Without comment, her Englishman led her inside, and the rest of the world fell away beyond the flowered curtain. Finding herself in the unthinkable situation of utter isolation with Monsieur Branley —Malcolm, as she recalled from the night he introduced himself — Serena’s heart seemed to be trying to escape her chest.
For a moment, they stood face to face, and he took hold of both her hands. Her insides did a singularly unusual flip. Finally, he spoke.
“When I saw that idiot pawing at you, I felt the strangest sensation.”
“Really?” she asked before licking her suddenly dry lips.
“The first one wasn’t so strange, I suppose,” he admitted, releasing one of her hands and taking a lock of her hair between his fingers, seeming to caress it. “I felt murderous.”
“Oh my!” Serena was glad she’d handled the matter without bloodshed.
“But the second was a wish to trade places with the man.”
When her eyes widened, he added, “Notafteryou’d rightfully kneed him in the ...um... giblets.”
She laughed at the funny word, said in English since he probably didn’t know the French equivalent.
“His twig and berries,” she teased, and he looked shocked at her language, or maybe surprised because she had also spoken in English. She had shocked herself, frankly, by referring to a man’s private parts. The wine and excitement were making her giddy and outlandish.
“I had the oddest notion,” he added, “both of wanting to protect you and ravish you at the same time.”
“Oh,” she said again, instantly sobering and returning to French. “Are you a rake?”
“Am I a—?” He looked as if he wanted to laugh, but instead he said, “No one has ever asked me outright, although I confess I’ve been called such.”
Her hopes sank. If he was truly a rake, then she’d fallen into the same circumstance as in London.
“And have you been called one for good cause or unjustly?” she asked.
The last of his smile left his face. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
Leaning down, tugging her closer by the skein of hair still between his fingertips, his gaze held hers until she had to close her eyes right before his lips touched hers.
A spark, a sizzle, a jolt of pure vigor! Mercy!
Malcolm’s firm mouth closed over hers and in the next instant, his hands were splayed across her back. Unlike a few minutes earlier, with the stranger, she felt neither danger nor disrelish, no inclination to push him away and run.Quite the opposite!
Placing her hands on his chest, Serena couldn’t help sliding her fingers up past his snowy cravat before she laced them behind his neck. Nor did she resist her own desire to raise on tiptoe and get closer.
As he angled his head and their lips fused more firmly, she sighed. A warm and urgent throbbing had begun low in her body, making her wish almost desperately to tilt her hips toward him. While resisting the urge, she instead pressed herself closer, resting her thighs against his long legs.
Realizing her intent, Malcolm held her more tightly, deepening the kiss by sucking her lower lip into his mouth.
Shamelessly, she crushed her now-sensitive breasts against his coat front, aroused by the feel of him, hard against her softness. When he lifted his mouth momentarily, she drank in his subtle bergamot and carnation scent with each gasp for air before he reclaimed her lips. And then all she knew was the taste of him, salty from their meal and sweet from the wine.
Surely, she would ignite in flames.
This was desire!
“Serena?Où êtes-vous?”
Madame Fournier was searching for her, the cooling night air amplifying her voice across the small canal of water that stretched away from the secluded grotto by the fountain.
Untangling her fingers from Malcolm’s hair, Serena pushed away from him.How thoughtless of her!The poor woman was probably beside herself with worry. But the kiss had been perfectly wonderful, and she could confess to not an ounce of regret.
“Your chaperone is nearby,” Malcolm said, but when she moved to reveal herself, to step out from the portico, he stopped her, blocking her with his body. “You mustn’t be seen,” he reminded her, “not with me.”
“How will I get back to the other guests?” she asked. The correct action wasn’t to run headlong back to the party. She knew that from experience, especially if Madame Fournier witnessed her leave the fountain’s confines.
