Mary Balogh - The Secret Mistress

Someone moaned—he sensed it was not he—and one of her arms twined about his neck while the other circled his waist and she kissed him back with fierce enthusiasm.

If there was any modicum of common sense left to rattle about inside his head, it deserted him at that point, and his one hand slid hard down her back until it spread over that very shapely derriere that had so disturbed him a month ago on the road to London. And the tip of his tongue traced the ridge along the roof of her mouth while his other hand moved downward and forward to cup one of her breasts. It was warm and soft and full.

He felt himself harden into arousal.

Someone had a furnace going full blast and both doors open wide—and there was only one way to put out the fire. His hand tightened over her bottom and pressed her closer.

And then, while the rest of his body was only feeling an intense desire for the woman in his arms, his eyes suddenly saw against the insides of his closed eyelids.

They saw Lady Angeline Dudley.

And his mind spoke two very clear, very stern words to him.

Good Lord!

The admonition came too late, of course. Far too late.

Impulsiveness and lust had been his downfall.

He returned his tongue to his own mouth, moved his hands to cup her shoulders, and took a step back. A very firm step.

Her face, heavy-lidded and moist-lipped, open and vulnerable, was achingly beautiful in the moonlight.

But it was the face of Lady Angeline Dudley.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, his voice sounding almost ridiculously steady and normal.

They were useless words, of course. There could be no pardon.

“Why?” she asked, all wide, dark eyes.

“I ought not to have brought you here,” he said. “I have done the very thing I ought to have been protecting you from.”

“I have never been kissed before,” she said.

He felt ten times worse, if that was possible.

“It was wonderful,” she said with dreamy emphasis.

She was indeed a dangerous innocent. One kiss and she was like clay in the kisser’s hands. In unscrupulous hands that could spell disaster. What would have happened if he had not come to his senses? Would she have stopped him? He doubted it.

“I have compromised you horribly,” he said.

She smiled and looked more herself.

“Of course you have not,” she said. “What is more natural than for a man and a woman to kiss when they find themselves alone in the moonlight?”

Which was precisely his point.

“I will take you back to the box and your chaperon and your brothers,” he said.

Her brothers. Good Lord. Tresham was not exactly a spotless role model. He had been behaving scandalously on the dance floor back there with his mistress—or one of them. It was common knowledge that he had been carrying on with Lady Eagan even before Eagan left her. Perhaps he was even why Eagan had gone. It had perhaps been less honorable but safer than challenging Tresham to a duel. Even so, Tresham would not think it was the most natural thing in the world for any man to kiss his sister while walking in the moonlight with her. Tresham would take him apart limb from limb.

“If you must,” Lady Angeline said with a sigh. “You must not worry, though, Lord Heyward. I kissed you just as much as you kissed me. And no one saw. No one will ever know.”

Except the two of them. That was two people too many.

She took his arm and snuggled up to his side as they stepped onto the narrower part of the path again.

“Tell me you are not really sorry,” she said. “I want to remember tonight as one of the loveliest of my life, perhaps even the loveliest, but I will not be able to if I am to believe that you regret having kissed me.”

He sighed—with mingled exasperation and relief—as they stepped back onto the main avenue. And there was indeed no further sign of Windrow.

“It has been a lovely evening,” he lied.

“And the fireworks are still to come,” she said happily.

Yes, indeed.

ANGELINE WOKE UP smiling.

She gazed up at the elaborately pleated canopy over her bed and stretched until her toes cracked and her fingers curled over the top of the headboard. She laced her fingers behind her head.

She could tell that it was raining even though the curtains were still drawn. She could hear a pattering against the windowpanes. But it felt as if the sun were shining.

Was it possible for life to be brighter?

Vauxhall Gardens must be the most wonderful, most magical place on earth. Everything about it was perfect. And the company had been the best possible. Conversation had been lively and conducted on a variety of subjects, all of which she had found interesting. Mr. Lynd had danced with her. So had Viscount Overmyer and Cousin Leonard. The music had been divine, the food scrumptious.

The fireworks had been breathtaking, awe-inspiring. They had been beyond the power of superlatives to describe, in fact. The only disappointing thing about them, as she had said at the time, was that the display had come to an end far too soon. As had the evening, of course.

But it had been by far the most wonderful evening of her life.

Oh, by far.

Angeline bent her legs at the knee and rested her feet flat on the mattress, the blankets tented over them.

Her mind had been skirting around the very best part of it all. She had allowed the memories to crowd into her mind the moment she awoke, but she had very deliberately kept the best for last so that she could give it her undivided attention. And even now she would think of that very best memory a bit at a time, keeping the very, very best, the very most glorious until last.

The Earl of Heyward.

Even his name was lovely. So much lovelier than any other she knew. Poor Martha was smitten by Mr. Griddles. And if that name were not bad enough in itself, there was his first name. What parents would inflict the name Gregory upon a poor baby when his last name was Griddles? But that was precisely what his parents had done.

The Earl of Heyward was Edward. Edward Ailsbury.

His conversation was sensible. He had participated in every topic of discussion without trying to dominate any, and he had expressed his opinions even when they had conflicted with someone else’s—and yet he had listened courteously to those other opinions. He was obviously fond of his family. He had taken Lady Heyward for a stroll while Angeline danced with Cousin Leonard. And he had looked a little sheepish when Mrs. Lynd, while talking briefly about her children, had said that her youngest, as well as Lady Heyward’s daughter and Lady Overymyer’s three, would grow fat before summer came if her brother kept taking them to Gunter’s for ices.

“But what are uncles for, Alma,” he had asked, “if not to spoil their nieces and nephews horribly before taking them home to their parents?”

“And you have promised to take all five of them to the Tower of London next week, Edward,” Lady Overmyer had added. “Is that not a little rash of you?”

“Probably,” he had agreed. “I shall enforce good behavior by threatening to forgo the ices on the way home.”

They had all laughed, and Angeline had stored in her heart the image of Lord Heyward as a doting uncle.

But the very best part could be postponed no longer. Her memory was fairly bursting with it. She wiggled her toes against the mattress and closed her eyes.

He had kissed her.

She had kissed him.

Her very first kiss.

He had taken her off the main avenue, where everyone else was walking, and had found a quiet, enchanted little clearing into which moonlight poured—so much more romantic after all than the lamps—and he had kissed her once, then drawn her right into his arms and kissed her again.

Oh, it had been nothing like anything she had ever expected a kiss to be. She had always wondered what her lips would feel like when being kissed and what the man’s would feel like. She had wondered how she would breathe. She could not remember breathing at all, but she supposed she must have done so or she would be dead.

She could not even remember clearly what her lips had felt like, or his. For a kiss had proved to be far more than just a touching of lips. Their whole bodies had been involved, their whole beings. Oh, goodness, as soon as his lips had touched hers for the second time, his mouth had opened and so had hers—and he had pressed his tongue into her mouth. It sounded shocking if it was put into words. But she was thinking more in remembered sensations than in words.

Her insides had turned to a sort of aching jelly. Her legs had felt weak. She had been throbbing in a place to which she could not put a name. And their bodies had been pressed together. He had been all hard-muscled, solid, unfamiliar masculinity and familiar cologne, and she had clasped him to her with arms that strained to draw him even closer. But how much closer could he have got short of removing a few layers of clothes? The very thought of that reminded Angeline of how hot that clearing had seemed for the few minutes of their embrace. As though someone had lit a fire and piled on a forest of kindling and a ton of coal.

His one hand had been spread—oh, dear—over her bottom. The other had come beneath one of her breasts and closed about it.