Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

A chill of foreboding rattled inside her and Mr Westaway asked with genuine concern, “Are you cold?”

“No, but I should go to bed soon, I think.” She stretched her arms, yawning as she stood up. “Thank you for today.” She smiled at him as he rose. “I can’t tell you how much more enjoyable it is to be here and part of your artistic world; also talking to you about interesting topics than the usual deadly dull kind of day I generally endure.”

“Miss Montague—”

She looked over her shoulder as she made for the door.

“Just one kiss. A quick one. So, you know what it feels like.” He spoke rapidly. “And nothing other than that.”

“All right. Just tell me what to do.”

“You just kiss me. That’s all.”

“And then it’s done.” She sighed, satisfied. Or at least sounding satisfied with the way it was presented as she returned to stand in front of him, twining her arms about his neck.

It was not the first time Faith had kissed a man. Her education had required this as a minimal point of contact and, thank God, she’d never found herself in the position of having to do more, as did all the other girls at Madame Chambon’s. In fact, it was only when she had kissed men for whom she felt absolutely nothing did she realise how impossible it would be to have to give them her body too.

So, she twined her arms about his neck, tipped her head, and waited to feel nothing but the physical sensation of pressure applied upon her lips. A physical sensation with which she was reasonably familiar.

Crispin stood and prepared himself. He was doing her a favour. Lord, he was doing them both a favour by getting it over and done with, clearing the air, so to speak. It was reasonable that a curious mind and plain speaking would deem this no more than it would be. And Crispin had only gone along with the idea because he was confident she knew their respective positions. He liked to think he’d forged a friendship with the young woman. Friendship between the sexes was entirely possible, he already knew that. He had women friends who enjoyed probing him on matters political, and he gained great pleasure from their company.

Just as he did from Miss Montague’s. Certainly, she was younger and prettier than his other friends but, by presenting herself as just as intelligent, and acute with respect to his need for no form of entanglement, he felt safe.

Yes, safe, was his last thought as he lowered his head and put his arms gently about her to seal the kiss. A chaste, brief kiss with a sweet but definite ending would be a fine way to show her his true feelings. He could imbue it with respect, the merest sensory illusion that there could be more, and as he withdrew with just the right expression, he’d leave her under no illusions that he was in any way affected by their connection.

Yet, as she moved closer, standing on tiptoe to twine her arms about his neck, he was taken aback by the rush of sensation that speared his body. Her mouth was still several inches away; her eyes were closed, and there was a smile of innocent expectation that was heartbreakingly endearing.

He felt trapped. It would be wrong to leave her with the sensation that a kiss couldn’t be more. She was embarking on a big journey for an innocent debutante. She had no idea what to expect. Surely, he owed it to her to show her just what a real kiss could be like?

It was his last moment of rational thought before another rush of sensation speared his groin, pounded in his head, and turned his vision into a multifaceted plethora of pumping, pulsing need that sent him reeling as her mouth fused with his and her arms about him tightened.

His world closed about him. He’d not expected to be so affected. He’d not expected to feel such connection. He’d not expected to feel anything beyond the casual enjoyment he’d experienced with so many past kisses.

Yet he was conscious of every nuanced chance as this one progressed from what was supposed to be fleeting—the softness of her lips pressed against his, tentative, then growing bolder, sending tendrils of fire right through his body. Her breasts pushing against his chest as she leaned into him. Enjoying herself. Throwing herself into this as if it were the greatest enjoyment to be savoured, losing herself just as he was losing himself.

He’d thought himself in love in the past. There had been moments of grand passion. Or so he’d thought. And yet…he couldn’t remember them. His mind was cast into the void, for only the present existed. Only the here and now as he was swept into a maelstrom of intense, physically satisfying, and yet totally unsatisfied, desire.

And it was as this desire roared into the stratosphere, nearly out of control, that a single cognisant kernel of self-preservation brought him rapidly back to earth. His hand, unconsciously, had slid downward to cup her breast, and she seemed to be pressing against him, searching for satisfaction beyond what was being offered.

He registered the need to extricate it, yet it was squeezed fast, against the thin fabric between his chest and her heaving bosom. But as he removed it and his hand touched her heated skin, it took every ounce of willpower not to insinuate it beneath her bodice. With her encouragement.

Dear lord, she was losing control just as he was, and unless he brought this to an end, they’d both be engulfed by the fiery flames of hell.

Unless he took charge, Miss Montague was going to keep kissing him, and he wanted her to want it. Wanted her to continue.

And that could prove fatal.

Panting, breathless, they broke apart.

He tried to maintain his composure, tried to be the bigger man, bigger than he was, by pretending it hadn’t affected him as much as it had. Running one hand through his hair, he blinked and offe

red her what he hoped wasn’t a totally sappish smile as he murmured, “My apologies, Miss Montague, if that wasn’t what you were expecting.” What else could he have said? The kiss certainly hadn’t been what he’d been expecting. He could barely stand. His body was straining, still, to take this further, but she was as out of bounds as she’d ever be.

Miss Montague, he noticed, looked a little dazed. She wandered to the fireplace and put a supporting hand upon the mantelpiece. He’d thought she might look at him, dewy-eyed with affection, but she looked troubled as she raked her fingers through her own damp hair and said, “Oh, please don’t apologise for you were very kind to indulge me. I’m sure it was…so much more than I was expecting, Mr Westaway.”

Faith managed to make her way back to her bedchamber. As she lowered herself onto her bed, she wasn’t sure how she’d got there, her mind was in such disarray. That kiss. No, it wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting. The consequences were nothing like she’d intended. The kiss had been supposed to shore up her power, but with her knees still trembling, she felt entirely powerless.

A knock on the door was followed by the beady-eyed scrutiny of Lady Vernon, who lowered herself into a chair by the window and said, “I hope you used the time I allowed you wisely, my girl. He likes you, admires you, but you’ll get nowhere with just that. Did you get him to kiss you?”