She glanced away. “You must lower your assessment of me, my lord. Or I’ll surely disappoint.”
His attention was once again arrested by the wayward curl, and without thought, he lifted his hand to touch its thick and silky length. Her stunned gaze shifted back to his, and he wondered—had Miss Miranda ever been kissed?
It was a dangerous, rogue thought.
One he became obsessed with the moment it entered his mind.
“Have you ever been kissed, Miss Miranda?” he asked before he could use his better judgment.
Her bright eyes widened further with shock at his forward question, but rather than retreat, as he half-expected, she simply gave a simple shake of her head.
No.
Damn if he didn’t want to initiate her education on the subject.
“I find that hard to believe,” he hedged, fighting an internal war he was fully expecting to lose.
Her head tilted slightly, tugging the loose curl from his fingertips with the movement. “Why is that?” she asked.
The ill-fated war was already lost as he reached down and traced his fingers down her elbow to her wrist, then loosely gripped her fingers, caressing them. “Surely you’ve experimented at least a little?” he asked, not fully believing her innocent nature, even though nothing had indicated otherwise.
Weren’t women masters at deception?
She shook her head. “I’m not sure I understand.” She spoke softly, her tone breathless as she closed her eyes, breathing through her nose as if drawing strength from the air.
She tugged her hand away, but like the rogue he was at heart, he chased after it, not willing to accept her rejection.
Rather the idea of the chase fanned the flames more.
How long had it been since a woman, any woman, hadn’t thrown themselves at him? An age at least, and he quite missed the thrill of the hunt.
“I don’t think—” she started, but as he gave a slight shake of his head, she paused.
“Don’t think,” he remarked. “Feel.” He traced up her arm this time, touching her with a featherlight caress. He lingered at the curve of her elbow, then moved over the bare skin of her arm till he reached the light cap sleeve of her day dress, hiding only a small square of her shoulder. His fingers leaped over the offensive fabric hiding his view, and he slowed his ascent to the curve of her neck, watching her eyes flutter closed as she sighed.
“What do you feel?” he asked.
“Too much,” she replied, then stepped back, away from his touch. “Enough to know this is not the wisest of choices, my lord.” Her chest rose and fell with the depth of her breathing.
The horse nickered, as if sensing the powerful intensity in the stable.
He regarded her for a second, studying her expression. Was she feeling pressured? Yes, but it wasn’t unwanted.
Which was all the encouragement he needed to continue his pursuit.
“I should go.” She glanced to the door, then to him.
Grinning, he walked toward her slowly, starting with a single step. “That is a viable choice before you.”
Her gaze flickered to the door once more, and he measured another step to give her more than adequate time to take that route of escape if she wished.
He suspected she was trying to talk herself into it, and he hoped sincerely that she’d fail.
But it had to be her choice.
He wasn’t going to force himself upon her, even if was just a kiss.
It was a seduction of sorts, a choice to surrender rather than run away.
