With one hand, he reached out and tweaked her curl. The familiarity of it made her want to scream. “I don’t think you will tell a soul no matterwhatI do to you tonight.”
“Then you are mistaken.”
“It happens,” he acknowledged. Hestillhad not moved back. Annabelle’s fists clenched impotently. She had never struck another person and unfortunately she doubted she was capable of starting now. Although he did make the prospect seem remarkably appealing.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I? I am the last man in the world you would wish to meet, little bird.” He leant forward, studying her face. “For you are good and virtuous, are you not?”
Ridiculously, she thought back to the book she had attempted to smuggle into the ball and read. Good and virtuous young ladies were not likely to choose a novel based on their assumption it was salacious. But he was no doubt referring to her practical experience, which was very little.
How best to get rid of him?
“No need to dance around the truth, sweetheart,” he said after a moment of agonised silence. “I think we both know the answer.”
“You don’t want me,” she said with an authority she didn’t feel. “Leave me alone.”
“I don’t want you?” He tilted his head and another ruthless smile curved his thin lips. “Why?”
“Because I don’t like kissing, and I especially don’t like kissing you.”
A mistake.
This man was a predator, and she had just issued him a challenge. The gleam of amusement sharpened into something wolfish, and he reached out to take her wrist, pinning it beside her. His mouth hovered a heartbeat above hers.
“Fly, little bird,” he whispered.
She remained motionless, unable to move, notwantingto move.
His mouth encountered hers with what should have been bruising force—but wasn’t. Oddly, against her every expectation, his lips were soft, gentle, and that thought alone disarmed her. His hands cupped her elbows and drew her into his body as he kissed her with deliberate slowness, crumbling her defences until there was no fight left in her body.
Annabelle did her best to remember that she hated him, and that she did not like kissing. But that proved difficult when all she knew was this moment and his hands, his mouth. She could not even remember her name.
First you move your lips, he seemed to say.Taste mine. Slide our mouths together until they fit. Pressure, pressure, breathe. He showed her what to do, a palm against her cheek as he turned her face to better fit against his, and she obeyed.
They parted, briefly, to breathe, and he trailed his mouth along the line of her jaw as she struggled to hold onto one logical thought. Just one would be enough.
Only then he was kissing her again, the hand on her cheek urging her still closer, sinking into the silken mass of her hair, and she lost herself once more. His other hand rested lightly on her waist, hot and urgent, and although he did not move it, she was aware of its burning presence. At any moment, he could choose to bend her body further into his or push her more firmly against the wall.
There were a thousand things a man this powerful could do to her if he chose, and yet he still just kissed her.
That was, ifjustwas a word that could be used to describe the magnitude of this kiss. Her body opened before him like a flower, and she felt the first tendrils of warmth move through her with lazy intensity. It felt a lot like wanting.
After poor Ronald’s kiss, she had never thought she could ever want a man. Yet here she was, sighing in pleasure as his tongue flicked lightly across her bottom lip.
Her mind, clearly, had been neatly taken from her body and disposed of somewhere, because no logical train of thought indicated that she should either enjoy this gentleman’s kiss or be kissing him back. To be doing either, never mind both, lost in the dancing oblivion his kisses wrought, implied insanity of the highest order. She should confess her affliction to Theo at once and be locked at the top of a tower for the rest of her days.
The man broke away, a triumphant smile on his face. Cold air rushed between them, finally restoring a modicum of sense. Annabelle pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, recovering her faculties—and her anger.
Usually, when she was angry, she found herself at a loss for words. But this man had thwarted propriety and she found herself no longer bound by its restraints. Reaching her arm back, she leaned forward and slapped him across the cheek as hard as she could, her chest rising and falling.
The man rocked back on his heels, one hand cupping his cheek. The sound of her slap still hung between them, and his smile, for one moment, seemed to her genuine, rather than mocking. “A good blow,” he told her, a trace of surprise in his voice. “Well made. I’ll wager your hand hurts.”
“Yes,” she said, bewildered, before remembering that she was furious at him. Outraged. Horrified. Something warm and liquid she didn’t want to think about. She scowled. “I hope it hurt.”
He nodded, showing no sign of pain. “It did. Now, little bird, can you tell me in true faith that you have still never enjoyed a kiss?”
Lying was her only possible avenue, and she did not hesitate. “There is nothing I enjoyed less, sir. Now let me pass.”
