think . . .” She wet her lips. “I think I’d rather kiss you.”
And before Chase could begin to reckon with the shock of those words, she did.
The moment she touched her lips to his, Alexandra knew she’d made a severe miscalculation. Her carefully tallied sugar lumps were merely sweet piles of lies. By insisting on taking the lead, she’d told herself she could satisfy her curiosity and retain control.
Control. Hah. She couldn’t control something she scarcely understood. No more than a landlocked, untraveled farmer could board a Yankee clipper and set a course for the moon.
Alexandra hadn’t the faintest idea how to navigate passion.
However, within moments he began to lead the way.
Her kiss became his. A series of light, teasing brushes of his mouth against hers. He tasted her upper lip, then the lower. Taking his time, as though the kiss were a puzzle. As though he found her compelling. Fascinating.
And then he nudged her lips apart and swept his tongue between them.
Oh. Oh, dear.
Alex was startled by the intrusion, reeling with sensations, but she didn’t dare pull away.
To the contrary. She dared to move closer.
This was her first kiss. Good or bad, awkward or accomplished, she’d remember it for the rest of her life. But more than that, she wanted him to recall it, too. He’d forgotten her after their chance meeting in the bookshop. This time, she was determined to etch herself on his memory. No matter how many kisses had come before hers, or how many would come after—this one, he would remember.
No shyness. No hesitation. She meant to give as good as she received, or die of mortification trying.
As he deepened the kiss, she leaned into the embrace, sliding her hands up his shoulders until her fingertips met at the nape of his neck. He wore his hair clipped short there, and she teased her fingers through the dense fringe.
He moaned softly, and the sound was pleading. Resonant with longing. Vulnerable.
Then, with a growl, he caught her up in his arms and lifted her body against him. Her thin shift might as well have been nothing. Her toes barely scraped the floor. His tongue stroked hers in a bold, suggestive rhythm, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Heat built between their bodies, welding them together. His uninjured hand gathered to a possessive fist, gathering and twisting the back of her shift.
He wasn’t leading any longer, but overwhelming her instead.
Perhaps that was his intent. To hide behind intimacy. Draw her close as a way of holding her at a distance. Strange. She would have to ponder it further, once pondering was a viable option again. At the moment, his kisses were erasing her mind.
That was probably just what he desired.
Abruptly, he set her back on her feet. As they parted, her impulse was to lower her eyes and back away slowly. However, she forced herself to stand her ground and meet his gaze. She’d given it her best effort. She’d always have that much. If he found nothing memorable about this encounter, at least she would know that she’d held nothing in reserve. There was pride in that.
She searched his face for any hints of approval or disdain. His expression, however, revealed nothing but confusion.
He blinked down at her. “Christ.”
As reactions went, she couldn’t decide how to interpret blasphemy.
Maybe he didn’t know, either.
He took her hands from about his neck, placed them back over her eyes, turned her by the shoulders, and guided her out the kitchen door. “Go back to bed, Miss Mountbatten. This never happened.”
This never happened.
Not for him, perhaps. But for Alexandra . . . ? That kiss had happened. Really, truly happened, in every part of her body. In the days to come, the kiss occupied almost all of her mind, as well.
She now understood why his attentions as a lover were in such great demand. All reason had deserted her when his lips touched hers. Only feeling had remained. Heat and scent and strength and taste.
He’d tasted like . . . she couldn’t name it, precisely. What was the taste of a deep, masculine growl? Part brandy, part sin . . . and wholly intoxicating. Just the memory sent a languid drunkenness seeping through her limbs.
She gave her thoughts a shake.
She had to stop thinking of it and put the encounter behind her. Ever since last autumn, she’d been wondering how kissing him would feel. Now she knew, and her curiosity was satisfied. For him, it amounted to nothing. A boring evening at home.
This never happened.
She must concentrate on her duties instead. This was a brief period of employment. She had a future to finance.
“I’m hemming a handkerchief, Daisy. Would you like to join me?”
Daisy looked at her older sister. Rosamund shrugged in silent, grudging permission, as though to say, If you must.
“Now, then.” Alex beckoned the younger girl closer. “Why don’t you have a go?”
Daisy obediently took the half-finished work from Alex’s hand. Her stitches were hesitant and clumsy, but Alex showered her with praise and encouragement when she reached the corner. “Well done, Daisy.”
“No it’s not. It’s all crooked.”
“But an excellent start. No one should expect perfection on the first attempt. All you need is a bit of practice. After the edges are done, I’ll teach you to embroider letters. We’ll begin with this one.” She traced a letter in marking chalk. “Which letter is that?”
“D.”
“And can you guess why I’m going to teach that one first?”
The girl smiled shyly. “Because it’s for Daisy.”
“Exactly so.” Alex was pleased. One letter of the alphabet learned, five-and-twenty to go. She would celebrate the smallest of victories. “And once you learn to embroider, you’ll be ready to take on all sorts of projects. Tablecloths, serviettes . . .”
“Serviettes?” Rosamund groaned. “Why would we embroider little flowers and monograms on scraps of cloth meant to catch spittle and dribbled soup? It’s repulsive, if you think about it.”
Alex had never considered it that way, but now that Rosamund mentioned it, it was a bit disgusting.
“It’s not all embroidered serviettes,” she said. “There are countless practical applications for needlework. Every girl should
