Slowly she brought her hand up to trace her bruised lips.
That was a kiss.
No wonder widows were always asking him into gardens. If she’d known how wonderful a kiss could be, Violet might have done the same.
No, she wouldn’t have.
Kisses were dangerous. Especially kisses from Lord Ferrard, whom she refused to ever refer to as Emory again. The name was far too intimate, especially after what they’d just shared.
She had no idea that the melding of mouths could cause such heat in a body or make breathing difficult or a pulse to race. Her bodice had grown almost unbearably tight, and she wanted to be free of the confines of her clothing, and the strangest ache had begun to develop in not only her breasts but in more private areas as well.
He’d shaken her entire being and until now, Violet was unaware that a body could go through such a transformation by something so simple as kissing.
Was that passion?
It must be, as she was certain that she’d just experienced that of which poets wrote.
Oh, why did Lord Ferrard have to go and kiss her like that? Why couldn’t he have been satisfied with that first, very proper, and uninspiring kiss?
Her heart had threatened to mutiny against her reason, and now her body had betrayed her as well.
Thank goodness he’d be gone in two days.
Gone!
Her heart contracted in pain as if a knife had been plunged into it.
She had fallen in love with Lord Ferrard.
Her pulse sped again as breaths grew short, except this time, she knew the cause was panic, an unproductive response to uncomfortable thoughts of which she had little control, yet it still irritated her.
Odd, when she read how a heart ached and yearned, she’d not attributed it to the actual heart, as it was simply an organ within the body. However, apparently, emotion did produce a physical reaction within the muscle that she had assumed did nothing more than pump blood through the body.
Lord Ferrard awakened a lust within, and now Violet had to decide how she was going to douse the flames he’d set to burn and how she could reclaim her heart, in the figurative sense, as it still literally beat within her chest. In fact, it beat more forcefully than normal, and it ached, a pain that she could not treat as one would an injury.
“Violet, is all well?”
She glanced up to find Miranda, quite heavy with child, standing at the entry of her gazebo, and in an instant, tears filled Violet’s eyes, which was quite uncharacteristic for her. Not only had Lord Ferrard taken her heart, introduced her to passion, but he’d turned her into a watering pot as well.
Drat that man.
“Violet? What is wrong? Did Lord Ferrard hurt you?”
“No.” she swiped a tear away.
Miranda rushed forward and settled beside Violet. “Now, tell me what happened,” Miranda demanded.
“First, you must promise not to say a word to my brother.”
“Which brother?” Miranda asked, knowing full well that Violet meant Miranda’s husband, the oldest of Violet’s six brothers.
“All of them.” Each could be difficult in their own way.
“I cannot make that promise,” her sister-in-law answered. “At least, not until you’ve told me what has happened. It is completely out of character for you to be upset.”
“I will not tell you without the promise.”
“Then I shall return and advise Wesley that I found you crying after Lord Ferrard left and let him decide what he wishes to do about the situation.”
