Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,41

hand, what could he do with his lips?”

“No,” she said.

“Don’t release you?” he asked.

She had been speaking to herself, telling herself not to imagine what he could do with his lips. “Yes, you should release me.”

His grip loosened.

“In just a moment,” she added quickly. “You could hold my hand just a moment longer.”

His lips quirked in what she thought must be a smile. His hands closed on hers again and he lifted one of her hands slowly to his lips. She watched, unable to tear her gaze away, as he brushed his pink lips over the pale skin of her knuckles.

“My hands aren’t soft,” she whispered, afraid her voice would fail her if she tried to speak.

“They’re exactly as I imagined,” he said. “You’re no spoiled miss who is afraid to get her hands dirty.” His breath tickled her skin, and she shivered.

“I don’t wear my gloves enough,” she admitted. “I have freckles.”

“Do you?” He sounded intrigued. “Tell me where, and I will kiss each one.”

“You can’t. There are hundreds.”

“Oh, I think I can manage.” And he pressed his lips to the back of her hand several times before turning her hand over so her palm was open to him. “What about here? Do you have freckles here?”

“No.” She shook her head. “Just calluses.”

“Then I shall explore until I find them.” He pressed his lips to the center of her palm, and she caught her breath. His tongue darted out to taste her and she exhaled loudly. When he kissed her again, she could not stop a moan. “Oh!”

“That’s location one-three,” he said. “You see? I am learning.”

“Mr. Pope—”

Abruptly he released her hand and a moment later the door opened. Pru blinked in confusion as Mrs. Brown bustled in, carrying a tray laden with dishes covered with cloth. “Here we are then,” she said. Pru scooted back in her chair, further away from Mr. Pope. As Mrs. Brown placed the dishes on the desk, she wondered what she had been about to say to him. Had she been about to ask him to stop or to go further?

She should be ashamed of herself, but the truth was, she had hoped something like this would happen. The possibility was the reason she could hardly concentrate on sewing today. Yes, she had been eager at the prospect of teaching Mr. Pope and even more excited at the chance to spend more time with him. But really, she had wanted to touch him again. She had wanted him to touch her. Ever since the first time she had seen him in the informal garden near Wentmore, she had felt drawn to him. She had just never imagined he would feel the same pull.

“Anything else you need?” Mrs. Brown asked, whisking off the cloths to reveal the dishes. She looked at Pru, seeming quite pleased with this flourish.

“I think that is all, Mrs. Brown,” Pru said.

“Then I’ll be off. Just leave the dishes here, Mr. Pope. I’ll wash up in the morning.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” he said.

Pru waited until the housekeeper had closed the door behind her. “Where is she going?”

“Home, I imagine,” he answered.

“She doesn’t sleep here?”

“No. We’re all alone.”

Pru glanced at his face. His expression was like his tone—challenging. Was she afraid to be alone with him? Oh, yes, she was. But not for the reason he thought. He thought she was afraid he might attempt to kiss her or worse. But the truth was, she was more likely to throw herself at him.

And that would simply not do. She could not carry on a liaison with Mr. Pope. Milcroft was a small village and there were no secrets. She was under the vicar’s protection. If he turned her out, she had nowhere to go.

Her parents had made her promise to be a paragon of virtue, and she had agreed. Now was the time to remember her promise and behave herself.

Pru rose and lifted a cup of steaming tea. She could have used a glass of wine, which was more customary during dinner, but she would take what she could find. She drank the tea down, practically scalding her throat, and then lifted a bowl of...

“What is this?” she asked.

Mr. Pope leaned closer to the food on the desk and sniffed. “It smells like some sort of soup.”

“Yes.”

“Does it look as bad as it tastes?” he asked.

“I haven’t tasted it yet, but I would not call the appearance pleasant.” She squared her shoulders. She would eat, and that would take her mind