“I came out on the terrace looking for you, Lord Dawson.”
“You did? How splendid—and please call me David.”
Her eyes widened. “I couldn’t possibly. I hardly know you.”
“Oh, you will know me much better shortly.”
She flushed as best he could tell in this dim light.
“I—”
“Shh.” He stepped closer. “Not so loud. Sound carries in the night air, you know.”
“Ah—” She looked adorably confused. Her mouth was agape—He definitely had to take advantage of such an inadvertent invitation.
He brought his head down slowly; he gave her plenty of opportunity to move, but she didn’t dodge out of the way. He saw in her eyes the moment she decided to take the kiss he was offering. He smiled as he closed the last few inches.
Her lips were firm, smooth, sweet. And her mouth! He only used the tip of his tongue, tracing her lips, dipping past them just slightly. He wanted her enthralled, not frightened. She was so still it was clear this was her first time. Gently, he brought her closer until she was touching him from chest to knees.
Who would have thought careful, restrained kissing could be so bloody erotic? He was restricting his lips to her face and his hands to her clothed, corseted back, but he was more aroused than he could ever remember being. And she was so responsive.
Grace panted, making little mewling sounds. Once Lord Dawson’s—David’s—lips had touched hers, all thought had evaporated, leaving her lost in a whirlwind of sensation. His lips moved lightly, briefly, tantalizingly over her mouth, like a butterfly’s wings, teasing. Her own lips felt swollen; his tongue touched them, slid slowly over them.
Heat pooled low in her belly, making everything in that region throb and ache. She wanted…she needed…what?
His hands brought her body against his. Oh! This. She needed this—and still it wasn’t enough.
He cradled her against his chest and moved to explore her eyelids, her cheekbones. Was she moaning? Surely not.
She felt a chuckle rumble through his chest as his hand cupped the back of her head.
“Shh.” His lips brushed her earlobe, his words stirring her hair, tickling over her ear, sending shivers skittering down her spine. “Remember, sound travels at night. We don’t want anyone to find us.”
No, that was right. No one should find them because…because they were…
They were behaving scandalously in the foliage.
She shoved hard against the miscreant’s chest. He loosened his hold immediately.
“What seems to be the problem?” The oaf was grinning.
What wasn’t the problem? She, the unmarried daughter of the Earl of Standen, was alone in the garden with a man her father hated. And not merely alone. No. She had allowed the fellow shocking liberties. She had had her person plastered up against his; she had allowed him to kiss her—
She inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her hand. She had allowed Lord Dawson to give her her very first kiss. Was she mad? Surely that favor should have been reserved for her intended, John Parker-Roth, and not this rogue. Certainly not this rogue. Perhaps Papa was right to hate his family.
“What is it, sweetheart? Cat got your tongue?”
Something about the way he said “tongue” made her flush. She tried to respond, but the noise she made was incoherent—a sound somewhere between a gulp and a growl. She tried again.
“Lord Dawson, I…I…” What was the appropriate thing to say in this situation?
There was no appropriate thing.
She should slap him soundly, but that seemed unfair. He hadn’t been forcing his attentions on her—she had been a very active participant.
“Ohh.” The thought caused a slow snake of shame to curl through her stomach. She dropped her face into her hands.
“Grace.” She felt his arm come around her shoulders. He pulled her close. She should struggle, but she didn’t have the spirit to do so. Besides, his touch was comforting.
“Grace, it’s all right. We did nothing wrong. My intentions are honorable.”
She lifted her head. “Honorable?”
He grinned. “Definitely. I know it’s a bit precipitous, but…Will you make me the happiest of men?”
“What?” Surely she had misheard.
His grin widened. “Will you marry me?”
She felt her jaw drop. This might be her first time in London, but she could not believe every excursion into the foliage there resulted in a marriage proposal. No one had seen them, and while she most certainly shouldn’t have been doing what she’d been doing, no permanent harm had been done. “Are you a lunatic? You’ve just met me.”
He shrugged. “I could tell from the moment you stepped through the ballroom door, you would be the perfect baroness for me.”
The man was a lunatic—a very attractive lunatic, but a lunatic nonetheless. Or perhaps he was destitute? “I’m not a notable heiress, you know.”
He looked at her as if she were the lunatic. “I don’t need to marry money—I’m quite plump in the pocket.”
“Oh. Well, I can’t marry you in any event.” And why did she feel a pang of regret when she said that? All she knew of Baron Dawson was that Papa hated his family—and that he was tall, handsome, and skilled in the amatory arts.
He frowned. “Why not?”
“Besides the fact that I don’t know you—”
He grinned. “That’s easily remedied.”
Grace tried not to roll her eyes. “—I already have an understanding with a gentleman.” Papa certainly understood she would marry John, and John definitely had his eye on that patch of Papa’s land bordering his estate—he wished to plant roses or rhododendrons or something on it.
She started walking back to the ballroom. Lord Dawson fell into step beside her. She had to admit it felt very nice to be beside a man who, well, fit her. She allowed him to place her hand on his arm again.
“You didn’t kiss me as if you had an understanding with anyone,” he said.
She jerked her hand back. “I didn’t kiss you at all.”
His dratted eyebrow flew up.
“You kissed me.” Her face must be glowing again. She should rent herself out as a lantern.
“That’s true. And you struggled mightily to free yourself from my unwanted attentions, didn’t you?”
“Er.” No, she hadn’t struggled; she’d welcomed his advances in a totally shocking fashion. Yes, that was it. Shocking. “I was so shocked I couldn’t move.”
“Hmm.” Baron Dawson just looked at her. “So, this understanding…are you betrothed?”
“Ah, not precisely…” And why was she prevaricating? She was as good as taken.
“Oh? What—precisely—are you?”
“Well, er…” She just couldn’t say the word “engaged.” And she wasn’t engaged—not quite. Technically, she was free for the moment, for these precious few moments she was in London.
“You are undecided.” Lord Dawson took her hand again and raised it to his lips. He smiled slowly. “I shall help you decide.”
“No. I…”
He picked a leaf