within her corset.
Once more, as if he sensed her need, he kissed lower, until his lips were separated from the peak of her breast by the mere few barriers of cloth and boning. A keening cry tore from her. She was desperate for more. Charity arched her back, presenting herself to him, completely forgetting this was Viscount Wilton seducing her. Forgetting that she had once been in control of the moment and now she was hopelessly, helplessly lost.
Wilton kissed her other breast, his hands learning the curve of her waist to maddening effect. He touched her with a reverence that heightened her yearning. Touched her as if she were the goddess she had transformed herself into for the purpose of this costume ball. Touched her as if—
The sounds of voices reached them, propelled on a breeze.
Wilton froze, lips grazing the top of her breast, the heat of his breath bathing her flesh for a heartbeat before he disengaged. He released her and stepped away, the reminder that they were not alone apparently enough to restore his sense of propriety. If only it had been enough for Charity. She wanted more.
Which made no sense. She did not like Viscount Wilton, regardless of how undeniably handsome he was and how wonderfully well he kissed…
“I do beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I…forgot myself. That never should have happened.”
He was not wrong in his assessment. And neither should she have liked it so much.
“Nonsense,” she forced herself to say, pinning a smile to her kiss-swollen lips lest he could see her in the moonlight. “That is what masques are made for, is it not?”
If only she felt as breezily dismissive as she sounded. In truth, Charity was shaken by her reaction to him. Shaken to her core by his kisses and his touch.
“But I do not know your name,” he said.
He had not recognized her, then. How lowering for her vanity. Gentlemen always knew who she was, if not because of her reputation, then because of her appearance.
Not Viscount Wilton, however.
“Flora,” she told him, for that was who she was this evening, although her pride was rather bruised that he had not known it was she. “Thank you for the kisses, Mr. Shakespeare. If you will excuse me, I must return to the masque.”
Without waiting for his response, she slipped past him, seeking the lights and sounds of the ballroom. Trying to quell the disappointment and confusion roiling within.
Chapter 3
The next day dawned disturbingly bright and filled with sun. Charity was on a walk about Fangfoss Manor’s pond with her finishing school chums Lady Clementine Hammond, Lady Angeline O’Shea, Miss Olive L’arbre, Miss Melanie Pennypacker, and Lady Raina Prince. The six of them had bonded during their stay at the Twittingham Academy. The friendships they had forged had lasted years, even if not every lesson they had learned within those hallowed walls had managed similar duration.
But despite loving every moment of being reunited with her friends, Charity found herself feeling rather vexed this afternoon. Listening to Angeline, Olive, and Clementine chatter on about the love matches they had made during the course of the house party contributed to her general malaise.
