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Authors: Candace Camp
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pull herself back under control.
He released a long breath, a faint shudder of a laugh at the end, and pressed his lips once, softly, to her hair. “Sweet God.” His voice trembled slightly. Then he released her and stepped back, tugging his jacket into place. “I should apologize.” He hesitated, then added, “But I fear that I cannot. I enjoyed kissing you far too much, and I am not at all sorry for it.”
Damaris glanced up at him, a laugh gurgling up in her throat. “My lord!”
“Do not ‘my lord!’ me.” He grinned at her, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her up for a hard, quick kiss upon her lips. “My name is Alec, and I should like to hear it on your lips.”
“Alec,” she whispered, and he kissed her again, this time neither as hard nor as fast.
His hands dropped away from her arms and he stepped back reluctantly. “Good night, Damaris.”
“Good night.” She watched him walk out of the house. Her legs folded beneath her and she sank down onto the bench in the entry, landing with a small thud.
What had she just done?
The next morning Damaris still was not sure of an answer to her question. Lord Rawdon—Alec—was a mystery to her, and right now she felt somewhat the same way about herself. She was rarely so careless, so impetuous. The lessons she had learned had been hard, but well remembered.
Yes, she was a woman who enjoyed life, who lived more orless as she pleased, but she made certain to always stay on a clear, easy path, one where she could not be harmed, where she would not stumble or fall. One, in short, where she was above suspicion and free from danger. From the kind of heartbreak that could never be forgotten.
But last night she had apparently taken leave of her senses and jumped right into—well, she was not sure what it was, but clearly it was anything but safe.
How could she have been so foolhardy? She had ignored all the warning signals her brain had sent her. The Season was still at its peak; Rawdon was an earl , for pity’s sake. Of course some member of her father’s family would be there. That was where they belonged; she was the one who was out of her element.
And of course they had seen her, no matter how large the ball was. She was a stranger; it would be of some note when the Earl of Rawdon singled her out for the first waltz. Moreover, she was not so foolish as to deny that an attractive mystery woman was bound to receive a certain amount of attention from all the male guests, especially since the earl had shown her such obvious favor. The cluster of men about her all evening would have drawn anyone’s eye.
Damaris could see now that she had been willfully naïve in believing there would be no harm in accepting Rawdon’s invitation. And more so still not to foresee what had happened last night when Rawdon brought her home. It had been simmering beneath the surface since they first met. She had seen the glances he sent her way during her Twelfth Night ball six months ago. Even during Matthew’s baptism four months ago, her eyeshad kept returning to Alec—no, Rawdon; she must keep the formality—only to find each time that he was watching her.
She knew that the only reason she had accepted his invitation, the thing that had swept her into impetuously appearing at a ton party, was the prospect of seeing him again—of flirting with him, dancing with him, even, yes, kissing him.
Damaris could not help but smile at the remembrance of that kiss. It had been laughable, really, for her to imagine that she had any idea what Alec’s kiss would be like, just because she had been wooed and wed. She had been kissed by only one man—well, two, if she counted that silly brief struggle in the garden with an inebriated Italian count—and that had in no way prepared her for the incendiary touch of Lord Rawdon’s lips. She could not term his kiss sweet or forceful or tantalizing or, indeed, any other description easy to define and dismiss.
Alec’s kiss had
He released a long breath, a faint shudder of a laugh at the end, and pressed his lips once, softly, to her hair. “Sweet God.” His voice trembled slightly. Then he released her and stepped back, tugging his jacket into place. “I should apologize.” He hesitated, then added, “But I fear that I cannot. I enjoyed kissing you far too much, and I am not at all sorry for it.”
Damaris glanced up at him, a laugh gurgling up in her throat. “My lord!”
“Do not ‘my lord!’ me.” He grinned at her, grabbing her by the arms and pulling her up for a hard, quick kiss upon her lips. “My name is Alec, and I should like to hear it on your lips.”
“Alec,” she whispered, and he kissed her again, this time neither as hard nor as fast.
His hands dropped away from her arms and he stepped back reluctantly. “Good night, Damaris.”
“Good night.” She watched him walk out of the house. Her legs folded beneath her and she sank down onto the bench in the entry, landing with a small thud.
What had she just done?
The next morning Damaris still was not sure of an answer to her question. Lord Rawdon—Alec—was a mystery to her, and right now she felt somewhat the same way about herself. She was rarely so careless, so impetuous. The lessons she had learned had been hard, but well remembered.
Yes, she was a woman who enjoyed life, who lived more orless as she pleased, but she made certain to always stay on a clear, easy path, one where she could not be harmed, where she would not stumble or fall. One, in short, where she was above suspicion and free from danger. From the kind of heartbreak that could never be forgotten.
But last night she had apparently taken leave of her senses and jumped right into—well, she was not sure what it was, but clearly it was anything but safe.
How could she have been so foolhardy? She had ignored all the warning signals her brain had sent her. The Season was still at its peak; Rawdon was an earl , for pity’s sake. Of course some member of her father’s family would be there. That was where they belonged; she was the one who was out of her element.
And of course they had seen her, no matter how large the ball was. She was a stranger; it would be of some note when the Earl of Rawdon singled her out for the first waltz. Moreover, she was not so foolish as to deny that an attractive mystery woman was bound to receive a certain amount of attention from all the male guests, especially since the earl had shown her such obvious favor. The cluster of men about her all evening would have drawn anyone’s eye.
Damaris could see now that she had been willfully naïve in believing there would be no harm in accepting Rawdon’s invitation. And more so still not to foresee what had happened last night when Rawdon brought her home. It had been simmering beneath the surface since they first met. She had seen the glances he sent her way during her Twelfth Night ball six months ago. Even during Matthew’s baptism four months ago, her eyeshad kept returning to Alec—no, Rawdon; she must keep the formality—only to find each time that he was watching her.
She knew that the only reason she had accepted his invitation, the thing that had swept her into impetuously appearing at a ton party, was the prospect of seeing him again—of flirting with him, dancing with him, even, yes, kissing him.
Damaris could not help but smile at the remembrance of that kiss. It had been laughable, really, for her to imagine that she had any idea what Alec’s kiss would be like, just because she had been wooed and wed. She had been kissed by only one man—well, two, if she counted that silly brief struggle in the garden with an inebriated Italian count—and that had in no way prepared her for the incendiary touch of Lord Rawdon’s lips. She could not term his kiss sweet or forceful or tantalizing or, indeed, any other description easy to define and dismiss.
Alec’s kiss had
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