His firm lips pressed coaxingly against hers.
The outline of his terrifyingly… significant manhood pressed against her hip.
She touched her tingling lips.
Why hadn’t she stopped him? She’d lain there, still andbreathless as her body tingled into life. No. She’d kissed him back briefly before he’d put an end to the madness.
Thank heavens.
Remmy was supposed to be herfriend.
Not aman!
And yesterday he’d been thoroughly foxed. He likely wouldn’t even remember the kiss. She’d best forget it as well. That should be easy enough, especially with the task before her: figure out her future. And sketching would help her think on that. Determined, she picked back up her charcoal and set it to the paper.
“There are more inspiring blooms than that to paint.”
She jumped, her pencil making a wild mark across the page. “Curses!” She turned to see who the interloper with the unfamiliar voice was.
And beheld an angel.
The man’s hair was like spun gold, and the sun rose behind him, haloing his head. He wore an amused smile that lit his grass green eyes. He was all summer affability in a perfectly fitted summer coat, cravat tied simply with neatly, sharp jaw smoothly shaven.
She stood and stepped away from him. “Inspiration comes in many forms, sir, not all of them pretty. I am afraid I do not know you.”
“Forgive me. For speaking without an introduction and for scaring you. When I saw a beauty with flaming hair and a sketchbook, I knew it must be the Miss Tessa King I’ve heard so much about. I was remiss in being overly familiar, but I feel as if I already know you, Miss King.”
“You have the advantage over me, then. I do not know you.”
He made a pretty bow. “Mr. Edmund Tilbury. Your acquaintance, Viscount Brawly,is my uncle.”
She laughed, an almost hysterical bubble of a sound. This man. This Adonis was supposed to court her?Her?
“You look suddenly pale, Miss King. Please, do sit.” His light touch on the back of her upper arm guided her back to the chair she’d been startled out of.
She resisted. “No, no. I am perfectly well. Thank you.”
“But I should hate to know I interrupted a work of artistic genius. The world needs new art, do not you think?” He slipped his hands in his pockets, his lean form slouching a bit as he smiled.
“I do.” She sat, pulled her notebook back atop her lap, found the pencil where she’d dropped it.
He positioned himself behind her, looking over her shoulder. She rather hated when people did that. Made her feel all wiggly.
She did her best to stay still.
“I see I did scare you,” he said. “That line mars the work.”
She shook her head. “Imperfections do not always ruin beauty.”
“As wise as you are beautiful.” Still he peeked over her shoulder.
She wiggled. Only a half one before she cut it off and closed her notebook. She could not create in these conditions. “Mr. Tilbury, I am not entirely ignorant of your existence. Lady Chattaway has spoken of you. You are a man of the cloth?”
He sauntered down the path a small ways, the soles of his boots crunching on gravel, then he ducked beneath the high branches of a tree and took up residence against its trunk, crossing one ankle over the other. “I am a vicar. I have a living in Surrey close to my uncle’s country seat.”
Just the sort of man her parents would approve of, the sort they’d tried to marry her off tosix years ago. “How fortuitous.”
“I think so. I am happy in all particulars but for one.”
