“I shouldn’t have done that,” she blurted out, her eyes as wide as saucers. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“I don’t—I don’t—” she sputtered, before doing the most uncharacteristic thing he’d seen her do: bury her face in her hands and turn away. “I don’t know how.”
It took a moment to process what she’d said. As a kiss it had been clumsy, but a clumsy kiss from Madeline Murray still lit a fire inside him that went straight down to his nethers. He’d had just a hint of the fire he knew was inside her, and like a man coming in from the cold, he was desperate for more.
And then he had another thought—a thought that twisted inside him. Madeline Murray had never been kissed. Or at least, not by someone who deserved her.
He turned her around, gently pulling her hands from her face.
“Madeline Murray,” he said, tracing her hairline with a touch. “I’m going to kiss you properly, if that is all right with you. You are an extremely intelligent woman, and I’m certain you will be a quick study.”
She nodded, suddenly shy. It was endearing and yet there was something about it that tore at his insides. This beautiful woman, who did not know she was beautiful—cast aside by those who by rights should have cared for her.
He would. He would care for her until his dying day. He didn’t know how to entice her to love him. But he would try.
And he would start with a kiss.
He put his lips to her cheeks first, pressing gently into the soft flesh, tasting the sweetness of her. She sucked in a breath, which encouraged him to plant those kisses lower, along the edge her jaw, down to the tender flesh just below her left ear. Every touch brought a new delight—a little sigh here, a deep breath there. The space between them closed to nothing, and the sensation of her lush bosom against his chest threatened to end him. He hadn’t even found her lips yet, but even through her skirts, she must have felt his arousal.
He pushed away a few stray tendrils of her hair, then placed his lips on hers. He pressed gently at first, waiting for her response. Her lips, sweet as any berry he’d tasted, were soft, and in response to his touch, her mouth opened slightly. He took the invitation. He cupped the back of her head with one hand, his other hand grazing one of her ears, and kissed her lips, trying to be gentle, wanting this to be everything she needed it to be while trying to control his own need to pour every ounce of his longing into her.
Instead, she kissed him back with such a fire that Beau feared on the one hand he would be consumed by her, and on the other, knew he would happily sacrifice himself on that pyre. Just as he’d thought he’d lose himself completely, she broke the kiss.
“I…” she stuttered, breathless, as she stepped away. “I should go.”
Chapter Eighteen
Maddy stepped back, mortification driving away the sensual pleasure of the kiss like a heavy April rain could drive away the warmth of a spring sun. She turned away, unable to bear his reaction. His disgust. What he must be thinking of her.
Maddy had fought bodyguards and drunken husbands hell bent on dragging their wives and children back home. She’d faced them all, even when she was scared, channeling that same fury she’d conjured that night Malcolm Ferguson had come for her.
But there was no fury now. This was something else—and it scared her to death.
Who knew what a proper kiss was? Apparently, Maddy didn’t. Beyond the chaste brushing of lips on her hands from Malcolm, Nelson, and a handful of other suitors her parents had lined up for her, she’d never been kissed before. And once upon a time she’d been so grateful for those kisses, for that small bit of attention, because she’d thought it genuine, instead of a cruel game to win her hand and her dowry.
But this... this was something outside all experience. And like a child given her first taste of toffee, she’d wanted more. She wanted to devour him. That desire, that need—so fiery and hot—scared her like nothing had for a very long time. Putting the full force of her shame into her feet, she turned on her heel, eager to put this entire thing behind them. She’d taken only a step when his hand caught her arm.
“Madeline.”
His voice was warm and disarming.
Why was she so scared? Maddy had lived with fear of one sort or another for so long, she’d thought she could manage it all. But this—this magical feeling that had swept over her and pushed aside, for even a single moment, that old wound? This was beyond her experience. The taste of him was still on her lips. The subtle feeling of his whiskers stung her skin. It had all been so new. So strange. So wonderful. And so terrifying.
“I should go,” she said, carefully erecting the walls that she’d foolishly allowed to fall. Her brain groped through the haze of pleasure his kiss evoked, searching for some flimsy excuse for why she had to leave this magical garden and the soothing warmth of his touch as fast as her legs could carry her.
After she’d fled from home, Maddy had sneered at the women who swooned over a bouquet of flowers. Like the syrupy bits of flattery and chaste kisses, the only flowers she’d received were those given to her by men who’d been desperate to win not her favour, but her father’s. The first time she’d been gifted flowers in any genuine way was when Jeremy Webber, Gemma’s husband, had given her African violets from a local hot house as a thank you for giving his daughter Ivy boxing lessons. But that wasn’t romantic—that was a gesture between friends. Beau da Silva, a man she was contractually obligated to watch and who she’d told herself more than once that she didn’t particularly like, had just offered her an entire garden. He wasn’t even giving it to her—he was simply showing it to her. And in response, she’d thrown herself at him like some kind of doe-eyed maiden being swept off her feet by an errant knight.
Emphasis on errant.
“Don’t go,” he said. His grip was firm, but not hurtful. “I enjoyed it.”
She turned slightly, casting her glance past him to a mass of calendula that had managed to self-seed, no doubt encouraged by the warmth of the half wall they had been growing next to. It took her a moment, but at last, she steeled herself to look him in the eye.
“You’re just being kind.”
“I’m not that kind, Madeline,” he said, his gaze darkening. “I’m rather selfish. I’ve made myself rich—and Frank da Silva even richer—by seeing the value others overlook.”
