She paused in her retreat and looked up at him, her green eyes suspicious. “He said that to you?”

  “Yes. And I’m certain he will demand to know if I kissed you when I report to him on our courtship.”

  She pursed those sweet lips and studied him.

  “I would not lie to you,” Emory reminded her.

  “Very well,” she agreed as if she had just been given an unpleasant chore. “One kiss so that you can tell your father. But that is all.”

  At least he was granted permission, though it bothered him that she was only doing so because of their agreement and not out of desire.

  Emory stepped close until her breasts nearly brushed his suitcoat.

  Violet tilted her head back, squeezed her eyes shut and tightly pursued her lips. It reminded him of how a small child gave kisses, and Violet was anything but a child. From her golden curls to her slippers and everything in between was woman, a well-endowed, delicate, desirable woman, who had apparently never been kissed, or she wouldn’t be in this stance with lips puckered as if she’d bit into a lemon.

  Her eyelashes fluttered up. “Why haven’t you kissed me?”

  Emory wanted to laugh but he didn’t dare. “Relax.”

  She frowned. “I am relaxed.”

  “Not enough for kissing.”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “I don’t under…”

  He didn’t let her finish and placed his lips against hers.

  They were soft and…unresponsive.

  Blast!

  Emory pulled back.

  Violet stepped away with a nod. “Well, that is done,” she said as if she’d just completed an unpleasant chore.

  “No,” he stated before thinking.

  “You kissed me. What else is there?”

  Then he realized what it was. “You did not kiss me back.”

  Again, Violet frowned. “What more is there? You pressed your lips against mine. That is how a kiss is conducted.”

  “A kiss is conducted with both parties doing the pressing of the lips.”

  She slowly nodded. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes,” he answered, still trying not to laugh at her innocence.

  “Well, I suppose you do have a great deal more experience than I, given you are a rake.”

  “I am not a rake,” he ground out.

  “Yes, you are,” she argued. “I’ve seen you leave entertainments with widows.”

  Now his face was heating. “And you judge me for such behavior.”

  “Goodness no. You are simply doing what bachelors do. Or at least that is my understanding.”

  Emory might never understand Violet, but it was unlikely that he’d ever fail to be surprised. Any other woman would be offended, or even shocked, yet Violet accepted such without any concern, which meant that she likely hadn’t come to care for him beyond simple friendship. If he knew she’d been so much as simply kissing others in gardens, his entire being would ache with jealousy. “Shall we try it again?”

  “Very well.” She stepped forward and lifted her chin. “I shall endeavor to be more of a participant this time.”

  Shouldn’t kissing be instinctive? Was he doing something wrong? She was going about this as if it were a project…That was it. She was approaching this as she did her studies. Something to learn from.

  “First, I need you to think of nothing.”

  “That is not possible. One cannot simply not think.”

  “Then concentrate on your breaths. In and out. Lips slightly parted, the heat of my body near yours.”

  “If you insist.”

  “Run your tongue over your lips and note the softness.”

  She did so slowly, and Emory regretted his request. Most women did so naturally or to spark desire. The tip of Violet’s tongue on her upper lip heated him to the core and he desired more than her willing lips on his.

  “Now, keep your lips parted and close your eyes.”

  She did as he requested.

  “Are you relaxed?”

  “Yes, Lord Ferrard.”

  “Emory,” he corrected.

  Her eyelashes began to lift.

  “Keep your eyes closed.”

  Violet took a deep breath.

  He leaned in, barely a breath away. “I’d have you call me Emory,” he asked in a low tone.

  “Emory.” His name was barely a whisper and desire shot through him as he placed his lips against hers. She softened and she also joined in the kiss, her lips slightly parted as their breaths mingled. Emory tilted his head slightly as a hand slipped about her waist pulling her close. Her lips pressed back on his, more fully engaged and he tasted her. Barely at first. Violet paused for a mere moment, then continued kissing him, and Emory delved into her heat, pulling her close.

  Violet wound her arms about his shoulders, her fingers threading through his hair, their bodies pressed tightly.

  She mimicked his kiss, her tongue tangled with his, learning quickly as desire engulfed his being. He wanted to keep kissing her, but he wanted more. He wanted to divest her of the gown and discover all the wonder beneath, and as his physical desire began to take form, Emory knew that he’d need to step away. Violet might take note, become offended, angry, or worse, question him, as her mind was a curious one.

  With reluctance, Emory broke the kiss and stood back, surprised that he needed to catch his breath.

  Violet also pulled away from him. And placed a hand against her chest, just over her breasts.

  “Goodness. You are quite skilled at kissing, Lord Ferrard. Or so I assume, as I have no further experience in which to make a comparison.”

  “That, dear Violet, was a proper kiss.”

  “I don’t believe there was anything proper about it, Lord Ferrard,” she returned. “But I thank you for the experience.”

  Had she not been moved in the slightest?

  Bloody hell! He was in need of a dip in the cold sea, and she was unaffected.

  Had his skills abandoned him?

  Did she feel nothing?

  “Well, now that it’s done, you can go.”

  “Go?” He’d just kissed her thoroughly, and Violet was sending him away.

  Would he ever come to understand this lady?

  “We’ve courted long enough for today, and there are matters that I must attend to.”

  He was dismissed. Being sent away.

  Rejected!

  “Very well,” Emory managed to state. “I shall take my leave and call on you tomorrow.” He barely executed a bow, then retreated.

  Violet watched until she could no long see Emory, then sank onto a cushioned bench and blew out a sigh.

  Slowly she brought her hand up to trace her bruised lips.

  That was a kiss.

  No wonder widows were always asking him into gardens. If she’d known how wonderful a kiss could be, Violet might have done the same.

  No, she wouldn’t have.

  Kisses were dangerous. Especially kisses from Lord Ferrard, whom she refused to ever refer to as Emory again. The name was far too intimate, especially after what they’d just shared.

  She had no idea that the melding of mouths could cause such heat in a body or make breathing difficult or a pulse to race. Her bodice had grown almost unbearably tight, and she wanted to be free of the confines of her clothing, and the strangest ache had begun to develop in not only her breasts but in more private areas as well.

  He’d shaken her entire being and until now, Violet was unaware that a body could go through such a transformation by something so simple as kissing.

  Was that passion?

  It must be, as she was certain that she’d just experienced that of which poets wrote.

  Oh, why did Lord Ferrard have to go and kiss her like that? Why couldn’t he have been satisfied with that first, very proper, and uninspiring kiss?

  Her heart had threatened to mutiny against her reason, and now her body had betrayed her as well.

  Thank goodness he’d be gone in two days.

  Gone!

  Her heart contracted in pain as if a knife had been plunged into it.

  She had fallen in love with Lord Ferrard.

  Her pulse sped again as breaths grew short, except this time, she knew the cause was panic, an unproductive response to uncomfortable thoughts of which she had little control, yet it still irritated her.

  Odd, when she read how a heart ached and yearned, she’d not attributed it to the actual heart, as it was simply an organ within the body. However, apparently, emotion did produce a physical reaction within the muscle that she had assumed did nothing more than pump blood through the body.

  Lord Ferrard awakened a lust within, and now Violet had to decide how she was going to douse the flames he’d set to burn and how she could reclaim her heart, in the figurative sense, as it still literally beat within her chest. In fact, it beat more forcefully than normal, and it ached, a pain that she could not treat as one would an injury.

  “Violet, is all well?”

  She glanced up to find Miranda, quite heavy with child, standing at the entry of her gazebo, and in an instant, tears filled Violet’s eyes, which was quite uncharacteristic for her. Not only had Lord Ferrard taken her heart, introduced her to passion, but he’d turned her into a watering pot as well.

  Drat that man.

  “Violet? What is wrong? Did Lord Ferrard hurt you?”

  “No.” she swiped a tear away.

  Miranda rushed forward and settled beside Violet. “Now, tell me what happened,” Miranda demanded.

  “First, you must promise not to say a word to my brother.”

  “Which brother?” Miranda asked, knowing full well that Violet meant Miranda’s husband, the oldest of Violet’s six brothers.

  “All of them.” Each could be difficult in their own way.

  “I cannot make that promise,” her sister-in-law answered. “At least, not until you’ve told me what has happened. It is completely out of character for you to be upset.”

  “I will not tell you without the promise.”

  “Then I shall return and advise Wesley that I found you crying after Lord Ferrard left and let him decide what he wishes to do about the situation.”

  Oh, Violet couldn’t have that. Her brother would certainly make a mess of things, as gentlemen had a habit of doing. While gentlemen considered women to be the more emotional of the genders, it was an incorrect assumption.

  “Do I seek out Wesley or will you tell me what has you upset?”

  She couldn’t confess to Miranda or she’d tell Wesley that as well.

  If only Miranda hadn’t found her… “How did you know where I was?”

  “How do you think?”

  “Jonathan told you.” Violet rolled her eyes. “Is that what you are going to imply?” Jonathan was Miranda’s great uncle, long dead. But Miranda insisted that he was a ghost and that she could speak with him. Worse, Violet’s grandmother also claimed to see him too and spent many hours in conversation with Jonathan, who had been betrothed to Grandmother long ago, but died before they could marry. Violet was never certain if the two were playing pranks on the rest of the family or Bedlam bound.

  “He did. He also told me that Lord Ferrard had thoroughly kissed you and that it left you in a state.”

  It was likely that Miranda had witnessed the kiss but didn’t want to admit that she’d been spying on Violet. Therefore, as Miranda already knew, she might as well be truthful. “Yes, he did.”

  “Did he force himself on you?” Miranda asked in seriousness.

  “Of course not.” It was a ridiculous question. “He is too much a gentleman to do so.”

  “Then why the tears?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve not cried since I was ten. It’s unproductive and irrational.” Yet, she’d cried only a few days ago. But she’d not tell Miranda, as she’d only ask further questions that Violet did not wish to answer.

  “Everyone cries,” Miranda offered softly.

  “Not I.”

  “Violet,” Miranda picked up her hand. “Tell me what has upset you so.”

  The kindness and pleading in Miranda’s voice was nearly Violet’s undoing, but she pulled in a deep breath and confessed the truth of the courtship, the meetings with Lord Ferrard, their many discussions, and then, “Is it possible that I might have fallen in love or am I simply experiencing desire?” Perhaps she was simply confusing the two, which would bring her peace.

  Miranda laughed, but not in a cruel, teasing manner, more delighted. “It’s possible that it is both love and desire.”

  “Yet, love takes time, it doesn’t happen so quickly. You and my brother were friends for years.”

  “Ah, but that’s because we were both too afraid to voice our feelings,” Miranda admitted. “Had either of us spoken from the heart, we might have been married three years earlier.”

  Violet blinked at her. “Are you being truthful?”

  “Yes, Violet. I am.”

  Lord Ferrard was a friend. She trusted him. It also mattered little if she loved him because he would be gone in two days, and she’d be a fool to let emotion rule when her decisions would only lead to heartbreak in the end. It had already ached enough for one day, and she’d not endure such further. “It’s not love,” she finally decided, as she’d not allow it to be so.

  “Are you certain?” Miranda asked.

  “Quite!” Violet answered with conviction. “Further, I’m quite certain that he feels nothing but friendship for me and kissed me only so that he could tell his father that he made an effort in this courtship, therefore, there is nothing more to read into our situation.”

  Violet stood and brushed her hands together. “However, when he calls on me tomorrow, we will remain within the dower house and take tea, as I think it best if I am not alone with Lord Ferrard again.” Or she might just insist on him kissing her, or she might kiss him, and that would never do.

  “Perhaps you should speak with him on matters of the heart,” Miranda suggested.

  That, Violet could and would never do. She’d not be so vulnerable. If she confessed to Lord Ferrard that she was beginning to care for him as more than a trusted friend, and he did not reciprocate, it might very well crush her soul.

  “Violet?” Miranda questioned.

  “I think it’s best if I keep any thoughts and emotions on the topic private. There is no reason for Ferrard to ever know what you and I discussed this afternoon, nor my irrational behavior. And I hope that I can trust you to keep my confidence.”

  Miranda frowned, then pulled herself from the bench. “If that is what you wish.”

  “It is.”

  Chapter 25

  Emory pulled out a dark wooden chair and settled at the round, scarred wooden table. He wanted to get good and bloody drunk.

  What the blazes had he done wrong?

  Yesterday had been perfect. He’d gone where no visitor had ever been allowed, saw Violet’s conservatory, walked her gardens, then thoroughly kissed her within the dangers of her gazebo. It wasn’t so dangerous in the middle of winter but could be lethal in the heat of the summer with the blossoms in bloom and honeybees making a nuisance.

  He shivered. He’d never been fond of any insect, bees, and especially spiders, yet Violet had a passion for them.

  More passion than she had for him.

  He raised his arm and called out to the barmaid for an ale. Perhaps he should consider something stronger, though he doubted they carried brandy at this tavern, not like Boodles. Where the gentleman’s club was refined with a calm, respectable atmosphere, the interior of Crawley’s Tavern was boisterous, its floors and tables roughed from use over the years. At least here he’d be left alone, whereas if he were in London, any friend or acquaintance might come upon him and wish to join him, and Emory would be forced to endure polite conversation.

  He shook his head. Conversation, yes. Polite, not always. At least not the type carried on over a tea when one was supposed to be courting someone.

  Had he offended Violet somehow?

  He knew something was wrong after they’d kissed, but he had hoped that it was simply shock, then pleasure. However, her behavior since deemed that she considered their encounter the opposite, or she would have allowed a stroll out of sight of a chaperone. Instead, he was forced to endure a polite tea.

  Boisterous laughter drew Emory from his thoughts, and he glanced about. The place was full, more so than he’d seen it to date. This was a Sunday night. Is this where the residents came after attending services in the morning, as a means to balance out their lives. Saint in the morning, sinner at night?

  Emory shook the thought from his brain and was happy to have found an unoccupied table where he might brood and get drunk.

  He’d kissed her and quite thoroughly, and the memory was branded in his brain. That kiss had been so perfect and so filled with passion that he had no wish to kiss any other woman, ever.

  He wanted only Violet’s kisses, and she preferred him never to kiss her again.

  Bloody hell.

  The barmaid set the ale on the table before Emory and he took a deep drink.

  “Why are you here drinking all alone?” his brother asked as he stopped at the table.

  “Why does any gentleman drink alone?”

  Liam chuckled and pulled up a chair and settled into it.

  Apparently his educated, physician of a brother didn’t understand the word alone.

  “Usually, the cause is a woman. Is your courtship not going well?”

  “It’s over.” Emory slammed the ale down, sloshing some of the contents onto the table.

  “I thought you had one more day.”

  “As did I, until her brother, Epworth, warned me away.”

  Liam frowned. “Did something happen that would cause him to do so?”

  “Nothing happened today,” he grumbled. Especially compared to yesterday. “I called on her and instead of walking the gardens, as I had planned, we remained in, and took tea.”

  “That is usually how courtships proceed,” Liam reminded him.

  “Ours has been anything but a normal courtship,” Emory reminded him.

  “So, what happened that has put you in such a dark mood, besides Epworth.”