Read Online Amy Lake by Lady Reggieand the Viscount - Free Book Online Page B

and fought off a wave of dizziness.
    “They seem more in the French style than the English,” said Lord Davies, commenting on this parterre , which was rectangular and outlined in tightly clipped box.
    “The marquess,” I replied—because I’d listened to his lordship expostulate on this very theme more than once—“believes that the discipline of the French approach balances the natural tendency of nature to disorder.”
    He laughed, and I joined him.
    “And disorder is to be avoided, then?” said his lordship.
    “At any cost.”
    “The marquess is an Epicurean, then.  Wasn’t it Epicurus who believed order was primary to chaos?”
    A rhetorical question, I assumed, but I could not resist an addition.  “But Plato says—”
    We began a discussion of the Timaeus and perhaps neither of us realized that we were working our way, by degrees, into a more secluded part of the terrace.  I knew this spot well, although only by reputation.  Cassandra claims she spied Lady Helen there one evening, in the arms of Benedict Easton, but Helen says she would not visit a dark corner of the Larkinton’s terrace with Benedict Easton if he were the last gentleman in London. 
    I was about to remark on Aristotle’s concept of ‘right function’ when the viscount kissed me.  Or I kissed him, as he later claimed in a moment of anger.  In either case, ’tis undoubtedly true that I returned the kiss, and it continued for some time, and his lips were hard against mine, and his hands were so strong at my waist and the back of my head that I would not have moved an inch had I fainted.
    Which for a moment I thought possible.  His hands moved up from my back to cup my face and his lips became even more demanding.  My knees weakened and I leaned back against the balustrade.
    “Regina,” he murmured.
    I wasn’t up to polite conversation, as I was too occupied in enjoying the kiss.  ’Twas not my first—
    Oh, very well.  ’Twas exactly my first, because I don’t count the chaste pecks that Lord Humphrey plants on the cheek of every woman he meets.  Lord Humphrey is seventy if he is a day, and rather hard of hearing as well as half-blind, so no-one ever tries to avoid the kiss, we just lean in to assist his aim.  Otherwise one risks the chance of his lips wandering rather far astray.
    This was not a chaste kiss, I thought, muzzily.  This was some previously unvisited part of heaven, and I wished that Lord Davies would continue . . . forever.
    He kissed my neck, and the curve of my jaw.
    “A beautiful disorder, indeed,” he murmured and his fingertips touched my hair.
    He said something else, it was half-whispered into my ear.  I did not catch the words.  His hands were now again at my back, caressing and leaving my skin on fire for more.  I suppose I must have leaned into him and a quiet groan was my reward—
    Everything became abruptly much more earnest.  He crushed me to his chest and I could hardly breathe.  I did not resist; in truth, it never entered my mind.
    He released me without warning.
    “Oh!” 
    “I beg your pardon,” said the viscount.  Some emotion I could not identify flashed across his face.  “I am truly sorry.  I can’t imagine what I was thinking.”
    Regardless of who had started the kiss, he had broken it off.  He stepped away from me and I grabbed something—anything—to keep myself from falling over.  I tried to smile to let him know everything was alright, nothing to worry about, we can forget this ever happened, but my own lips were not up to the task.    
    I must have been staring.
    “Shall we return?”  He held out his arm to me.  I took it without thought, and we stepped back into the ballroom.
    * * * *
     
    The rules about such episodes are not as stringent as one might suppose.  A few high sticklers claim that a proposal of marriage must be made before the next sun sets, but most of our modern generation would agree that if discretion was maintained, and the