glared at her.
She grinned at him.
“Come with me,” she said impulsively.
To her surprise, he looked tempted. “I can’t. I’m the host. I’m stuck here every second of every day.”
“Do you always do what you’re supposed to do?”
“Yes,” he answered simply.
She patted his hand. “That’s too bad.”
“Almost always.” He trapped her hand in his.
She stared at him.
He lifted her fingers to his lips. Slowly. Deliberately.
This time, he wasn’t playacting at charades for an audience.
This time, his actions were for her.
“Are we reenacting the moment?” she asked. She meant her tone to be flippant, but instead it sounded eager and unsteady. “Should I smash your hands to my breasts next?”
“I am exceedingly amenable to that suggestion,” he said. “But first...”
He lowered her palm to his heart and angled his head until his mouth hovered a mere breath above hers. “May I kiss you?”
“Be quick,” she whispered. “I have things to do.”
“No. You have this.”
And he kissed her.
His lips were soft and firm, at first gentle, then more demanding.
He hadn’t been stalling, she realized. He’d been containing himself. Wrapping himself tight in the should-dos because to cut the strings that tied his hands...
Would lead to moments like this.
This wasn’t one kiss. It was ten.
A hundred kisses.
Her fingers were no longer splayed on his chest, but diving into his hair, clutching him to her. He showed no sign of letting go.
His hands cupped her face, cradling her gently even as he demanded entry into her mouth, claiming her with his tongue as well as his mouth.
This was a different kind of kiss.
Shockingly intimate and deliciously erotic.
She had goosebumps everywhere, despite being enveloped by his heat, with her bodice pressed tight against his chest.
A spinster could get used to kisses like these.
Cynthia could get used to Nottingvale, in specific.
Breathless, she broke the kiss while she still could.
Within a week he would be betrothed to some other woman. It would not do to indulge a tendre for a man she could not keep.
Cynthia was not so silly as to risk her heart.
She hoped.
Chapter 8
Alexander was spoilt for choice.
He had met all of his potential brides, spoken with all of his potential brides, dined with all of his potential brides, danced with all of his potential brides...
And he was no closer to betrothing himself with any of them.
The Yuletide party was performing its function splendidly. It was Alexander who was dragging his feet.
In order to allow his guests time to sleep, he had planned no morning activities other than breakfast, which was laid out on the dining room sideboard at dawn and kept fresh until luncheon.
Afternoon activities were many and varied, most of them arranged by his mother. Society rules dictated that a female hostess preside over house parties, and Alexander’s mother was happy to fill that role until her son could produce a wife.
Alexander was happy, too. Those same rules kept his guests entertained and his mother busy, leaving him free to moon out of a side window unobserved.
Where had Miss Finch gone at eight o’clock in the morning?
Why had she been awake at eight o’clock in the morning?
Was she ever coming back to the party?
For years, it had been her habit to slip away for an hour or two, usually in the mornings before the day’s engagements began.
But last night, she had been up late playing the pianoforte. And kissing Alexander. Who had barely slept as a consequence, except to dream of kissing her again.
Nuncheon had come and gone with no sign of Miss Finch.
Guests were playing Commerce in the blue drawing room, dicing in the red parlor, performing a pantomime in the ballroom, taking chocolate and chatting in the dining room...
Not Miss Finch.
She had things to do.
He wondered what they were. And if, whilst doing them, she occasionally recalled certain kisses she’d shared with the Duke of Nottingvale.
Whose Yuletide party she was supposed to be attending.
A knock on the front door sounded down the corridor.
Alexander strode to investigate. He arrived just as his butler Oswald opened the door to reveal Miss Olive Harper, heiress to and manager of the famous Harper stud farm at the entrance to Cressmouth.
“Happy Christmas, Olive,” said Alexander.
“It’s a dreadful Christmas,” she replied. “I’m going to murder my father. My sworn enemy is here to court me and he didn’t bring any attire suitable for the weather. Is your business partner here? Mayhap he’ll let me borrow the clothes from his manikin. They seem about the right size.”
“If it’s for your sworn enemy,” Alexander said politely, “why not let him