Page 65 of Courting the Country Miss

He reached for her like a blind man reaches for a guide. “Leticia?”

She let out her breath hard, then laughed. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to do that.”

She was sorry. But she didn’t sound angry or repulsed. Encouraging, that. Her voice took on a faintly accusing tone. “Did you do that on purpose?”

“No. Well, not that first kiss. But I’m beginning to think I should have. A long time ago.” He grinned.

“Oh, no, that would have been a very bad idea.”

He hesitated, suddenly as terrified as a fifteen-year-old. “Did you like it?”

She let out a strangled laugh. “I’ve had better.”

He jerked back which sent a bolt of fiery pain through his head. Better? She’d had better? Whom had she kissed? Richard? Kensington? Lord Bradbury? He’d call out them all, one by one. Pistols at dawn.

He moistened lips that ached—craved—to kiss her again. “How much better? Who?”

She took a few steps back until all he could see was the glowing whiteness of her gown. “I’ll come visit you again tonight. Rest well.”

Pain closed in around him, sending jagged, dark spikes into his vision. Fear engulfed him. If she left, he would die. “Don’t leave.”

“I have to go…I’m…”

Panic and agony stabbed at him from every direction. His breathing turned to gasping. He had driven her away. She feared he would try it again and couldn’t stand to touch him. She personified purity and light, and he was filthiness. And they both knew it. But without her, he would drown.

“Tish!” Desperate, he gasped. “Don’t leave.”

“Here, drink this.” She slid a hand behind his head, careful not to touch the bump in back and pressed a cup to his lips.

He gulped down the laudanum and reached for her, blinded by pain. “Stay. Please stay.”

“Very well.” She sat at the edge of the bed and let him hold her hand.

He fell asleep with her cool, soft hand in his, and dreamed of holding her in his arms.

Chapter Nineteen

Leticia left Tristan sleeping and hurried back to Aunt Alice’s house to prepare for Lord Bradbury’s arrival. She couldn’t seem to keep her mind on the upcoming opportunity to view Wellington’s private art collection. Every time she tried to put that kiss out of her mind, the touch of Tristan’s lips burst back into her memory. An accident. Meaningless.

He’d seemed to enjoy it. Of course, as a rake, he doubtless kissed any willing female and enjoyed it.

She sighed at the unkind and untrue thought. Despite the jabs she sometimes poked at him, he didn’t accept every offer that came his way. Even he had his scruples, after all—no barmaids or brothels, and he turned down other men’s wives, so at least he respected those boundaries.

Still, if he took half the women for lovers that rumor suggested, he was a philanderer of the worst kind. His kiss meant nothing. He hadn’t instigated it. Even that second time could be explained away by pure instinct. It meant nothing to him. It should mean nothing to her.

So why did she keep recalling the silky, sensual gentleness of his lips? Why did her body spring to life each time she remembered it as much as it had when their lips had met for that briefest of instants? A dull ache built in her stomach each time she relived it. A current swept her away, too strong to fight. She must at least keep her head above water.

All she wanted to do was run back there and kiss him again.

No, that path led to heartache. If she kissed Tristan again, she ran the risk of caring for him beyond their comfortable friendship. She’d best avoid all temptations regarding Tristan.

Perhaps her reaction sprang from her concern over his wellbeing. After all, seeing him in that terrible accident stirred up her emotions. Surely she ought not to trust any sort of passion until she’d recovered from the trauma of Tristan almost dying. Once that happened, all would return to normal and their association would once again be mere friendship.

With her maid’s help, she changed into a pale pink walking gown and sat while the maid did her hair. She reached for her favorite blue pelisse, then remembered it had been ruined when Tristan had bled on it. The memory of his limp body, his closed eyes, the pallor of his skin, made her stomach lurch. She pressed a fist into her abdomen.

Calm down. He’d awoken, well, and with his wit intact…and with the softest lips she’d ever imagined.

She let out a growl. She should not think of Tristan this way. Lord Bradbury, a fine man who offered much, including a sterling reputation, ought to occupy her thoughts. She turned her mind to finding a pelisse to put on over her walking dress.