“You’re young. A debutante.”
She laughed. “I’m not a debutante, and I haven’t been since last year. Besides, that signifies nothing. I could have come out a year earlier and have had my third London Season, or I could have had an overly protective mother and been kept at home entirely.”
Grayson stared at her, then seemed to realize, despite the distance between them, he was still holding her hands.
“You’re Maggie’s little sister,” he muttered and dropped his hold.
Eleanor rolled her eyes, suddenly tired from the many ups and downs of the day, particularly this last emotional seesaw. She wanted to lie quietly in the big, soft bed Lady Angsley had given her and recall every scrumptious moment of the kiss.
Rot it all!She’d meant to touch his hair, so soft looking. If he decided never to kiss her again, she would have lost her chance.
Slowly, she reached her fingers toward his hair.
He froze, his eyes swiveling to watch her movements, until her hand disappeared behind his head, and then his gaze locked on hers.
“What are you doing?” his voice was a shocked whisper.
“I’ve wanted to touch your hair for a long time,” she confessed. “So pretty, like a raven’s wing.” And then she sunk her fingertips into the hair at the nape of his neck. She watched him close his eyes, looking almost pained.
“I suppose you’ll tell me I shouldn’t,” she said, stroking her fingers through its soft thickness. “After all, you’re old enough to be my father.”
His eyes popped open. “Hardly that. Not even possible.”
She started to laugh, and he stopped talking, knowing he’d been baited.
Drawing back, Eleanor walked deliberately and casually to the drawing room door before giving him a last glance. She might not know much about flirtation, but she did know it was better to leave while she was ahead and not to overstay her welcome.
Let him think about her and their kiss and how silly it was to worry about her age as she was obviously a fully-grown woman—one whose knees happened to be trembling as she left the room.
*
Since his guestroom was on the same floor as hers, though at the other end of a long, wide hallway, Gray waited a few minutes after Eleanor left before going upstairs.
He didn’t fall easily asleep. He had kissed Eleanor Blackwood, and he’d thoroughly enjoyed it, except for the sense of guilt directly afterward.
Maggie’s younger sister. Beryl’s best friend. A baron’s daughter, not a servant’s offspring.Did those things matter?
If he were honest, it was the best first kiss he’d ever had, better than the first with any new lady friend. His body had leaped to attention, and he’d felt his heart thumping in his chest.
He hadn’t even touched her tongue with his, but he’d certainly wanted to. At the same time, he would have liked to cup her full breasts and grind himself against her. Somehow, he’d refrained, only by holding himself still and focusing on the feel of her soft lips under his.
If she’d been any other willing woman, he would have done much more, probably ending up with her splayed beneath him on the Angsleys’ sofa. But this was Eleanor. Clearly not a child anymore, yet still he had the need to protect her and care for her, the way he did for Beryl or the other young Angsleys.
On top of that, though, was the avid desire to explore every inch of her.How could he be so torn between wanting to cherish her and to make love to her until she couldn’t walk?
Lying in bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, Grayson groaned as he had done into her mouth, recalling what a pleasure it had been to finally kiss her. One time, a year prior, she’d winked at him over the breakfast table at Turvey House, and he’d been rocked to his core by how alluring that small gesture had seemed.
Eleanor was accomplished, good fun, and rather splendid. Moreover, when he was in the company of other females, he couldn’t help comparing them and finding them lacking. London was a necessity for his business dealings, whether handling some order for the Cambrey estate or meeting with his broker to trade on the London Stock Exchange.
And when he went every few months, he usually sought out the same couple of ladies. Neither Cyprians, nor eligible ladies, they were simply women who didn’t mind spending an evening dining, talking, and copulating. One was a widow about five years his senior, and one was a confirmed bluestocking and spinster, who vowed she would never let a man own her through marriage.
Neither knew about the other, and, thus, his need for female company was taken care of. Rather nicely, too. But he was starting to want more.
First, he’d seen Cam’s best friend, Simon Devere, marry Jenny Blackwood, Eleanor’s oldest sister, after knowing her a very short while, and then Cam, himself, had fallen prey to the swaying bustle and dazzling smile of Maggie, the middle Blackwood sister.
As for himself, a few years back, he hadn’t given Eleanor a second thought, but she’d barely been out of childhood, or so he’d told himself, even when it was obvious she had curves to spare and the sharp mind of a woman.
With each visit to Turvey House, she became dearer to him, and as each year passed, she changed from awkward teenager into a young woman. Not polished like Maggie to a high shine, not considered practical like Jenny, but something mature, deep, and intensely interesting, like nature itself.
