“When I first saw you running across the lawns with your hands held open…I admit for a wild moment I thought you were Mary.”
“And who might Mary be?”
“The ghost that roam the halls and chambers of our manor and who sometimes traverses into the woodlands. Daphne did not tell you about her?” James asked, breaking his rule by standing and drifting a bit closer to her.
“Daphne most certainly did not,” Poppy said, eyeing him skeptically.
“Mary is our Scottish great-great-great-grandmother. Once your room gets very cold, it means Mary has come to visit you. You’ll see her in the hallways or by the lake, a lady in a white dress, red hair loose and flowing over her shoulders. She would be singing, and once you hear it, it never leaves you. Mary has the loveliest voice, singing in Gaelic—haunting and mournful. Once you see her…and feel her sign...” James mocked shuddered.
Poppy’s eyes were wide and rapt with interest. “Her sign?”
“Yes, Mary tickles a part of your body,”
Poppy’s brow puckered in a frown. “Why would she do that?”
“I can only tell you the tale as I hear it.”
“Where does she touch?”
He leaned in, lowering his voice. Predictably Poppy leaned closer. “Mary tickled her victims' left ears.”
“Victims!” Poppy gasped, then released a muffled shriek, slapped at her ear, and whirled around.
James quickly dropped his hand and dropped the flower petal on the ground, taking several quick steps back from her. “What is it?”
She turned around slowly and narrowed her eyes at you. “You beast!”
“What is this accusation about?” he drawled.
“You tickled my ear just now.”
James affected a show of surprise. “Do not be daft. How would I have managed that? Do you hear any singing?”
To his everlasting shock, she launched herself at him and wrapped her hands around his neck. “Confess, or I shall kiss you.”
Chapter 9
“You…You…bloody hell!” James was spluttering. He never spluttered. He was a man of confidence and self-control.
Tell me, or I shall kiss you.
He glared down at the little baggage in his arms, shocked that he could feel the imprint of every luscious curve across his body. This intimately close, the subtle but fragrant scent of her invaded his senses. The feel of her fingers against his nape sent a spark of want through his entire body. His mouth watered. Breathing this close to her felt…impossible. James could not catch his breath. She knew he wanted to keep his distance and was using it to her diabolical advantage.
“Have you no sense of propriety?” he hissed, angrier with himself than her, for every damn sense had come alive in his body. His heart and his cock pounded with lust and such hunger it almost scared him.
“Nay,” she hissed back at him, albeit more teasingly. “Spinsters long past the blush of first youth tend to lose those somewhere around three and twenty.” Then she tipped onto her toes and pressed her lips against his.
James actually trembled, and it soothed him to feel her lips also trembling against his. His Poppy was uncertain. James parted his lips on a groan, and to his shocked delight, she ran her tongue over the seam of his lips.
“Who taught you that?” he murmured against her mouth. “Tell me right away, so I might put a bullet in his black heart.”
She giggled—but it did not sound sweet and simpering but throaty and sensual, the soft puff of her breath teasing his lips. “I would only dare do this with you…my partner in adventure, and my tutor in flirtations and…kisses.”
She nipped at his bottom lip and then soothed it with a soft suck. His entire body flushed hot and then went weak.
“I read this is a most flirtatious kiss a lady can enjoy with a gentleman.”
He framed her face between his hands, tilted her head slightly, and for several seconds ravished her mouth most thoroughly. James slid his tongue against hers, nipping at her lips, and then repeated the motion over and over. It was when she moaned and sagged against him, clutching at his shoulders, that he lifted his head. Her lips glistened and were well-kissed.
Poppy leaned back, her chest lifting on her ragged breaths. They were both breathing as if they had chased each other around the gazebo.
James lowered his hands slowly. “What book are you reading?”
She dipped into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a small object. A Guide to Passionate Romps Between A Lord and His Lady. This book was written by a gentleman of society, and it had been a great scandal. James vaguely recalled the furor, for he had been too busy learning the ins and out of his earldom. If his memory served him right, it was written by an earl, Lord Kentwood, and this book was rumored to be naughty and most salacious.
James stared at the book for several moments before glancing up at her. Her cheeks were bright red, and her chin was lifted in a defiant tilt. “This book belongs to you.”
“Yes,” she replied innocently, so much at odds with the daring provocation in her eyes. “We spinsters have the liberty to read such work. It is delightfully enlightening.”
He choked on air. James did not need to wonder why she would read this. Poppy was a woman of four and twenty, not a chit wet behind the ears. Her sensuality had been sparked, possibly by the bloody kiss which haunted him. And knowing her curious nature, she would seek to assuage her curiosity. Thank God it was the book. A part of him was not ready as yet for her to find a suitor.
Not yet. Not yet. Bloody hell. “Poppy…”
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat and handed her back the book. “I do not think it wise for us to have kissing lessons.”
Her cheeks burned a bright red, and some of her earlier sensual confidence leaked away. She gripped the book in front of her as if it were a lifeline.
“You say this because I am a terrible—"
“I say this because I want you so desperately. I cannot be an objective teacher. If I keep kissing you…I might ravish you. And it will be a thorough ravishment, and I…I cannot marry.”
She blinked and then graced him with a most dazzling smile, rocking him back on his heels. “I know,” she said softly. “Not until three years from now. I will be long wedded by then and possibly with a child.”
The image that leaped to his mind had him closing his eyes. They were at once beautiful and torturous. Poppy walking across a lawn, a toddler running behind her with both chortling. However, the man to run up and gather his family was not James.
“Yes,” he agreed gruffly, then quickly added. “But you will not learn from anyone else. Until you are married, no kisses.”
Poppy laughed, and the way she stared at him, it was as if she knew something James did not and was thoroughly delighted by the knowledge.
“I will stop your ravishment,” she murmured.
“Poppy—”
“Should you kiss me, and because it is so lovely you decide you must ravish me, I will press my fingers over your lips like this, which means I’ll go no further,” she whispered. Then she did it, placing two of her fingers perfectly over his mouth. “And you’ll stop because you are a man of honor.”