He flinched. “That smile is terrifying.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, scowling at him instead.
“Has anyone recognized how much desperation lies behind that particular smile, the false cheerful one?” Jeremy asked.
He had her hedged against the billiard table. In an effort to gain a little space, she pushed up so she was seated on the table and wiggled backward, making sure to pin her panniers at her sides.
“I am never desperate,” she told him. “Despair is an emotion unbecoming to a Wilde.”
“Believe me, my father expressed similar feelings about my condition on returning from war. And yet . . . when desperation becomes one’s companion, no calls to better behavior seem to ward it off.”
Betsy shook her head. “I’m not desperate. I’m simply fatigued, after a long Season.” She had an idea. “Could we go to Wilmslow for an afternoon instead? I am so . . .”
“Bored,” Jeremy supplied, his voice solid and steady. “You are tired of pretending to be a woman whom you are not. You are tired of laughing at unfunny jokes and listening to terrible poetry. You are tired of receiving and rejecting proposals of marriage from strangers.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll take you to Wilmslow if we are accompanied by a chaperone.” His voice was indomitable.
“You just tried to win a night in my bed!” she cried, frustrated. “Where were all your principles a half hour ago?”
“You believed me?” A glinting smile spread across his face. “I rather thought you had put me in the category of a wilted vegetable, Bess.”
“What?” She eyed him. “You know exactly what you look like, Jeremy. Don’t be absurd.”
“You’re the one who is here with me, late at night, without a footman within call, though he should be coming with tea any moment, now I think on it.”
“Because you are . . . you,” she said, exasperated. “Could we go to Wilmslow just for one afternoon?” True desperation was leaking into her voice but she couldn’t stop it. “We needn’t have a chaperone if we merely walked around the town.”
“Aunt Knowe,” Jeremy said firmly.
Betsy groaned.
“If she accompanies us, I’ll agree. As an older woman, she can visit any place we might frequent. The attention will focus on her, rather than on you.”
“I will ask her,” Betsy said reluctantly.
“Then it’s as good as done.”
“I still don’t see why we can’t go alone,” Betsy grumbled.
“There’s this as a reason,” Jeremy said. There was something in his voice that made her head jerk up. He braced his arms on the billiard table on either side of her.
His face was so close to hers that she could see his eyes even more clearly than before. The gray, flecked with a lighter color, made them look like granite. This close, his expression was still enigmatic.
But not his eyes. Jeremy’s eyes burned with lust. Her own widened in surprise, but he didn’t move. He just watched her, his breath touching her face.
Chapter Eight
Betsy had never been kissed.
She had made it clear to her suitors in hundreds of ways that she would not welcome any physical protestations of affection. If gentlemen cared to go on their knees, they could remain at a reasonable distance and make their case from below.
But this was different.
Jeremy wasn’t kissing her. He was just waiting, and all of a sudden, the world narrowed to the two of them. A flare of adventure swept through her. She had never wanted to kiss her suitors, but Jeremy?
She leaned forward and put her lips tentatively on his.
To her surprise, his tongue swept her lips and dipped inside.
Jeremy tasted so good that he stole away her common sense. His tongue curled around hers and sensation streaked down the backs of her knees.
This kiss was unsanitary, but Jeremy tasted so good. Like cherries in summer, when you can’t stop eating them until your lips and fingers are stained purple. Hot and luscious and carnal.
Her tongue twisted around his. She hadn’t realized that eating cherries was carnal, not until this moment, when she tried to make sense of the way he tasted, better than summer fruit. Her heart was pounding with the frantic pace of a woodpecker. And she was . . .
Loose.
Her knees felt loose and her arms felt boneless and her mouth was open against his and she felt . . .
This was lust, presumably.
That thing she’d told herself that she would never, ever succumb to.
She jerked backward.
Thank goodness she did, because through the open door she heard approaching footsteps. “Carper . . . the tea!” she whispered.
Jeremy moved to the side just as Carper appeared. The footman was toting a heavy silver tray laden with a steaming pot of tea.
“Apologies from myself and Cook, Lady Boadicea,” he said, looking around for a place to set down the tea tray. “A number of guests decided they’d like a tea tray before bed, and the boiling water had run out.”
“Our game is finished,” Jeremy said. “Lady Boadicea, would you like the tea tray brought to your chamber?”
“No, thank you,” Betsy said, giving Carper an apologetic smile.
“I shall be glad of a cup before bed,” Jeremy said. “Tell my man I’ll be there directly.” Carper trotted away, the sound of his footsteps fading into the castle’s silence.
Jeremy moved back between her legs and bent his head, his lips brushing hers with leisurely pleasure.
Words and thoughts jostled in Betsy’s head, but her body claimed the lion’s share of her attention. Somehow her arms wound around his neck. A tendon flexed under her fingertips and she was glad that billiards required she remove her gloves.
It wouldn’t be proper to run her hands down his back.
His hands didn’t move, clamped onto the table.
His lips drifted over hers, his tongue dragging over her bottom lip. It felt fuller and her tongue hovered in front of her teeth, waiting for his.
Every time his lips caressed hers, she felt a kind of greed rising up inside her for more, more of his touch, more of his taste.
More.
The thought made her recoil so hard that she actually reeled backward and would have fallen onto the table except his hands flashed forward and caught her.
“No more,” Betsy said shakily as he brought her back upright.
“No more kisses?” Jeremy cocked an eyebrow at her. She’d never realized how winglike his eyebrows were. They went up like curved blades, suiting the sharp planes of his face.
“I don’t kiss like that,” she said, her voice rasping in an embarrassing fashion. “In fact, I don’t kiss at all.”
Because he’d had to catch her, he was leaning over her, which was somehow even more sensual than when they were mouth to mouth.
“That was certainly an awkward first kiss,” Jeremy said, straightening and backing away. “I’m sure that your hordes of suitors have offered you far more graceful busses.”
She didn’t reply to that.
A wicked little smile was playing on his lips. “I didn’t even know that I wanted a kiss,” he said, all friendly as if what happened was nothing. “But I do believe you’ve healed me, Bess.”