Suddenly, and to her very great delight, he took a step closer. Once again, he searched her face, fixed his gaze on her eyes. He looked as if he wished to say something more but didn’t.
Hyacinth barely resisted the wild urge to reach for him.
“Perhaps,” she said, voice breathy, “you see something in me that others don’t.”
“Perhaps I do.” He leaned closer.
Hyacinth forgot how to breathe.
Then he seemed to catch himself and took a step back. “Forgive me. You must feel as if I’ve placed you under the microscope.”
Oddly, she quite liked the idea of him being intrigued enough to do so.
“And what do you think you’d see when you studied me?”
It was his turn to let out a hearty laugh, but then he took that step again. Closer. So near that she could feel the warmth of his body but a few inches from her own.
“I’ve only just begun,” he said, his voice pitched lower. “But your eyes,” he murmured as he held her gaze, “are very expressive.”
“And what do they express?” Hyacinth whispered.
“Warmth and…”
“And?”
“What seems like yearning.” He swallowed thickly.
His Adam’s apple bobbed against the edge of his necktie, and she wanted to trace the spot with her fingertip.
“Or perhaps I’m imagining things,” he said with what seemed forced lightness.
Hyacinth felt herself listing toward him, as if her body was drawn to him and had no choice but to inch closer.
He leaned nearer too, so close she tipped her chin up to hold his gaze.
And then impulse took over.
She reached for him, a hand gripping the edge of his morning coat, then inched up onto her toes and brushed her lips against his.
He responded instantly, a hand cupping her cheek, his fingers stroking against her jaw as he kissed her in return. Then again.
His touch, so tender, almost reverent, and it felt like something she’d been waiting for. For years. Maybe all her life. As if this moment, with this man, had been written in the stars and was inevitable.
And it was the beginning of so much more.
Tristan’s other hand circled her waist, pulling her closer still.
And when she gasped, he stroked his tongue past the seam of her lips.
Hyacinth froze in shock. No one had ever kissed her before. And the taste of him was heady—tea and mint and something uniquely Tristan. A shiver of delight made her body shudder. Pleasure coursed through her as she held him tighter, but her reaction caused him to still and pull back.
Concern had his brows drawn tight, his eyes wide, as if what they’d done had shocked him.
It had all felt so exquisite, but perhaps she’d misstepped. What must he think of her, daring to kiss him?
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, seeing the look of confusion on his face and dreading what it might mean. Did he regret their kiss?
She didn’t. She never would.
