Page 16 of Sense and Suitability
Her emphasis distanced them with formality, her volume assured them of discovery, and her reminder of what he’d lost gutted him.
“If you wish to hide, you’d best lower your voice.”
Her cheeks flushed, but her chin tilted higher. “I’m not certain I wish to hide any longer, especially with you.” She moved toward the door and then froze, quickly returning to the shadows of the balcony, her back pressed against the wall.
Simon peered over her head through the glass. A blond man pushed through the crowd in search of something. Simon’s attention fell on Emme. Someone?
“Is that Mr. Marshall?”
Her gaze swung to his. “Don’t you dare open that door.”
“Does he fancy you then, Emme?”
“Stop calling me Emme,” she hissed, her voice rising. “We are not on such friendly terms, Lord Ravenscross.”
“Shhh.” He looked over his shoulder, catching sight of the gaggle of ladies not far from the door. “Mr. Marshall is very near.”
“Don’t you shush me.” She stepped forward, her eyes alight. “You have no right to shush me.”
“Miss Lockhart.” The male voice was very near the door.
Emme’s lips parted for a retort, but Simon silenced her with a hand over her mouth, pulling her deeper into the shadows. Fire lit those eyes, drawing his attention even more to those marble-like hazel depths. Oh, he’d missed her. More than he even realized. And to have her in his arms? His breath lodged in his throat. “I apologize, Emme. But neither of us wants to be found right now, and Mr. Marshall is nearly at the door.” Mr. Ezra Marshall? Consummate complainer who found fault with the temperature of the tea, the length of the waltz, and even the alignment of the stars?
Certainly not the right match for her.
She pushed his hand away. “Then leave. I was here first.”
Could her voice get any louder? Selena’s face emerged from the crowd, along with a small collection of other ladies on her heels. How on earth was he to survive them? “It would not do well to be found out here together alone,” he warned. “Stop talking.”
“If we are found out, it will not be my fault.” She jabbed a finger in the air at him. “You followed me, if you’ll recall.”
Good heavens, she had to stop talking for both their sakes. He stepped forward, lowering his voice even more. “Emme...”
“I said, stop calling me—” She pushed away from his arms too quickly and stumbled, once again, too near the railing. This time, she squealed as her back tipped over the edge.
With another quick movement, he held her against him again, her fists pressed to his chest, her breaths shallow, and her face so close.
Wonderfully close.
He stared down at her, words clogging his throat. So many things to say and none of them sufficient.
She stared back, frown tight, eyes narrowed. And even her scowl lured him nearer.
Thank heavens she wasn’t wearing those cursed spectacles of hers. Something about the way the golden rims framed her large eyes in such a bookishly innocent way unraveled every bit of his control. Not that he had a great deal of control right now, because the longer he remained in the presence of her scent and familiarity, the more and more dangerous the seconds grew.
Suddenly, she ceased struggling. Stopped frowning. Heaven help him, was she even breathing? Those eyes changed. The fury dissipated into something altogether more dangerous—hurt.
The look raked over him.
“I’m so sorry, Emme.” The apology scraped through his hot throat. “Sorry for all of it.”
The words hung between them, raw and unguarded. Her breath caught, gaze softening in some intoxicating way. Then that tempting bottom lip of hers wobbled, and before he could think better of it, he went mad.
He breached the distance between them, his mouth capturing hers, stealing any words in one swift and certain act of lunacy... and desperation. For one fleeting moment, she relaxed against him, her hands clutching his lapel, drawing him closer. He thought he felt a quiet hum of acceptance purr from her throat, feeding his impossible hope. The full potency of apples engulfed him like a step into an autumn orchard. Sweet. Alive... wholesome.
He’d dreamed of her kiss. Craved it like a dying man for food.
She tasted like coming home, and he wanted to keep feasting.
