“Honeysuckle.” She smiled. “Bees love honeysuckle.”
All he could do was stare at her. “Do you mean to say, that you sit in here and read while bees are flying about the blooms?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you ever worry about being stung?” Her sitting area was no longer enchanting but dangerous.
“They do not bother me, Lord Ferrard. I am not a flower.” She laughed as if he were being ridiculous. “Honeysuckle is the perfect flower for bees, butterflies, and birds, and I enjoy watching each visit during the summer.”
How many hours did she spend alone in her private sanctuary?
Was she ever lonely, or did she prefer to be alone?
As she looked up at him, slight humor in her green eyes, and he was struck with the need that had plagued him often these past few days. Those rosebud lips called to him, beckoning like a siren’s song, and he leaned forward.
Violet pulled back. “What are you doing?”
He had thought it obvious. “I was going to kiss you.”
“Why?”
“It’s what couples do when they are courting.”
“If it were a true courtship, I suppose.”
“Everyone believes that it is,” Emory reminded her as he drew closer. Yet, she stepped back.
Blast!
“We know the truth.”
It was almost as if she were panicked. Did Violet fear him?
Or was that desire? Sometimes it was difficult to tell, but her cheeks were abnormally flushed. Her breaths had also become shallow, which he noticed by the rise and fall of her bodice, scooped in a manner that was both tantalizing and demure, with just a hint of what lay beneath.
Bloody hell. If he kissed her, he might want more.
No! He would not.
Yes, he would, but he’d not seek it.
“My father complained that I didn’t come to know a lady long enough to steal a kiss, so those attempted courtships did not matter.” It was the truth, though Emory wouldn’t add what else his father had claimed and that it was how he could determine if there would be passion. Until now, Emory hadn’t desired to kiss any of the ladies he’d considered courting. However, with Violet, it was on his mind daily.
She paused in her retreat and looked up at him, her green eyes suspicious. “He said that to you?”
“Yes. And I’m certain he will demand to know if I kissed you when I report to him on our courtship.”
She pursed those sweet lips and studied him.
“I would not lie to you,” Emory reminded her.
“Very well,” she agreed as if she had just been given an unpleasant chore. “One kiss so that you can tell your father. But that is all.”
At least he was granted permission, though it bothered him that she was only doing so because of their agreement and not out of desire.
Emory stepped close until her breasts nearly brushed his suitcoat.
Violet tilted her head back, squeezed her eyes shut and tightly pursued her lips. It reminded him of how a small child gave kisses, and Violet was anything but a child. From her golden curls to her slippers and everything in between was woman, a well-endowed, delicate, desirable woman, who had apparently never been kissed, or she wouldn’t be in this stance with lips puckered as if she’d bit into a lemon.
