Page 18 of The Traitor
For a kiss that bore more than a little anger on Sebastian’s part, the touch of Miss Danforth’s lips on his was sunlight-soft. She scooted closer, one of her hands wrapping around the back of his head, the other cradling his cheek.
She tasted of the wine, of sweetness, and a little of grief. He kissed the grief then nudged it aside by stroking his fingers over her cheek, her throat, her temple. Though she was a redhead, her hair was silky soft, and her skin…
No human female ought to have skin like that, warm and smooth, and a sheer pleasure for a man to drag his fingertips over. He wanted to taste her everywhere, and that he’d never have the chance was the only thing that made him ease out of the kiss.
“You are alive,” he growled. “Be grateful for that. Don’t tempt fate by questioning your good fortune, because one day it will be you who lies in some churchyard.”
Or on a muddy battlefield buzzing with flies, or at the bottom of some ravine in the freezing Pyrenees, or blown to bits when a cannonball hit the powder magazine by merest lucky—tragic, horrible, unendurable—chance.
“You are alive, too.” Miss Danforth was much better at scolding with a kiss than Sebastian would ever be. She pressed her mouth to his, all business, though her hand on his jaw was gentle.
Before he marshaled his wits to react, she took her mouth away and patted his cheek, putting him in mind of his recent meeting with young Pierpont.
“Have some more wine,” she said, and Sebastian did not argue. When he’d finished, he passed the bottle to her without wiping the lip, and she too indulged in a healthy tot.
He was supposed to apologize for kissing her; he was sure of it in both the English and the French parts of his mind. He might as well apologize for the beautiful weather, for her aunt dying, for being a man, for Miss Danforth’s own glorious red hair. The kiss had been relatively chaste, at least compared with his thoughts.
The Frenchman in him decided he would not apologize for it.
Sebastian tossed the cat a few bits of ham, then wrapped the uneaten food in its cloths and stowed it behind the seat of the carriage. The blanket went into the hamper followed by the cat, and in short order, the team was headed back to Town at a spanking trot.
And now—of course—the sky was sporting the sort of low, sulking clouds that would only gather more and more closely, until rain was inevitable.
“We’ll beat the weather,” Miss Danforth said as they reached Earl’s Court. “When a storm threatens, it clears the traffic, so you can make excellent time. Thank you for taking me, your lordship.”
He hadn’ttakenher, though had they kissed much longer, he would have wanted to. That kiss hadn’t been entirely meant as a scold or a lecture. He was too out of practice with lust to know where desire ended and anger began.
Anger or loneliness. He barely knew the woman, which seemed to be the primary prerequisite for an erotic encounter in his life.
“You will not rail at me for taking liberties, Miss Danforth? I might have made the same point without molesting your person.”
In the basket, the enormous cat shifted, making the wicker creak. The damned beast probably understood every word of English spoken in its presence.
“I do not consider myself molested, my lord.”
How he hated the my-lording, and how he approved of her answer. In the distance, off to the south, thunder rumbled. He could not tell her that he was lonely, though the notion had strutted into his thoughts with the unapologetic confidence of a personal truth.
Not a very useful concept, loneliness.
“You never did answer my question, Miss Danforth.”
She smoothed her gloved hand over her skirts, a hand that Sebastian now knew bore freckles across the back. The gesture told him she recalled exactly which question he alluded to: Who was the last man she’d kissed?
“I hadn’t any answer. You were my first.”
Another rumble of thunder, though thunder on the right was supposed to bring good luck.
“Igave you your first kiss?” The notion pleased him inordinately, and confirmed his sense that the men of England were a troop of witless apes. No wonder their womenfolk were such a twitchy, high-strung lot. “How did I do?”
She smiled a patient, female smile. “You were awful.”
Ah, but that smile told a different story. “Perhaps in the future, you will provide me an opportunity to improve on my performance.”
He winked at her, to show he was teasing and could be trusted, utterly, and because the day had abruptly become much less about death, scoldings, and shoving aside bad memories.
She did not wink back, but neither did her smile fade entirely from her eyes until they reached home.
Four
