“But you see, I have never been. Kissed, that is. And I’ve never met a man who I wanted to be the one to give me my first.” She drew in a sharpbreath and then shot him a bold gaze. Fiercer than her usual boldness. “I want my first kiss—perhaps my only kiss—to be from you, James Pembroke, Lord—”
James stood and pressed a finger to her lips. “James is enough. I quite like it when you call me James.”
“James.” She let the word linger on her tongue, drawing out the sibilant end. “You’ll consider my request?”
The answer was never in doubt. Perhaps even Lucy knew that because she leaned into him then, rested her palms on his chest, stared hungrily at his neck and chest exposed by his half-open shirt.
The luminous green of her eyes turned molten, hungry.
“I have news for you, Lady Lucy Westmont.” He wrapped one arm around her waist. Then reached up to stroke the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day we met.”
“For two days, then?”
“It feels like longer.” He slid back a strand of her honey-blonde hair, then cupped her nape with his palm.
“But in a good way?” Lucy arched back into his touch to gaze up at him.
“Mmm. Averygood way.” He bent his head but resisted going too fast and taking what he wanted. Instead, he would make it good for her. She’d gifted him with this moment, and he wanted it to be a kiss she’d remember.
He stroked the tender flesh of her neck, letting his fingers dance at the lacy edge of her night rail until he heard her breathing hitch. Then he bent to nuzzle the same spots, brushing his lips against where her pulse beat wildly.
“James,” she breathed as she gripped his shirt front. “Please.”
He kissed the edge of her mouth, and she lifted onto her toes, leaning into him. Nothing had ever felt so right. Holding her. Touching her. Somehow, it felt as if it was meant to be from the start. Yet he didn’t understand it and wouldn’t have bet on ever being gifted with anything as precious as Lucy’s trust.
Finally, he touched his lips to hers, and Lucy instantly let out a breath of relief. As if she’d been waiting for this moment, waiting for him for as long as he’d been waiting to feel this way about anyone.
When her hand went to his shoulder, he swept his other arm around her, pulling her soft, warm curves against him.
Then, just as he deepened the kiss, she stilled. Stiffened in his arms.
“Do you hear that?” she whispered, pulling back to break their kiss.
He did, though the blood rushing in his ears made it difficult.
Music. And singing. Neither terribly good but both offered with gusto. They grew louder.
“What is it?” James was loath to let Lucy go butreleased her when she lowered her hand from his shoulder.
Then she shocked him by reaching down to clasp his hand and draw him toward the window, which she very accurately had identified as the direction of the sounds.
As she stepped to the glass, the singing ceased, and some man’s voice called out.
“Cassandra, come to the window, love.”
Lucy turned back, her eyes wide and glittering in the candlelight. “He thinks this is Aunt Cassandra’s window.”
“Or he’s a thief trying to cause a distraction.”
Lucy pressed her face to the glass and then lifted the sash before James could stop her.
“Hello there,” she called out almost congenially, “you have the wrong window.”
Good grief, the woman was being helpful to a potential housebreaker.
“Let me.” James drew up beside her. “You have no idea who this man is.”
“He has a lute and is too deep in his cups to remember which window is my aunt’s. How can he be a housebreaker?”
