She was a woman aware of her beauty. One who was reminded of it by nearly everyone she met. Usually, selfishly, she wished it were not her defining feature.
Except now.
Because she wanted nothing so much as his desire. The nature of it called to something deep within her. Something as incontrovertible as it was primitive.
And she could do nothing but answer.
When his tongue searched the seam of her lips with a questioning lick, she tentatively opened to him, but not too far. He hovered softly, before venturing into her mouth with the flavor of sweet cream and buttery cake. Not rich like the soufflé they’d had for dessert, but no less delicious.
He didn’t stroke or demand, he merely explored and retreated before daring to do it again.
The taste of him ignited an unbearable ache deep within her that, if fed, would become dangerous for them both.
Suddenly Nora was very aware she’d been gone from her own ball for far too long. That she’d be missed, and people would come looking.
Especially since Michael would have returned and, hopefully, been frightened enough by Titus’s threat, to make his excuses and leave.
Lord, she wished she could stay here. That she could kiss him all night and all the nights after. Indeed, she couldn’t summon the strength to break away.
Seeming to sense this, he reluctantly broke the seal of their mouths, returning to soften the blow with a couple of short, soft tugs with his lips.
She emitted a sigh as he pulled back, thinking he might just be the loveliest being on this earth. A strange and silent creature, as dangerous as he was docile.
“You taste like icing,” she murmured. Feeling abruptly shy and ridiculous, she wanted to pluck the words back before they reached him.
“Cake,” he explained in that deliberate way of his. “It’s my birthday.”
“Oh! I had no idea.”
“Why would you?”
The words weren’t meant to sound like a rebuke, she knew, but she felt it all the same. Why would she know such things about someone so beneath her?
“Well, happy birthday, Titus Conleith,” she said, summoning a smile that drew his gaze to her lips. “How old are you now?”
“Seventeen.”
Her eyebrows drew up at that. As tall as he’d become, as wise as the soul behind his gaze was, it was easy to forget he remained three years her junior.
“You should get back,” he said, echoing her earlier thoughts. Releasing her, he let out a shaky breath, retrieved his gloves, and stood.
Nora felt his absence with a keen sort of ache that almost shamed her. She wasn’t a woman of such need. She didn’t form attachments, nor did she entertain impossible notions. So…what was this between them?
“I’ll go in ahead to make sure that bastard is gone,” he offered, pulling the white gloves on to hide the rough fingers he’d only just caressed her with. Ones that would offend any woman in that ballroom.
But not her.
“Of course. Thank you and… Goodnight, Titus.”
He gazed down at her a breathless moment, and she almost thought he might reach down, haul her to her feet, and kiss her wits right out of her.
And perhaps more.
Instead he balled his fist at his side and strode away from her, but not before the night breeze carried his words over his shoulder.
“Goodnight… Nora.”
Sniffling, Nora looked down at the handkerchief in her hand and gasped at the initials she found embroidered there.
They were hers.
She’d offered him this very handkerchief years ago in the paddock.
He’d kept it all these years.
Cruel to be Kind
Goodnight, Nora.
He said it nearly every evening for three blissful months, and it never ceased to vibrate through her with a warm incandescence.
Titus Conleith had been not only her most lovely secret, but also a revelation.
Was it always like this, she wondered, falling in love? It was as if the world—nay—the entire cosmos had shifted to make way for the two of them to revel in each other.
And no one seemed to notice.
Or, rather, they’d been too rapt to pay heed to anyone else.
Her father had been not only furious but befuddled by the abject silence emanating from the direction of the Marquess of Blandbury, the man claimed to be inaccessible due to his health. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, the Baron had barely spoken a word to her, presumably moving on to more important matters now that Parliament had resumed session.
Nora still attended balls and soirees, fittings and functions as