“Contrary to your mother’s opinion, I think your spectacles become you,” he said lowly. “It’s a shame of the worst order that if I want to ever see you wearing them again I shall have to sneak into your chamber.”

Though said in jest, his words sent warmth pervading her body. Her stomach felt quite queer. “I’m afraid that would be rather indecent of you, Mr. Whitney.”

“I’m rather an indecent fellow.” He placed a hand over hers on his arm. “Let that be a warning to you. Never trust me.”

He had a true knack for bringing out the minx in her. She stopped walking, forcing him to do the same. She turned to face him fully, searching his face. “Am I in danger now, then?”

He looked down at her—truly, he had an impressive height and cut quite a masculine figure with his strong muscles and lean legs—and the need to swoon came upon her. He was more than every romantic hero she’d read about in books. He was real. He was beautiful. And, with the sun shimmering around them in the quiet square of garden at Wilton House, he was hers.

Or was he? He had yet to answer. Before her better judgment forced her to reconsider, she reached up to cup his cheek. She had eschewed gloves, and his skin was vibrant, warm and just a bit scratchy beneath her fingers. The silence between them was heavy and full of so many things neither was willing to say. She may have been unschooled in the ways of men, but even she could feel the passion simmering. No man had ever looked at her in the way Mr. Whitney now was, as if he wanted to consume her.

“Well, Mr. Whitney?” she asked, unable to help herself. She never wanted this moment to end. The day, the greenery, the scent of early autumn about them, the man. They were all riveting. Better than a book. It was her Mr. Whitney, the man she’d longed after for years, looking at her as if she were a woman, as if she were more than a younger sister. “Am I in danger?”

Her fingers wandered from his jaw to his mouth, so manly yet firm. His breath was warm as it fanned against her skin. His eyes fastened upon hers. “Yes,” he said simply, and then she was in his arms.

Perhaps she had played with the proverbial fire but now she didn’t care. He crushed her against him, her breasts to his hard chest, her skirts smashed against his legs. Her corset cut into her sides from the force of his embrace, but she scarcely felt it. If this was danger, she wanted more of it.

As though he’d heard her utter the sentiment aloud, he obliged her by caressing her wasp silhouette with his hands. Even beneath the stiff boning and layers, his touch sent her heart madly tripping. But nothing could have prepared her for his mouth on hers.

Her first kiss.

His lips molded hers, gently at first, but then with greater ardency. She didn’t know where to place her hands, how to move her mouth. She was still, relishing the moment, yet frozen in her untried innocence. She was terrified. What if she did something wrong? Good heavens. 

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