God, he wanted her mouth. He wanted to slide between her lips and wrap his tongue in her sweetness, but she’d begun to tremble against him, and once he tasted her, he wouldn’t be able to let her go.
You can’t have her. Not now, and not like this.
In less than two weeks he’d be gone. He wouldn’t kiss her, and then leave her here alone. He’d never hurt her that way—not again.
He forced himself to lift his head and ease her back before he could pull her into his arms again. “Go to bed, sweetheart.”
She didn’t move, but stared at him as if she expected him to say something else, but then her gaze darted away from his, and she took a stumbling step away. “Yes, I . . . good night, Lord Devon.”
Ethan flinched at her use of his title, but he managed not to grab her and drag her back against him as she passed him on her way to the door. “Good night.”
In the next breath she was gone, and he was left alone, leaning against her work table with a thousand different emotions in his heart, and his body aching with desire.
Chapter Seven
December 31, 7:00 p.m.
“Watch this, Miss Sheridan!”
Thea was dipping slices of stale bread into a pan of milk for a bread and butter pudding while the children had a late-evening snack at the kitchen table. She looked up to see George push his chair back, and pull Martha to her feet.
“His lordship says this is ’ow a proper gentleman greets a lady.” George took a giggling Martha by the shoulders and arranged her so she stood across from him. “First, some other cove’s got to introduce ye to ’er, ye see, and then—”
“Martha’s not a lady.” Henry tore a piece of bread in half and stuffed it in his mouth. “She climbs trees, and she screeches, and her pinafores are dirty. She doesn’t act proper like a lady should.”
“I am too a lady!” Martha turned a furious glare on her brother. “Ye take that back, Henry!”
“Oh, that’s going to be a brawl, that is.” George watched with interest as Martha advanced on Henry, her little hands curled into fists. “Go on, Martha. Draw ’is cork.”
“That’s enough, miss.” Becky, who was serving at table, grabbed Martha by the shoulders, stopping her before she could leap upon her brother.
“A lady doesn’t engage in fisticuffs, Martha.” Thea set aside her bowl and came around her work table. “And a gentleman, Henry, never casts aspersions on a lady’s character.”
Henry pointed an accusing finger at George. “He doesn’t tell her to draw a person’s cork, neither!”
Thea hid a smile. “That’s true enough. But carry on, George. How does a proper gentleman greet a lady?”
“Well, ’is lordship says if ’e’s got a hat, ’e touches it, or tips it, like this, and ’e bows, too.” George doffed a pretend hat, then bent at the waist in front of Martha. “He can kiss ’er hand, if ’e likes,” he added, taking Martha’s hand, “but not too hearty-like, ye see, ’cause hearty isn’t proper when it comes to kisses.”
“Hearty’s aw right with some kisses.” Henry gave Thea a sly look. “His lordship says there’s different kinds of kisses, and different kinds of ladies, too, ’cept the hearty kiss kind aren’t really ladies at all, they’re—”
“Don’t you dare, Henry Munro!” Becky snatched the bread out of Henry’s hands and jerked his chair back from the table. “Upstairs, all three of you, this instant. It’s way past your bedtime. Bid Miss Sheridan good night.”
“Good night, Miss Sheridan!” The children raced across the kitchen to bury Thea in hugs and kisses, then Becky led them out of the kitchen, still muttering darkly about “ladies who weren’t really ladies,” as she went.
Thea retreated back behind her work table and took up her bowl again. She’d have to take Henry’s word on Ethan’s opinions about kissing, and every other subject, because Ethan hadn’t spoken to her in two days.
Well, that wasn’t quite true. Hedidspeak to her—each night before he retired to his bedchamber he came into the kitchen, exchanged a few polite words with her and bid her goodnight—but he never stayed for long, and he never came all the way into the kitchen, but hovered by door, as if he thought she’d leap upon him if he came any closer.
She wouldn’t. Just because she couldn’t stop thinking about the night he’d almost kissed her, and just because she kept hearing his low, husky voice whispering to her . . .
So sweet, Thea.
Well, it was nonsense, of course, to imagine it meant anything, or to think about how it would feel if hewereto kiss her, and not a tepid kiss, either, or a proper kiss for a proper lady, but one of the hearty ones—
“Have you been baking all day?”
Thea’s heart leapt at the sound of Ethan’s voice, and she jerked her gaze up to find him leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, his blue gaze fixed on her face. He’d stripped off his coat and waistcoat. She could trace the lines of his powerful arms and chest through the thin linen of his white shirt, and her gaze caught on the smooth skin of his throat revealed by the open neck.
