Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

“ P lease.” Flora sought to be herself even as her pulse began to thrum in her veins. “I pray you would call me Flora whilst you are seducing me.”

It seemed the logical precursor to intimacy, this acknowledgment of each other.

“Flora.” He breathed out her name as if it were perfume. “My dear, sweet, insightful Flora, I have not yet begun to seduce you.”

She would have disagreed—the sound of her name upon his lips had already sent interesting little shimmers of sensation down her spine—but he reached one of his long, tanned, articulate fingers to brush a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, and something else within her fell to its metaphorical knees.

“This talk, this exploration of understanding,” he said with that intense, low, quiet voice, “is but flirtation—a prelude to seduction.”

His words set a warm sort of vibration through her. She felt caressed even though he had only fleetingly touched her hair. “It feels like something more than mere flirtation.”

“It ought to,” he agreed with a slow, spreading smile. “Because what you are experiencing, my dear Flora, is the interesting thing known as attraction. Which ought always be the precursor to seduction. Which itself is the great instigator of passion .”

“Ah.” This time, she could hear the satisfaction in her exhalation. And feel the pleasure that glided like quicksilver along the surface of her skin. “I begin to see.”

“Do you?” He reached for her hand, taking it between his before he turned their palms up, tracing the fingers of his other hand back and forth along her suddenly sensitive skin. “But before we can progress from attraction and flirtation to seduction and passion, we must first have understanding—of how far down the road of seduction you would like to travel?”

She allowed herself only the barest time to think—the time for thinking had been over the moment she had decided to bring him to the dark conservatory. “As far as this attraction will take me—or rather, will take us, I suppose.”

“I suspect it might take us on a very long journey—if we let it,” he admitted. “Are you quite sure, sweet Flora, we shouldn’t steer a safer course closer to the shore? That we shouldn’t moor up in a quiet cove before we set sail for open water?”

After so many months being careful, of waiting as patiently as she might for something to happen—for Maisie or her father to make their decisions—she wanted nothing more than to take her own fate into her hands. “You think I will regret being seduced by you?”

“Yes,” he said frankly. “When I am gone, back to some ship, in whichever war, in whatever part of the world, I think you may learn to think better of such a dangerous choice.”

Flora was not so headstrong or stubborn as to immediately dismiss his advice. He was an experienced man of the world—it was, she innately understood, what attracted him to her. “Why is it dangerous?”

“Because, my dear Flora, I suspect we will like it—very much.” His fingers traced a path of delight across the delicate skin of her wrist. “And you are not for me .”

She forced herself to open her eyes that suddenly felt heavy and sanded with sleep. “And what is so dangerous about that? It sounds rather more lucky to me than dangerous.”

“If our liaison were known, some people—” Narrow-minded, interfering, inconveniently rich people. “—would consider you ruined.”

“Would you? Consider me ruined?”

“Nay, lass,” he swore. “But I am not a man who would be a husband.”

“And I am not a woman who would be a wife,” she avowed. “Frankly, it seems a fool's errand, this forced march toward the altar. I want something more. I want to choose.” She decided to be more candid. “And I should like to choose—however temporarily—you.”

That he was both surprised and pleased by her declaration was evidenced by that wonderfully slow, spreading smile. “Well, then. Shall we see what it is that lies between us? There really is only one way to find out.”

“One?” Even as his words sent a thrill skating across her skin, Flora could not help being herself. “I can think of at least three ways.”

Oh, he liked that. “Clever, clever lass.” He lifted her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles and Flora felt the sensation all the way from her fingertips down to her suddenly fluttering stomach.

He was so close. So close she could see the faint sketch of whiskers under his close-shaven skin. Close enough to catch the scent of citrus and far-away island spices. Her eyes closed of their own accord so she might go there, across the sea to meet him.

But he was here, with her, in this cold room that no longer seemed so chill. Looking down at her with warm intent. And she wanted nothing more than to meet that intent with her own. “Kiss me.”

“Patience,” he all but whispered against her skin. “No need to rush. We have all the time we might nee?—”

Flora kissed him. She gave into the impulse and drew him closer, clasping his worn but impeccably tailored lapels. And then she held herself still, offering herself to him. Waiting. As patiently as she could.

He finally angled his head to kiss the corner of her mouth—a light, feathery little kiss that progressed along the seam of her lips. A kiss that was lovely, but at the same time disappointing.

“Jack.” She wanted…something more. More than mere kissing.

“Aye?” he queried against a surprisingly sensitive spot beneath her ear. “Is something not to your liking?”

She did not want to criticize, especially while his lips pressed so pleasantly against her neck. It gave rise to an entirely new sort of sensation. Flora found her head turning away, offering herself up to the delicate delight that began to bud along the surface of her skin. She found her breath coming shallower and found she had opened her mouth slightly—a little silent “oh” of surprise and delight.

“Aye,” he encouraged. He kept up his delicate play, moving his mouth along the line of her jaw, feathering pleasure along her skin until finally—finally—his lips settled upon hers.

Flora felt something akin to peace settle through her—that is, if peace were a buoyant, liquid thing that carried her up and away. That made her heart soar and her pulse thrum in her ears.

Jack Balfour kissed the way he seemed to do everything—with an easy competence and experienced command. Everything gracefully masculine. Everything sure and effortlessly controlled.

She felt her inexperience acutely and instantly—she who had thought herself so fully in control, pulling him down to her. But the moment his lips had firmed upon hers, she simply gave way to the heady, near intoxicating pleasure of his kiss.

Oh, yes, indeed. She liked this man. She liked this.

His clever, careful hands slid along the line of her jaw, urging her to turn ever so slightly more, to arch her head up to give him access. So his mouth and lips could delve deeper.

And then his arms came steadily around her, sliding to rest at the small of her back, while his mouth—his clever, sardonic, somehow smiling mouth—was doing impossible things to hers. Making her feel old and new and easy and fraught with delight, all at the same time.

He tasted of dark whisky and warm sunshine. He smelled of starch and surety. Of exotic spices and the comfort of home. Of impossible possibilities.

For the first time in forever, Flora felt entirely, gloriously alive.

Again, and again his lips played against hers, tasting and exploring until she was doing the same. Until it was she who somehow needed to tangle her tongue with his and insinuate herself into his mouth. Into his warmth and wonder.

She brought her hands to cradle his face, to hold him as he was holding her. To take pleasure in feeling his smooth-shaven skin beneath her hands. In the glorious give and take of pleasures. He was all around her, his arms encircling her back, holding her gently, as carefully as if she were a precious thing.

But she was not precious and certainly not a thing—she was a woman who wanted control over her own life. Who wanted kisses and comfort. Wanted passion and peril.

And roguish, skeptical, secretly romantic Captain Jack Balfour was exactly the right man to give her both.