Chapter 6 #3
“Controlled by . . . ?” This time she did roll her eyes.
“Let me see. Because I am an unmarried female with no fortune of my own, no property of my own, and no rights of my own. Unlike you, I am not at liberty to rendezvous in secluded corners, even with someone who has no interest in my virtue, because it would be improper. Ruinous, even. Not that anyone has shown the slightest interest in besmirching my virtue, but appearances, you know, are so important for a young lady.” She said the last in a creditable imitation of her mother’s voice, but then sighed.
“I don’t suppose your mother cares about your reputation, but mine cares a great deal about mine.
I really don’t want to spend the rest of the Season locked in my room just because you couldn’t manage to apologize in a normal and genteel manner, so please let me pass. ”
He raised one eyebrow. “Who said I had no interest in your virtue?”
Joan gaped at him. “You—you did!”
“No, I said it was safe with me tonight.” He pinched one of her ringlets. “There’s a difference.”
She paused, watching him warily, but he certainly gave no sign of being overcome with passion and falling upon her in a craze of lust. Not that she should wish for such things anyway, at least not from him.
She snapped her mouth shut. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t puzzle out that subtlety at the moment. ”
His mouth crooked. “Still impertinent.”
“You have no idea how much,” she told him.
“Believe me, I don’t doubt—” He broke off, lifting his head as though listening to something, then abruptly ducked and crowded her back behind the potted palms.
“What are you doing? Is someone coming?” She tried to push him aside.
“Yes,” he hissed. “Shh.”
Joan blanched. “My mother?” she whimpered.
“Shh!” He wasn’t paying attention to her at all, but was clearly listening for something, his expression fierce yet distant.
Oh God. Even if it wasn’t Mother, it might be anyone who loved a good gossip.
Joan pictured a year in exile in Cornwall, away from her friends and the shopping of town, which would surely be her punishment if she was caught practically in Tristan Burke’s embrace.
Her only hope was to put some distance between them.
She pulled against his grip. “Let me go, or I shall scream.”
“Hush,” he whispered. “For the love of God, woman, hold your tongue for once.”
“Why? Who is coming? You must know it would give the completely wrong impression, if someone were to see you embracing me—”
He looked down at her in disbelief. “Can you never do as anyone asks? Are you totally mad?”
Joan set her jaw. She was a very reasonable person; he was the one at fault here.
He had forced her into a dark room, withheld her pamphlet, and then confronted her in full view of everyone at the ball.
Now he had her pinned against the wall behind the potted palms, and even though her pulse was leaping and something awfully like excitement had set her blood surging at the way he held her, she had to get out of here.
Her gaze locked with his, she drew a deep, deliberate breath to cry out.
“Damn,” she thought he muttered, and then before she could make a sound his mouth came down on hers. Joan made a startled eep and almost fell before his arms tightened around her.
She had been kissed before—or rather, she thought she’d been kissed before.
But compared to this, those previous experiences were mere pecks on the cheek.
Tristan Burke held her in a way that left no doubt of his intentions; she could feel every inch of his body pressed against hers, hard and unyielding.
His arm curved around her waist, and his hand—shockingly—curved around her hip, holding her body against his.
His other hand was around the back of her neck, keeping her from retreating.
Which, of course, she would have done at once, if only he hadn’t been holding her so and kissing her so and then his tongue ran along her lips and she started to protest and then .
. . he made a sound like a starving man in sight of a feast . . . and she felt the same way . . .
It might have been a year later that he lifted his head. Joan would have sworn an age had passed. As it was, she had to hold on to him—actually, she was already holding on to him; when had that happened?—and struggle to breathe again.
“You—you kissed me,” she managed to gasp. Her tight stays seemed to have cut off all her air. She groped for her fan, trying desperately not to faint.
He was staring down at her, still holding her tightly, but at her words he gave a small shake of his head. His arms loosened. “I had to hear myself think for a moment.”
That stung. She glared at him, even though her heart was still leaping about inside her chest. “There are other ways—”
He leaned closer, looking intent, and Joan snapped her mouth closed. Was he going to kiss her again? And if so, should she slap him now . . . or kiss him back this time?
“This way worked,” he whispered. “Don’t think I won’t do it again.”
And he turned and walked away, leaving her—for once—utterly speechless.