“You’re seven and twenty,” he argued with his own smile of bemusement. “That’s hardly in your dotage.”
“Eight and twenty last month,” she corrected. “And I suppose I’m trying to warn you that I’m entirely too set in my ways to make you a dutiful wife.” Though her stomach fluttered at the thought of children.
He was silent a moment, though he looked rather thoughtful instead of insulted. Reaching up, he brushed a ringlet from her bare shoulder to spill down her back, exposing the white skin uncovered by her shawl. “Your first marriage…” He hesitated. “Was it so awful?”
“Quite the opposite, actually.” She smiled sadly. “Just … tragically short.”
“I’d love for you to tell me about it someday.”
“Perhaps,” Farah lied as she focused on the warmth of his fingers as they hovered above her skin. Desire drifted about them like the London mist, a gentle, masculine form of it that was soothing and agitating all at once.
“I’d also like the chance to compete with your late husband for your affections. I would even strive to live up to his memory.” Those elegant, gentle fingers finally closed around her shoulder, pulling her toward him. “The prospect doesn’t frighten me like it would some men.”
Touched, Farah allowed herself to drift against his lean body. “You are a very singular man,” she complimented, her lashes sweeping down at this unexpected intimacy. “And quite handsome, too. These things are best never decided quickly. Give me a night or two to examine my feelings?”
“I should have known a woman as efficient and fastidious as you wouldn’t get swept away. Give me some hope, Farah,” he pleaded, his grip pulling her torso against his and his hand stealing around to the curve of her back. “Something my lonely heart can hold on to.”
“I can’t say it’s not a dazzling proposition,” she said sincerely. “Tempting, even.”
His eyes flared with hope. With heat. “Tempting? Not half as tempting as you. God, Farah, you don’t know how that word on your lips inflames me. Though, having been a married woman, I suppose you might. Damn, but your husband must have been the happiest man in all the empire, if only for a short time.” His finger stole beneath her chin, his other hand pressing their bodies even closer.
Farah endeavored to keep the sadness out of her smile. “We were both happy, for a time.” Though, she expected, not in the way that he intimated.
“May I kiss you, Farah?” The fervency in his question was at once frightening and exciting.
She considered it, then lifted her head.
Their first kiss was soft, tentative, and altogether pleasant. Farah was grateful for the relative darkness of her stairwell so she didn’t have to worry about how to school her features, or whether her eyes should be opened or closed. She was able to simply enjoy the warmth of his closeness. The feel of the pressed linen jacket beneath her fingertips. The skill of his mouth as it danced and swept across hers in light, intriguing strokes. There was a momentary insistence before he gentled his pressure again. A hint of moisture as his tongue hovered close to her mouth, but never more than a whisper.
Dorian Blackwell probably kissed much differently than this, Farah found herself thinking. He was probably savage and hungry. Perhaps a bit too forceful and consuming in his passions. His mouth was so hard-looking. A cynical slash against an obstinate jaw. No, the Blackheart of Ben More would be selfish and demanding. Certainly not restrained or respectful like—Oh, Lord! What was she doing thinking about that criminal’s mouth while entertaining the lips of a gentleman? Angry, more at Blackwell than at herself, she cursed the man for again invading her thoughts uninvited. Again. The unmitigated nerve!
Just as the warmth in her stomach bloomed into a more pervasive heat that spread a blush over her skin, curiosity and guilt nudged her toward exploration. Farah clutched at his shoulders and considered using her own tongue. Was that permissible? Would he recoil at the French manner of kissing? She’d really only heard of it from the mouths of prostitutes, but the idea had intrigued her for some time. Should she invite him inside again? Perhaps, in spite of whichever answer she decided to give him, she would still not reach the age of thirty untouched.
Just as that resplendent thought flitted across her mind, Morley pulled back, his rapid breath producing faint puffs of steam in the gathering chill.
“Come to church with me tomorrow,” he gasped. “I don’t want to wait until Monday morning to see you.”
Farah let out a disappointed breath at the most tame request she could possibly imagine. How could he think of church at a time like this? She supposed, if he insisted on being a gentleman, she should be a lady.
“I’m not religious,” she admitted. “Moreover, I do not like churches. But if you’d like to meet for tea when church is over, you could call upon me in the afternoon.” She smiled at the idea, liking the prospect of exploring more of these pleasant kisses with him. Of thinking about the future.
Stepping back, he released her, but not before lifting her gloved hand to his lips once more. “I would like that more than I can say.”
Just as quickly as the warmth in her soul had ignited, the chill of the evening extinguished it, and Farah found herself wondering if the sensation had been in response to the kiss … or the intrusive thoughts she’d harbored about another man. Disturbed, she gathered her skirts, pulled her shawl more tightly around her shoulders, and slowly began to climb the stairs. “Good night then, Carlton.”