Page 122 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

But instead of laughing he said, “The Earls of Townshend are wealthy—unless this latest one has managed to fritter it all away.”

“No, he does not gamble. Or place wagers of any sort.”

“He sounds boring.”

He was, but Stacia was hardly going to admit that. “You find virtue boring, do you?”

“O-ho! He is virtuous, is he? And yes, to answer your question. Virtue is boring.” One of his eyebrows lifted and his nostrils flared slightly. “At least most of the time.” He swept her person with a boldly appreciative gaze that made her skin prickle.

Before she could stop herself, she threw the cobnut.

He slapped a hand over one eye and moaned. “Good Lord! I think you put my eye out!”

“I didn’t mean to actually hit you!’ Stacia knocked into the table in her haste to get to him, sending cobnuts flying. “Here, let me take a look.” She bent low in front of him. “Show me, my lor—”

Stacia squeaked when her feet left the ground, and she suddenly found herself cradled tightly in his arms.

He grinned down at her—both eyes sparkling and undamaged.

Stacia glared up at him. “You liar!That was not fair.”

“No, it wasn’t,” he agreed. She squirmed, but his arms locked around her more tightly. “Oh no you don’t. You are a prisoner and here at my leisure.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “The cost of freedom is a kiss.”

She thrashed—or tried to—but his hold, as gentle as it was, was unbreakable. “Do you often have to resort to threats for kisses?”

“Never, and it has quite unmanned me. You see the lengths to which I’m willing to go for you, Stacia?”

She lowered her eyelids at his words, as if she could hide her greedy desire from him. “One kiss and you will release me?”

“Yes. But it must be a real one. No grandmotherly pecks.”

Who was she trying to fool? They both knew she wanted to kiss him.

He shifted his hold, until their lips were barely an inch apart. Stacia, seized by bold lunacy, flicked his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, as he had done to her.

He groaned and his arms tightened. “More.”

Stacia stared in wonder as his pupils swelled until the black almost swallowed the blazing blue. His lips parted when she pressed her mouth to his and she allowed herself to taste him, tentative at first, but bolder as he purred beneath her.

Yesterday the thought of putting her tongue into another person’s mouth would have revolted her. Now, Stacia could not get enough, plundering him as aggressively as Sir Francis Drake invading Cadiz.

By the time they pulled apart, they were both breathing hard. His lips were slick and red, his expression unsmiling and sensual. “I am glad you did not accept Townshend, Stacia. You would have been wasted on him.” He lightly caressed her jaw, his gaze flickering across her face and lingering on her mouth before returning to her eyes.

And then he set her upright, until her bottom rested on one thigh, and his arms fell away.

For one mad moment she considered crawling up his chest the way she’d seen Lord Bellamy’s red squirrel climb up Lucy’s arm to nestle against her neck.

Fortunately, reason intervened before she could make an utter fool of herself and she forced herself to stand and walk on wobbly legs back to her own seat, sending cobnuts skittering across the attic floor as she went.

Stacia told herself that she deserved a medal for getting up and walking away from him.

But all she got for her self-control was an almost suffocating wave of yearning when she sat down across from him, recalling how much lovelier the view of his face had been from inches rather than feet.

She was actually debating throwing pride to the wind and launching herself across the table and demanding some forfeits of her own, when he said, “I owe you honesty in return.”

Stacia frowned at his grim tone.

“I told you that my older cousin, Nicholas, died while Chatham and I were in the army?”