But she did.
Smooth and warm and demanding.
Surprisingly skilled.
Fancy that, Viscount Wilton, a skilled kisser. Polite, but skilled nonetheless. His mouth remained closed, moving over hers with gentle coaxing. There was something about the way his lower lip fit into the seam of hers that was…marvelous. There was no other way to describe it.
Her hands went to his shoulders. They were broad and firm beneath his evening coat. But there was an odd sensation tickling her upper lip. Another sensation whispering against her chin. The false mustache and beard he had been wearing, she realized. How silly he had looked from across the ballroom, the mustache comically askew.
A giggle rose in her throat before she could stifle it as she thought about the mustache. Not the thing to do when being thoroughly kissed by a gentleman, she knew. Men did possess such sensitive feelings pertaining to such matters as their carnal prowess.
He ended the kiss as abruptly as he had begun it, but he did not withdraw. Instead, his hands settled on her waist. His face remained near, the heat of his breath skating over her mouth.
“You laugh,” he observed.
She bit her lip to stifle another wave of giggles that threatened to flee her. “Your mustache, my lord. I am afraid it teased my upper lip.”
“Cursed thing,” he muttered. “Of all the times for Anderson to decide I ought to dress as William Shakespeare.”
“Anderson?”
“My valet.”
His costume had not been Wilton’s idea then. That made sense. There was also something utterly endearing about the notion the staid viscount had taken direction from his manservant.
But no! What was this? First she had enjoyed Wilton’s kiss. Now, an inexplicable warmth was invading her heart. She had lured him into the moonlight for a kiss on a dare from her dear friend Raina. Not because she had wanted to kiss him. Not because she had believed she would enjoy it.
The moonlight shone on that mouth of his, making it look sinful and sending a wicked bolt of desire straight through her. Charity had kissed her share of gentlemen. She knew a good kiss from a bad. But she had never pressed her lips to another man’s and felt such an inexplicable thrill.
She wanted that mouth on hers again.
“Perhaps you ought to remove it,” she blurted. “The mustache, that is.”
“I would, but I fear taking a portion of my philtrum along with it.”
That sounded painful. Just what had his valet used to affix the mustache?
“Then perhaps you should just kiss me again,” she found herself suggesting.
What? Do not invite another kiss. This man is the boring killjoy of the house party. You do not evenlikehim, Charity.
“You liked the kiss?”
Very much so, to her irritation.
“Yes.”
“Do you wish for another?”
Perhaps this had been a bad idea. Yes, it definitely had.
“Why ask so many questions when we could be kissing?” she grumbled.
“Why indeed?”
His voice was low. Almost a growl. And the deepness of that rich baritone made a frisson of new longing trill down her spine.
Charity did not have time to contemplate her unwanted reaction to him, however, because in the next breath, his mouth was on hers once more. Her mind knew she was not meant to be enjoying this kiss, that it came from the proper viscount, and if there was anything she disliked, it was a man who was proper.
