That lone word, his self-derisive acknowledgment, stung. Of course kissing was quite ordinary for a man such as him. Why had she possessed the idiocy to believe, just for a moment, that his kiss had meant anything more to him than a mere lesson, another way to exert his power over her and make her feel foolish and small?
“Of course it is,” she said quietly, some ingrained training causing her to bob in a curtsy that was rather lopsided in her current state. “Thank you for the lesson. If you don’t mind, I’ll return to my chamber now to reflect upon the error of my ways.”
Her cheeks were flaming, she was sure of it. Virtue didn’t wait for Ridgely’s response. She simply gathered her skirts and whirled away, running from him and from his chamber both.
But most especially running from the memory of his kiss.
CHAPTER6
God, Trevor despised balls.
“God’s fichu, but I despise balls.”
Trevor turned from his present occupation—watching his beautiful ward dance a lively country reel with some insidious fop—and discovered his host, the Duke of Montrose, at his side.
He raised a brow, grateful for the distraction and the company both. He’d always liked Monty, as the duke was more familiarly known to friends. They’d found themselves in any number of disgraceful scrapes together. But that had been a few years ago now. The duke was a happily married man, desperately in love with his wife, God help the fellow. Rather akin to a lion being domesticated into a lap cat if you asked Trevor.
Not that anyone had.
“Odd sentiment for the man hosting this entire affair,” he drawled pointedly.
Monty raised his glass of lemonade in mock toast. “Touché, Ridgely. However, in my defense, Her Grace tells me this is the sort of nonsense one is required to host at least once a Season. I’ll do anything to make her happy. Even fill my town house with hundreds of people I scarcely know.”
The poor, besotted prick.
Ridgely shook his head. “Better you than me, old chap. The mere notion of getting caught in the parson’s mousetrap makes me shudder. Hosting balls? Ye gods.”
Monty chuckled. “I’m quite contentedly caught, I assure you. I’ve never been happier than I have since becoming a husband and father. And as for you, I’d have sworn you were contemplating the parson’s mousetrap yourself, given the way you’ve been watching a certain young lady.”
He would have laughed had not the thought been so horrifying. “Marriage? To my ward? I think not.”
But hehadkissed her that morning, just after dawn.
He never should have done so, and no one knew it better than Trevor. He had allowed her to think the kiss had been nothing more than a lesson, but that was a lie. He’dwantedto kiss her. Had spent every second of each minute since remembering how soft and lush she’d been in his arms, those delicious breasts of hers straining against his chest, her equally delectable mouth so responsive once he’d shown her the proper way of it. And that husky sound she’d made—surrender and longing in one—bloody hell.
He shook his head slightly, as if to dislodge the thoughts.
“Oh, dear me,” Monty said at his side. “I hadn’t realized that was Lady Virtue Walcot you were ogling.”
Ogling.
Trevor longed for some champagne. Some brandy. Anything. The only drinks at this ball to be had were lemonade and punch. On account of Monty being a reformed man, or so the whispers went. Their paths hadn’t crossed with enough frequency in recent years for him to know the reason or to inquire after it.
He sighed. “I wasn’t ogling her. I wasobservingher. I’m the girl’s guardian. What else am I meant to do?”
Definitely not kiss her, said a taunting voice within.
That was true. He absolutely, under no circumstances, must ever set his lips to Lady Virtue’s mouth again. Even if denying himself was akin to a physical ache.
“You seemed to have been scowling at young Mowbray over there,” the duke drawled.
Well, perhaps he had been. And curse Monty for taking note of it.
“Is that the fop with the ridiculously high shirt points?” he asked, knowing it was.
He’d made it his business to ascertain who was sniffing about his ward’s skirts. It was part of being a good guardian. Which he was decidedly not. But an effort to make amends for the morning’s folly.
“The Viscount Mowbray,” Monty elaborated. “He is the fellow currently dancing with your ward.”
