Page 51 of The Trouble with True Love

“They aren’t?” she whispered.

“Not for what I want to say.” With that, he bent his head and kissed her.

Chapter 11

The moment his mouth touched hers, Clara experienced a pleasure so keen it was almost like pain, so intense it was almost unbearable. The press of his lips was light, and yet, she felt it in every part of her body. From fingertip to fingertip, from the bottoms of her feet to the crown of her hair, it seemed as if every cell and every nerve ending she possessed was awakening to this new experience.

Her first kiss, she thought and closed her eyes, a move that ignited other senses. She became aware of his scent—a mixture of sandalwood and castile soap and something else, something deeper and earthier. She heard the tick of the clock on the mantel and the thud of her own heartbeat. She felt his warm palm cupping her cheek, his fingertips caressing the nape of her neck, his forearm brushing against her breast. In some vague corner of her mind, she knew it was all terribly improper and she ought to stop it, but she could not move. She could only feel, as the sweetness of it all washed over her and through her, becoming more potent with each tick of the clock. When his lips moved against hers and his tongue touched the seam of her closed lips, she stirred in agitation, giving a soft moan against his mouth.

He pulled back a fraction, his lips brushing hers in a teasing caress. He lifted his free hand to slide his arm around her shoulders, and as his fingertips ran lightly down her spine, any notions of stopping this wondrous experience went out of Clara’s head and vanished into space. When he pulled her closer, she came willingly, gladly, her arms wrapping around his neck, her sound of assent stifled by his mouth capturing hers again.

This kiss was more ardent, more demanding, his lips urging hers to part. When they did, his tongue entered her mouth—a shocking thing, and yet, as he tasted deeply of her, the pleasure within her deepened as well, bringing heat, and the sweetness of the first kiss gave way to a new sensation in the second, something hungry and wild, something almost desperate.

His tongue pulled back, and driven by instinct, she pursued. As her tongue entered his mouth, the strange hunger in her rose even higher, grew even hotter. This was the most intimate thing that had ever happened to her, and yet, strangely, it wasn’t intimate enough. She pressed her body closer to his, her arms tightening around his neck, and suddenly, she was falling forward and he was falling back. As their bodies sank together onto the settee, Clara felt an exultation unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

He moved beneath her, making a rough sound against her mouth as if he were surprised, and who could blame him? Women weren’t supposed to be so brazen. And yet, he didn’t seem to mind, for he broke the kiss only long enough for both of them to take in air, and then, he was kissing her again, his tongue in her mouth and his arms tight around her. It was glorious.

His arms were like steel bands, holding her. The strands of his hair felt crisp and silky as she raked her fingers through them. She could taste tea and strawberry jam on his mouth. Held in his embrace, captured by his kiss, her senses filled with him, everything else in the world faded to insignificance.

Beneath her, his heat seemed to sear her through all the layers of her clothes. His body was lean and hard—particularly where his hips were pressed to hers with such shocking intimacy. She stirred against that hardness, and the pleasure brought by the tiny move was so sharp, so exquisite, that she tore her lips from his with an astonished gasp.

For an instant, they stared at each other, and then, his embrace suddenly slackened and his arms slid under hers, his hands lifting to cup her face.

“This has to stop,” he said, his voice a rasp in the quiet room. “It has to stop now, or God help us both.”

Pressing a quick, hard kiss to her mouth, he gripped her shoulders, then he shoved her backward and sat up. Planting her firmly in her own seat, he let her go and slid at once to the other end of the settee.

Clara turned to stare at the clock on the mantel ahead of her as she worked to regain a sense of equilibrium. It wasn’t easy. She felt as if she’d been running, and because of her corset, she couldn’t take deep breaths, and in consequence, she felt a bit dizzy. Her body seemed afire, burning in all the places he’d touched her and even in some of the places he hadn’t. She’d often tried to imagine what kissing a man might be like, but heavens above, her imagination had never conjured anything even close to the reality.

Was it the same for men? she wondered, and cast a sideways glance at him.

He was not looking at her, but at the floor, his forearms resting on his parted knees. His breathing was hard, deep, and labored. Watching him, her question was answered, and the knowledge that she had evoked in him the same feelings she had experienced made Clara want to laugh with joy, because for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to feel beautiful.

Somewhere in the distance, a door banged. Though the sound was muffled by the closed confines of the drawing room, he heard it, too. He stirred, lifting his head, and she looked away, her happiness at what had just happened fading a little as it dawned on her how lucky they’d been. If anyone had come in and caught them—

“Forgive me,” he said, interrupting that alarming line of speculation. “I have to go.”

His voice was a welcome diversion from the sobering turn her thoughts had taken, and Clara jerked to her feet.

“Of course,” she said, turning toward him as he stood up, and she worked to don a demeanor of polite civility and speak naturally, as if the most extraordinary experience of her life had not just happened. “Please express my thanks to your aunt for her kind invitation, and tell her I will respond as soon as I have spoken with my sisters-in-law.”

He gave a nod and bowed, then walked toward the door, taking up his hat from the table where he’d left it earlier as he went. But then, he stopped, hat in hand, and turned to look at her over his shoulder, his perfect countenance graver than she’d ever seen it, his eyes so brilliantly blue that it almost hurt to look into them.

“You’ve never been kissed before,” he said. “Have you?”

His voice was so matter-of-fact, it wasn’t really a question, and she colored up at once, wondering how he could possibly be so certain.

“No,” she admitted. “You were... you were the first.”

He didn’t seem gratified to hear it. He pressed his lips tight together, gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, and turned away to open the door, leaving her with no idea what had given her away. Perhaps she’d done it wrong somehow, made some terribly gauche mistake.

That was a mortifying possibility, and yet, Clara’s joy refused to be dimmed. It lingered inside her—like sunshine caught in a box—even after he was gone.

Damn, damn, damn.

The oath reverberated through his head like a series of gunshots, condemning him with every step he took down the stairs, across the foyer, and out of Clara Deverill’s house.

He walked straight past his driver, who had hopped down from the box and was waiting by the carriage door, opened umbrella in hand. “Go on, Hart,” he ordered over his shoulder without breaking his stride. “I’ll walk for a bit, then take a taxi home.”

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