As he had been doing all evening, Lord Blackwood stared at her mouth now, but this time from a very short distance away.
“If you are so bent on kissing me,” she heard herself say in a remarkably throaty voice, “you may as well do it and cease this foolishness. I am no schoolroom miss and can, I suspect, withstand the insult.”
He smiled a provoking smile, his rich eyes laughing. “Oh, can ye, lass?”
“Of course. I have lived in London nearly my entire life, you know.”
He didn’t seem to like that. But after that night three years ago, this did not surprise her. His eyes at exactly the level of hers now looked somewhat disapproving and quite intense. Kitty had never particularly liked men of great intensity.
But she liked the Earl of Blackwood. She liked the way he stared at her lips and the hot lapping pool it generated in her. She liked it that he built up the fire when the innkeeper was otherwise occupied, that Mr. Yale seemed to listen to him even when he pretended not to, and that his brother had carried his portrait into battle. She liked his hooded gaze, never mind that he was a barbarian, except in the yard earlier when he had spoken so beautifully.
Gentleman or barbarian? Spy or fantasy?
She giggled. It was preposterous. Years of cool, collected, directed precision, now all subsumed in intoxication over a highly unsuitable man. She wanted him to kiss her, it seemed, more than she had wanted anything else in her life.
He stepped up to the riser beneath her, filling the space with his broad shoulders and sheer size, filling every corner of her senses. She leaned forward. The hint of leather and pine still curled about him, not at all as a gentleman should smell and thoroughly delicious. She inhaled, filling her nostrils, then her head. He remained perfectly still, watching her.
She tilted forward and pressed her mouth to his.
She sighed, right there on the step in the near dark with her lips pressed to a man’s, a stranger’s for all intents and purposes.
He felt so good.
Her palm found the front of his coat. She could not seem to prevent her fingers from spreading and discovering hard muscle beneath fine wool. Ever so gently his mouth moved against hers, cupping her lower lip, and heat shot through her body like a sizzle of lightening. He kissed her back and she allowed it, the fitting of shape and texture, and the delectable heat curled into her belly—then swiftly, thickly, between her legs. A tiny gasp escaped her. He seemed to take it into his mouth. In sheer relief, upon a soft utterance of pleasure, Kitty opened hers.
A large, strong hand wrapped about her shoulder. In complete control, Lord Blackwood put her away from him.
Stomach twisting, Kitty opened her eyes.
She did not see on his face that which she expected. Instead his dark eyes seemed to shimmer with surprise and a hint of confusion, echoing the shock slipping through her body. He had not expected it either, the jolt of real desire, and something more. The awareness of it in his gaze weakened Kitty. Her shaking hand sought a stair rail, but none could be found. His attention followed her action, then abruptly returned to her face.
With one deliberate movement he drew her against his chest and covered her mouth with his.
This time the kiss was not a mere brushing of lips. This time his hand wrapped around her jaw to hold her close. He tilted his head and crossed her lips with his, and a rumble of pleasure came from his chest. She gripped his shoulders, a thrill of pure, sweet pleasure coursing through her. He was all hard male beneath her touch and she felt it to her toes. His tongue stroked her lips, coaxing to enter. She let him in, feeling him at the sensitive soft insides of her lips, then against her tongue. She gasped in breath and he caught her tongue with his and she wanted him.
Good heavens, no.
But resistance was futile. She might tell her hands to press at his arms now to push him away, but they would not obey. She might command her lips to seal themselves, but they adored the sensation of his tongue, masterly and damp, entering her. He wanted his tongue in her and she allowed him full liberty.
His palm slipped away from her face to spread on her back, trapping her to his chest and it was like heaven to be so trapped, to be wanted by a man. This man. And Kitty’s muzzled head told her that perhaps these three years she had been lying to herself. Perhaps she had broken free of Lambert Poole’s hold on her that night not because of the particular message she had read in Lord Blackwood’s fathomless eyes but simply because she had wanted him to hold her instead—quite literally.
Madness. She was not a wanton. She was a coolheaded, rational being. This man was a flirt, a cretin, and she had nothing whatsoever in common with him except that they clearly seemed to enjoy kissing each other. She ran her hands along his arms, drunk on him now, the caress of his mouth carrying her along the insanity. She touched his face and everything inside her softened. The plane of his high cheekbone and hard jaw was perfection, taut and barely rough from the day’s whisker growth.
“I wanted you to kiss me.” She heard herself utter the words, breathless and trembling, unable to control anything. It was the whiskey, the dark stair, the man holding her to him. His eyes were so dark in the wavering shadows of candlelight and heavy with desire. He took her mouth anew and she gave herself up to the strokes of lips and tongue now turning her liquid. There was hot breath and more heat where his palm splayed upon her back, and her breasts and belly pressed against the hard wall of his chest, her fingertips gripping his arms. She wanted to feel even more, to make this secret indiscretion a moment to remember every night as she lay on her spinster’s couch.
She shifted her hips.
Abruptly he released her.
Kitty’s breaths came in little jagged bursts. She could do nothing but stare at the mouth that possessed such skill and the eyes that seemed none too pleased.
“Weel, nou ye’ve had yer kiss.” His voice was rough. Rather, rougher than usual. He grasped her shoulder and put her away from him entirely. Peeling her hand from around his arm, he brought the candle between them and wrapped her fingers around the holder, then released both. The flame flickered too hot, but neither moved to widen the space between them.
Kitty’s mouth would not close.
“If you did not wish to kiss me”—her voice sounded foreign—“you needn’t have.”
“Oh, A wished tae.” He drew a thick breath, turned his head away and rubbed a palm across his face.
He pivoted and clattered down the stair. The kitchen door smacked shut behind him. Hand shaking about the candle-holder, Kitty sank back against the wall. She closed her eyes.
She would not regret it. Not until the morning. With the morning would come sobriety and a return to rationality. For now whiskey reigned, and the sensation of his lips on hers lingered, and the desire pulsing inside her was wonderfully welcome.
Tomorrow would be soon enough for regret.
Chapter 7
The following morning Kitty’s head ached, her stomach hung like a sack of sour milk below her ribs, and her cheeks burned incessantly. But this paled in comparison to the news Emily announced on waking her.
“A portion of the stable roof collapsed beneath the weight of the snow and nearly injured Lord Blackwood’s horse. It got off with a minor scratch, however.”