Sylvia Day - Perfect Kisses

“No.” She hadn’t dared; if anyone else knew of Harriet’s indiscretion it could have meant her ruin.

“Ah,” he said, softly.

“You know very well why.” Suddenly aware of a strange, restive light in his eyes, understanding a chaperone from his household might not be completely trustworthy, she lied without a qualm. “I left a note for my aunt should something untoward befall me.”

“I see. Very prudent, I’m sure. Does that mean I may dispense with rousing my housekeeper from her sleep?” He smiled, his gaze once again benign.

She hesitated, trying to reconcile her lie with his query. “If you give me your word,” she finally said.

“Of course, you have my word. Shall we?” Crooking his elbow, he offered her his arm, fully aware she’d not defined the exactitude of what she meant by his word. Nor had he.

The viscount’s carriage was brought up with all speed, Claire was handed in, Ormond spoke briefly to his driver and then joined her. Sliding into a lazy sprawl beside her, he took note as she shifted in the seat to distance herself from him. Not that the narrow confines of the carriage allowed much distance.

“I have no grand designs on your sister,” he offered, as though to assuage both her immediate and future fears. “Please rest easy on that score.”

Her gaze was direct. “You and I both know your designs on Harriet are very much less than grand, so I shall not rest easy until you stop amusing yourself with my naive sister.”

“And you are not naive?”

“Not in the least.”

His brows lifted minutely. “Why is that?”

“I live in the real world, not in some fairyland like Harriet. Poor darling thinks wealthy, titled men actually marry women without family or fortune.”

“It’s not unheard of,” he pointed out.

“Are you implying you intend to propose?” she silkily murmured.

“No.”

“I thought not.” Her retort was a blunt as his. “Now if you’d tell Harriet as much, we could both get on with our lives. You would be free to pursue some other silly chit and I could stop monitoring my sister’s activities.”

“Even if I do what you wish, you may still find yourself chasing after Harriet.” He chose not to say that the pretty little baggage had given him the impression she was more than willing.

Claire was not obtuse. She understood what he meant. “It’s not Harriet’s fault entirely. I’m afraid our aunt has been filling her head with impossible dreams. My sister is not fast and loose.”

In his experience women of every stamp were inclined to be amenable when a title and fortune were involved. But the viscount merely smiled and said with deprecating good humor, “So it’s not my charm that attracts your sister.”

“Not exclusively,” Claire said, smiling back at him for the first time, succumbing to his casual humility-a rarity in men of his class. “Although, surely you know that wealth is the prime allure in the ton.”

“How is it then,” he murmured, reaching out and shoving her hood aside so he could better see her face in the glow of the carriage lamps, “that you are indifferent to its attraction when your sister is not? Furthermore,” he said more softly as he took in her delicate features, green eyes, and lush mouth with the critical eye of a connoisseur, “why are you so intriguing while your sister is merely pretty.”

“Don’t,” Claire protested, pulling up her hood, purposefully resisting his flattery.

“Humor me,” he murmured, slipping her hood off again. “I’m just admiring your hair. My mother’s hair was the same color.”

His voice had taken on a sudden gentleness and she remembered hearing the stories. How his beautiful mother and her lover had died in a carriage accident on the road to Dover-not that anyone blamed the countess for fleeing from her depraved husband. That the viscount refused to live with his father afterward was added scandal; he’d set up his own establishment though he was scarce sixteen. “It’s an unfashionable color now, I’m told.” She didn’t speak of the circumstances of his mother’s death, though the rumors had followed him. Nor did she wish to offer sympathy to a man like Ormond who had overcome his sorrow by availing himself of every vice and excess without regard for the females he’d ruthlessly discarded in the process.

“I find that the fashionable world is often in error.” His voice, like hers, was without emotion, as though they both were carefully weighing their words. “Harriet tells me you’ve lost your parents, too,” he said.

He spoke as if his father was dead, she thought. “Yes…four years ago. Our parents died of the putrid throat. We are wards of our aunt as you no doubt know-or rather Harriet is. I am not.” Please, God, may she soon be quit of this carriage. His nearness was becoming disquieting.

“Harriet refers to you as a spinster,” he said with a teasing grin-apparently untroubled by their close proximity.

“A very contented spinster.” She refused to respond to his boyish grin, intent on retaining her composure. “Unlike Harriet, we’re not all looking to marriage as our salvation,” she pithily added, wishing him to understand that she was not as gullible as the other women who came within his scope.

“Then you and I should get along famously,” he drawled.

She sent him a withering glance. “There is no you and I.”

His brows rose in teasing rejoinder. “I could make it worth your while. My fortune is considerable-and as you previously noted, alluring.”

“Not to everyone, my lord. I choose to earn my own way in the world.”

“Good God. Doing what?” The only women he knew who earned their own way were in the demimonde.

“I have a school for young ladies.”

“How commendable.”

“A necessity. I don’t wish to be beholden to my aunt.”

“I see.”

“I’m sure you don’t. Men like you have never known privation.”

“Or perhaps men like me-as you so censoriously remark-have known other kinds of privation.” Overcome by an unexpected sense of sadness-raw as the day he watched his mother die-he looked away for a moment. He must be overtired, he decided. When had he last slept? He couldn’t remember. Turning to his usual remedy for melancholy, he leaned down and pulled out a flask from under the seat. “Whiskey?” Uncorking the chased silver container, he held it out to her.

“No, thank you.” A stiff, discouraging response.

Perhaps it might have been to others; Ormond took no notice. “If you don’t mind,” he drawled, already lifting the flask to his mouth. Draining it in one long draught, he took note of her rigid posture and murmured, “No need for alarm. I never get drunk.” He smiled tightly. “In contrast to my father who has never been sober,” he added, each word filled with loathing.

“I’m sorry.” She made a small moue-reluctant to find herself feeling compassion for Ormond who would have seduced Harriet without a qualm.

“No, you’re not.” Corking the flask, he tossed it on the opposite seat.

“Rather, I don’t wish to be.”

“Because of Harriet.”

“Of course. You would have dishonored her.”

He didn’t answer. He shrugged instead. “She wasn’t exactly unwilling.”

“She’s young and stupid. You are neither.”

“What do you want me to say? It’s the way of the world.” He shrugged again. “And I’m no saint.”

“Just kindly stay away from her.”

He held her gaze for a moment in the dimly lit interior, a willful fire in his eyes. “What about you?”

“I’m not interested.”

Immune to the reproof in her voice, he said half under his breath as though trying to understand his aberrant impulse, “And yet, curiously, you interest me.” He frowned faintly in an effort to grasp the incomprehensible. Fulsome blondes were generally his style, not this prickly, bluestocking with a disconcertingly direct gaze.

“Take heart, Ormond,” Claire murmured, noting his frown. “I’m sure you’ll change your mind by morning. Rumor has it you’re fickle,” she added, sardonically.

He laughed, her mockery pointed but true. “Touché. While you, I expect, only harbor the most sincere and lasting emotions.”

“Is that not the way of the world, my lord,” she replied, derisively. “Men play at love while women risk shame for similar activities.”

“As you say,” he murmured. So she was not a complete martinet when it came to the conventions governing women; she apparently took issue with the double standard. Before he had time to reflect further on that intriguing bit of information the carriage came to a halt. Glancing out, he saw that they had reached Mrs. Bellingham’s. As his gaze returned to Claire he found himself saying something he hadn’t said since his green youth. “May I kiss you good night?”

“No, you may not.”

Was that panic in her voice?

Or something else entirely?

Attuned to the nuances in a female’s tone and, furthermore, disinclined to be gainsaid, he lifted one brow. “Is that a challenge, Miss Russell?”

“It most certainly is not!”

Ormand’s gaze was knowing, as though he understood that her outburst was not entirely indignation or umbrage. Sliding upright from his lounging pose, he reached over and touched her cheek. “It’s only a kiss,” he said. “How can it hurt?”

“This is exactly why I don’t want you near my sister! You toy with every woman who comes your way-without regard for anyone’s feelings but your own! Ormond, don’t be ridiculous!” she exclaimed as he lightly gripped her shoulders. “Ormond-for heaven’s SAKE!” she heatedly cried as he drew her close, as his hard-muscled chest met her breasts and his hands slid down her back, pulling her nearer still. Her breath caught in her throat. “Ormond-no…don’t…” she whispered.

Just as his mouth covered hers.

He inhaled her halfhearted cavil, knew from experience that her breathy protest didn’t mean no, and kissing her gently, assuaged her agitation-and his curiosity in the bargain. He’d never kissed a bluestocking; he’d never before been so inclined. But very soon, he decided he might have been wise to experience the sensations sooner. Her lips were soft-softer than others he’d known-and ripe as summer fruit.

That she almost instantly tasted of sweet surrender even as she struggled against his embrace was not unfamiliar and yet different somehow-more arousing, as though the citadel about to be breached was unrivaled. And in contrast to his usual detached approach to foreplay, this time he was curiously impatient-the auburn-haired spinster stimulating some hitherto unknown goad that stirred his blood to instant fever pitch.

Was it because he’d become weary of sameness; had he become tired of pretty blondes and simpering agreement? Was he looking for willfulness and contention with his sex?

Not that introspection mattered at the moment; the lady was beginning to softly moan into his mouth. Nor was undue speculation of import when she made him feel as though he might actually experience the much touted nirvana in her arms. Quickly lifting her onto his lap as though testing the possibilities, he calmed her brief outcry as his rigid erection pressed into her soft bottom, whispering against her mouth, “Hush, hush, no one can see us. You’re safe…” This wasn’t the first time he’d been parked outside some lady’s house, playing at love. His driver knew how to deal with interlopers.

The lady’s protests almost immediately ceased, replaced by piquant little whimpers that gave him reason to believe she was susceptible to the same passions as he. As she slipped her arms around his neck, laced her fingers through his dark ruffled curls and kissed him back-not like some novice missish girl but like a passionate woman-he knew she’d soon be his. As though in agreement, his cock swelled sizeably.

Even while her voice of reason cried out-RESIST, RESIST-the increasing immensity of his erection sent an intoxicating shiver up her spine.

She chastised herself for yielding to such lurid sensations.

He was taking shocking liberties.

She shouldn’t permit it; she shouldn’t be kissing him. She should not surrender to the hedonistic rapture inundating her senses.

And yet she felt so alive again, like she once had-loved, desired, indulged, bewitched-tantalized.

The sound of laughter from passersby suddenly rang through the night.

Effectively shattering her halcyon dream.

“Stop!” she whispered. And then louder. “Ormond, NO!” Shamed, filled with guilt, she drew on every reserve of moral strength she possessed and shoved hard against Ormond’s chest. “Let me go!”

Had her hips not been gently stirring against his erection, the viscount might have given more credence to her heated protest. Instead of releasing her, he flexed his hips upward so she could feel his hard cock more acutely and was gratified to hear her utter the softest of whimpers. A sound implicit with longing.