The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

“I think you know it’s not.” His voice was a husky whisper. “We start with our feet together, and then you step forward with your left foot.”

Nicole did as he asked. When her thigh brushed against his leg, he froze.

“Is something wrong, my lord?”

He breathed deeply. “Not at all. However, teaching is not my forte. I am compelled to omit all instruction and rush to the denouement of this particular lesson.”

Nicole looked up at him. The look of longing in his eyes reflected the intense craving currently wreaking havoc in the pit of her stomach.

The earl lowered his head. “Why is it that when I’m around you, I feel like a boy fresh from the schoolroom? Everything is novel and new.”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, their mouths so close they seemed to breathe in each other's words. “Am I so unlike the other ladies of your acquaintance?”

“Trust me, Miss Flint. You are a true original.”

Their lips met.

He brushed his mouth slowly over hers. “You are witty and intelligent whilst still managing to be utterly irresistible.”

Her breath came so quick one would think she’d run all the way from Holborn to Hanover Square.

“And you, my lord, are everything a man should be.”

He was strong, courageous, caring. In his presence, she felt safe. With him, she did not feel so dreadfully alone. With him, her mind was a confusing contradiction. Independence mattered a great deal. Equally, she wanted to be loved and cherished.

But this man wanted pleasure, not love. Lest she not forget. She would be wise to guard her heart, for she’d fallen too far to guard her virtue.

“Considering the intimate nature of our friendship, I suggest you call me Oliver.” Desire burned in his blue eyes. He brushed her lips again, firmer this time, far more demanding.

When she breathed, an earthy masculine scent filled her head. She could taste it in his kiss like a potent drug, one capable of heightening every sensual thought and feeling. The longer his lips melded with hers, the deeper the need for him grew.

“Oliver.” The word came as a breathless whisper — a plea for him to ease the crippling loneliness. Rose had spoken his name to her often. But never had the sound made the room spin. Never had it rendered her knees too weak to support her body.

Still gripping her right hand in position for the waltz, the hand resting on her back edged lower, down to cup her buttock, to pull her closer against the hard length of his body. His tongue penetrated her mouth. Like a firework at Vauxhall, the kiss burst into something urgent, demanding.

She could grow accustomed to the warm sensation spiralling in her belly. She could come to yearn for this man’s touch.

“Say I may call you Nicole.” In a fever of impatience, he rained warm kisses along her jaw and down the column of her throat.

Already drunk with desire, she was on the verge of complete surrender. All she wanted was to feel his hard body pressing down on her, protecting her, keeping her safe.

A feral growl resonated from the back of his throat. “Stay with me.”

She had no idea what he meant. Despite her body waving the white flag of surrender, her mind clung to the last thread of logic.

You’ll be lonely again when you leave.

But surely she would see him again. Surely nothing could break the bond that existed between them.

There’s lust … there’s passion … but no such thing as true love.

The memory of his words caught her short like a sudden slap to the face. To indulge her desires would only bring her more heartache, more pain.

Pushing hard at his chest, she broke free from his grasp. “The hour is late. We should retire if we’re to visit the solicitor in the morning.” She was panting, still staring at his irresistible mouth.

A wicked smile touched his lips. “Those were my thoughts, too.” He lowered his head and kissed her again.

“No. You misunderstand me, my lord.”