He turned to Christina, keenly aware that they were alone in the lamplit hallway.
“What are we supposed to do?” she asked. “I have not played this before.”
“This is our assignment,” he said, showing her the paper. “Romeo discovers Juliet in her tomb. Not very merry, I’m afraid. But Amy loves a dramatic tableau, so there it is.”
“Perhaps she wanted to be your partner to pretend to faint in your arms.”
“You know my cousin well already. But you’ve practically done that, madam. Was it worth the trouble?” He cocked a brow.
“Possibly.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “We’d better hurry or pay the forfeit.”
“We will win. I never lose.”
“Never? You must have been insufferable as a lad.”
“Possibly.” He looked around. “Shall we use that bench for Juliet’s tomb?”
“Can we use a piece of furniture, according to Amy’s rules?”
“According to mine, we can.” He stepped away and carried back a small bench covered in red brocade. He set it down, sat, and reached out. “Sit here and lean against me.”
“Oh, I cannot—”
“My dear Mrs. Blackburn, what is otherwise frowned upon is encouraged in silly parlor games. That is why they are so tediously common. Lean on me, madam.”
She sat, spreading her skirts of lavender blue around her like an airy, billowing cushion over the crinoline beneath. Frothy petticoats peeked out at the hem. Shifting, she leaned back against him somewhat stiffly.
“I doubt Juliet reclined like a Roman empress taking dinner,” she said.
“Relax, madam. Come closer. That’s it,” he said as she shifted so that her head tucked against his shoulder. He slid his arm around her waist. “Comfortable?”
“Quite.” She tilted her head, closed her eyes.
“I doubt Juliet wore spectacles, my lass.”
“Oh!” She slipped them off, and he took them, tucking them in his coat pocket.
“Are we ready now?” she asked.
“Not yet. We must set the mood. Oh, Juliet,” murmured. “Now you. Oh, my dear Romeo, and so on.”
“I cannot speak, I’m dead.”
“But you look fit as a fiddle.”
“That is not very flattering,” she laughed.
“Fit and enchanting,” he murmured, pressing her waist, feeling the taut corset beneath, fingers resting below the lacybodice of her gown. A downward glance took in the upper swell of her breasts where a waterfall of lace hid his hand.
A lightning strike of desire tore through him. He drew a breath against its power, closing his eyes, sensing the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.
Her hair brushed his cheek, her face was mere inches from his. Holding her against him on the bench, he vied inwardly for control, staying still. He had promised to act with better chivalry. He had tried to be impassive toward her.
But he wanted desperately to kiss her, hold her, and so much more. Each time she was close, each time he surrendered and kissed her, more than lust drove him. What rushed through him had all the force of desire, yet was deeper, profound. He feared to name the heat that stirred his very soul.
Love, he thought, and sighed. Love like a hearth’s glow, like a blanket surrounding him with warmth, fire, and comfort. He could not stop the feeling once he acknowledged it. And that was alarming.
She wriggled, settled, tipped her head back. Her breath was sweet and gentle on his cheek. He wanted to taste her mouth, her creamy skin, round his hands over her soft breasts. Holding her, even innocently for this silly game, worked hot magic on him.
