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She walked toward him, not with her signature sleepy look, nor with a little smile of interest, none of the tricks she had used to reduce men to their knees in the past. Instead she just walked to him and looked up, assessing the strong line of his jaw, the slightly wild cut of his hair, the breadth of his shoulders. He looked like a man, an adult. A grown man.
It gave her a little pulse of anxiety, as if she’d been playing with boys up until now. There was something different about the intensity and the fire inside Simeon.
“Will you kiss me good-night, please?” she said.
“Kiss you?”
“Yes. It’s customary for married couples.”
She thought he would say they weren’t married, but he didn’t. Instead, he just moved forward and lowered his head, kissed her.
It was over in a second. She had a fleeting sensation of firm lips, a tiny scent of something…him…male, slightly spicy. And he moved back.
She blinked at him, thinking that kissing wasn’t what she expected; it wasn’t as good.
“Damn.” His voice was quiet, but the night was quiet too.
“What?”
“That wasn’t your first kiss, was it?”
“Actually, it was,” she said. “Though—” She caught the words back. Why had she waited, evaded so many lips, never allowed herself to be kissed? It was nothing. Nothing special.
But then he moved closer again. “It’s all right,” she said hastily, sensing that he meant to kiss her again.
This time his arms came around her slowly, and she had time to see the planes of his face, the way he looked straight into her eyes, the way his body loomed over hers…This time when his lips touched hers, they didn’t slide away immediately.
She had seen kissing. She knew that it was done with open mouths, that it made women cling to their lovers, as if their knees were failing them.
She knew that, all that, and yet—
He kissed her hard this time, not a fleeting caress, but a command. His arms slipped past her, braced against the wall, and his body came against hers. She gasped at the strength of it, the heat, and then their mouths were open together. It was like an open flame that rushed through Isidore’s body—the taste of him, the feeling of it, the kiss, his body.
She shivered, made an inarticulate murmur, a noise, a cry. Their tongues met and sang together. Her mind reeled and she wound her arms around his neck. Gone were all her thoughts of seduction, of fragile English brides.
“Yes,” she whispered into his mouth, her body against his. Her breasts didn’t feel like large objects meant to attract men now. They were on fire, tingling from where they rubbed against his coat. He pulled her tighter, and another little moan came from her throat. He kissed her hard, pushing her against the wall. She wanted to open her eyes, but desire swamped her, betrayed her voice and her logical mind and her plans. She could only cling to him and kiss him back, her tongue touching his and retreating.
Growing bolder, responding to the muffled groan that seemed to come from his chest, not from his mouth.
Finally he pulled back.
“Was that your first kiss?” she asked, when she could speak again.
He stood for a moment, the firelight cascading off the gleam of his hair. Half his face was in shadow.
Finally, he said quietly, “No.”
“Ah.” She didn’t know what she had wanted to hear. Of course he was experienced at kissing. How could he—how could they have—
“It was my second,” he said. “The first was a moment or two ago, but I’m not sure they belong in the same category.”
And then he was gone, the door closing on a swirl of evening air.
Chapter Eighteen
Revels House
March 1, 1784
