And then, slowly, he lowered his face toward hers, giving her the space to draw back if she wished.
She did not.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t what she imagined the practiced kiss of a rake would feel like, at least from what she read in the romance novels she snuck from Julia’s quarters. Nor was it the tentative brush of a novice, which she surely was.
My first kiss…
It was a collision, desperate and starving. The meeting of their lips tasted of brandy and bottled-up longing. He rounded the desk and came over to where she was sitting, and he lifted her up to her feet effortlessly, holding her close to his hard chest.
Imogen’s hands flew to his shoulders, clutching the thin linen of his shirt, while Ambrose’s hand found the back of her neck, his other thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
She parted her lips and let his tongue into her mouth, exploring her as she savored the taste of him. Salt, champagne, a hint of brandy and something she couldn’t put her finger on. She pressed her hips against him, feeling the hardness between his legs.
She needed him; a consuming emptiness which only he could fill overwhelmed her senses.
Imogen’s hand swayed out and hit a nearby book. It fell off the table, and a thump echoed on the marble floor. They suddenly parted quickly, both breathless. The spell broke, and the moment was gone.
Ambrose stepped back first, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with a sudden, sharp clarity as he placed his hands on his hips.
“I apologize,” he said immediately, his voice rough as he doubled over. “I crossed a line that I swore I wouldn’t. It was… ungentlemanly. You must forgive me.”
“I… I apologize too,” Imogen stammered, her face flaming. She felt a strange ache in her chest, but she forced her voice to remain steady. “It shouldn’t… It shouldn’t have happened. It was the lateness of the hour, your coming from the party, all that has happened between us?—”
“And it cannot happen again,” the Duke stated firmly, though his eyes still lingered on her mouth. “It is not right. Your position here, your safety… that must come first. I will not have you compromised by my own lack of restraint.”
Relief, sharp and cold, flooded Imogen as her throat grew tight. “Thank you. I agree. It is forgotten.”
She began to gather her things with frantic speed, her hands trembling so much she nearly dropped her notebook.
The Duke walked to the door, opening it wider to give her a clear path out, creating a distance that felt like a chasm.
“Get some rest, Miss Lewis,” he said, his voice back to its formal, ducal tone.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she murmured, unable to call him Ambrose as he had told her to.
She hurried past him, her skirts rustling, not daring to look back at the man who had just shattered her peace with a single kiss.
Her bed sheets were cool against her hot skin, yet they offered no comfort, no solace from the ache in her chest. Imogen lay staring at the canopy of her bed, the fabric dark and oppressive in the moonless room.
Her lips felt swollen, tingling with the ghostly pressure of his mouth. She savored the phantom taste of salt and brandy lingering like a brand she wanted to wear forever.
Every time she closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, she was back in the schoolroom. She rolled onto her stomach, feeling the heat of him pressing against her, the terrifying, electric realization of the hardness between his legs.
She had wanted to be near him. Badly.
The thought made her stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with the propriety she had spent her life cultivating, trying to remain hidden. All she wanted was for him to see her. All of her.
It is forgotten;she had told him.
The lie felt heavy in her stomach, a weight that made it hard to draw a full breath. How could it be forgotten when her skin felt too tight for her body? When the silence of the house seemed to vibrate with the words he had retracted?
To settle her racing heart, Imogen tried to conjure her quiet place. It was a practice she had long since honed as a child, alone in the empty halls of her father’s home. She could see the ancient, moss-carpeted forests she had visited on holidays in the country. She imagined the rhythmic crunch of dry leaves under her boots and the way the sunlight filtered through the oak canopy in long, dusty shafts of gold. She tried to smell the damp earth and the wild fern, to hear the distant, lonely call of a woodpigeon.
Usually, the mental walk through the woods brought her peace, even on the worst of nights after serving Julia.
But tonight, the forest was empty. The peace would not come.
