She wet her lips with her tongue.
Charlotte, you fool.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed?
Oh, he’d noticed.
He would see everything now. Her willingness. Her curiosity. The tiny shivers of anticipation racing up and down her spine. She might as well have stood naked before him.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
“You first.”
She glimpsed that subtle curve of a smile.
Then his lips were on hers.
The kiss . . . oh, it was nothing like him. Or nothing like anything she’d known of him thus far. By all appearances, he was restrained and proper. But when his lips met hers, they were warm, passionate. Teasing.
And his hands were everywhere the perfect gentleman’s shouldn’t be.
His hand slid slowly down her back—not tentative, but possessive. As if he was determined to explore every inch of what would be his. His touch left a wake of sensation rippling through her body.
Then his hand claimed her bottom and squeezed, pulling her into his strength and heat.
She gasped, shocked by his boldness.
His tongue slid between her lips. Gentle, yet insistent. Exploring a little deeper with each pass. Goading her into kissing him back.
So she did.
Heaven help her, she did. She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him in return. Just trying to behave as if she had the slightest inkling what she was doing.
Whatever she was doing, he seemed to like it. A soft groan rose from deep in his chest. It was a heady thrill—the knowledge that she could provoke such a response in such a man. She clutched his shoulders tight.
Something within her had awakened. An awareness, a yearning . . . a glimpse of some future Charlotte she wasn’t quite certain she was ready to be.
Later, when she had a moment alone, she needed to relive every second of this encounter. Where exactly did her knees go weak? How did he make her want these things? Most worrying of all—
When had she started to want him?
The wanting didn’t take Piers by surprise.
He’d found her attractive at first glance, and tempting within minutes of their acquaintance. He’d felt the slight, feminine contours of her body pressed against his in the library window seat. All those mental exercises he’d been trained to use in case of capture and torture? He’d performed every last one of them behind those draperies, just to avoid becoming aroused.
Today was different, however.
Today, he needn’t hold back. And once the floodgates were open, a veritable deluge of need poured forth.
No, the wanting didn’t surprise him.
But the needing? That shook him to his boots.
She’d been correct; this was meant to be a persuasive embrace. He needed to convince Charlotte Highwood to accept his hand—both to preserve his sterling, upright façade and to ward off questions about his true purpose here.
Kissing her was all in the line of duty.
But work had never tasted so much like pleasure.
The muslin of her frock was worn to softness, and enticingly frail. She felt perfect against him, ripe in his hands.
And she tasted so damn good.
He never took sugar in his tea, didn’t care for syrupy chocolate. But she’d been sipping something sweet. Was it treacle? Honey? Perhaps it was just her natural essence. Whatever it was, he couldn’t get enough. He hungered for her.
“Charlotte,” he murmured. He paused a moment to gaze on her upturned face before kissing her cheek. Then her soft, pale neck.
And though it wasn’t required—or even advisable—he tugged her closer still and renewed the kiss.
It had been a long, long time since he’d done anything purely because he wanted it. He’d earned this much, hadn’t he? A sweet, enticing woman in his arms.
It wasn’t fair to her, but life wasn’t fair. Everyone learned that lesson eventually, and she would come out better for it than most—a marchioness, with wealth and rank at her disposal. Left to her own devices, she could—and likely would—do far worse.
He pushed the guilt aside.
And he sank deeper into her.
This wasn’t her first kiss. He could tell that much, though he doubted any of the young men who’d kissed her had known what the hell they were doing. He felt a vague, stupid sort of rage toward them. It made him all the more resolved to make this kiss sublime. Sufficiently long and slow and sweet and deep to obliterate those embraces from her memory.
From this day forward—when she thought of kisses, she would think only of him.
He could sense the moment she recalled the world around them. She stiffened in his arms.
No, no.
He clutched her tight. She wasn’t getting away from him. Not just yet.
He changed to light, teasing kisses. Brushing his lips against her sweet, lush mouth again, then again. Just one last time . . . and then one time more.
When he pulled away, her lips were swollen and rosy pink. The sight was satisfying in a deep, primal way.
She blinked up at him, looking dazed. “I . . . I’m suddenly not so certain this understanding is a wise idea.”
“I’ll speak to your family and Sir Vernon. You needn’t worry. They will agree.”
“My lord—”
“Piers,” he corrected. “From now on, you call me Piers.”
“Piers, then.” She searched his face. “Just what sort of a diplomat are you?”
Darling, if only you knew. You would turn and flee as fast as those slippers would carry you.
“One with a specialty,” he said, in all honesty. “Negotiating surrender.”
“An understanding?” Mama followed Charlotte into her bedchamber. “You had him in the palm of your hand, and you settled for an understanding?”
Charlotte collapsed onto the bed. “The understanding was my choice, Mama.”
“That’s even worse. Have I taught you nothing? Seal the bargain when you have the chance.”
Charlotte pulled a pillow over her head. She didn’t want to argue with her mother right now. She wanted to be alone, so she could send her mind back through every moment of that kiss, and sort through all the sensations swirling through her. Then she would divide her reactions into two heaps: emotional and physical.
The emotional pile would be the smaller of the two—by a factor of ten, undoubtedly. The wild tumult he’d stirred in her was only a matter of bodies and desire. Hearts had nothing to do with it.