Chapter Nineteen

"I believe you owe me one kiss, Signore," Oscar said the following afternoon as they sat beneath a shade tree, attempting

another picnic. He had the audacity to sigh and shake his head as if he were wholly blameless. "You drew the Queen of Hearts,

after all, and I don't make the rules."

She glanced down at the card in her hand. The Queen looked back at her archly as if fully aware of her inner struggle.

She squinted at him. "This is your game. You just made up the rules two minutes ago."

When they'd first settled in their shaded spot, before she'd set about unwrapping the contents of their picnic, he'd stayed

her hand and oh so casually suggested they make a game of their meal.

The winner would be the one most satisfied in the end.

Intrigued in spite of herself and welcoming a distraction from her thoughts, she had agreed. Then he'd deftly withdrawn a

deck of cards from his coat pocket, shuffled and fanned them out for her to choose first.

The rules were simple: black cards allowed him to choose what she would eat; red put his fate in her hands.

But the only trump card was the Queen of Hearts.

When she'd balked at his proposal of making it worth a kiss, he'd accused her of being intimidated by the prospect of playing

for such high stakes.

Of all the nerve! He knew very well she couldn't back down from a direct challenge. It left her no choice but to accept and make him eat his words.

And yet, she'd mysteriously drawn the trump card on her first turn? Ha!

"I highly suspect," she continued, "that you devised a way to make me choose this card."

"I am wounded, madam. That is a completely unfounded accusation. I've never cheated at this game in my life."

"Because it has never been played before." She threw the card back at him, and the cad caught it between his teeth, flashing

a grin.

Next time, she would throw a rock.

He tucked the card back into the deck with a sigh. "I'm afraid the rules of forfeit are two kisses."

"Rules seem to be swarming this game faster than flies to horse sh—"

"Sit back down, Miss Hartley. I promise there will be no additional rules." He crossed his heart.

She glanced at the spot dubiously, suspecting the blackguard had no heart at all. "Then, give me your hand. After all, there

was no part of the rule that mentioned the kiss must be on the lips."

There. She showed him, she thought.

"I will remember you said that." His low promise sent a wayward thrill through her.

Too late, she saw the glimmer of heat in his gaze. Brief, unbidden curiosity made her wonder where he might kiss her. But

she quickly banished the thought from her mind. Mostly.

Oscar presented his hand like a king expecting a pledge of fealty over his ring. Pushing off from the blanket, she pressed

a brief peck to his knuckles. It wasn't a real kiss, therefore she was still holding fast to her declaration.

When it was clear that he intended to wait until she paid the two-kiss forfeit, she leaned forward, fully intending to bite him. But then she had a better idea. Something assured to make him regret this game of his.

Honoria licked his finger instead. Slowly, and much the same way that he'd licked hers in Paris. She wanted to tease him.

To taunt him. And she felt a measure of triumph when his stormy eyes darkened as he watched her, his lips parting on a breath.

He shifted toward her.

Knowing that she could affect him as much as he affected her filled her with a sense of feminine power.

She sat back, a feline grin on her lips. "I do believe that round went to me."

"It isn't about a single hand, my dear," he said, "but who wins in the end."

The diabolical shimmer in his gaze reminded her that she was dealing with a rather ruthless gambler. There wasn't anything

he wouldn't do to win.

She ignored the unbidden thrill that coursed through her as she cast an uncertain glance down the hill. "We should throw away

the Queen of Hearts. If my maid or your driver sees us, my reputation will be ruined, and that is not part of our bargain."

"Clever attempt at skirting the rules, but I'm afraid your point is invalid," he said. "Because, while you were up here arranging

the shawls and pillows, I was pointing out a rather tasty grouping of blackberry bushes around the bend of the creek, which

just happens to be in the shade and not in direct sight of the top of the hill." He grinned. "Though, if you are concerned,

I have another solution."

He proceeded to borrow her parasol and wedge it into the side of the basket. Then he moved the basket nearer to the log and

balanced his hat upon a stick so that it looked as though her parasol and his hat were a respectable distance apart.

"You have quite the devious mind. And that is no compliment to your character," she groused.

"Perhaps not. Though, I highly suspect that's one of the reasons you're drawn to me. I'm different from other gentlemen of your acquaintance."

She scoffed. " Reasons , hmm? My, someone certainly thinks highly of himself. And to be clear, you are no gentleman."

"Truer words have never been spoken. I doubt there are many men at all who can boast of living in the number of cities I have

done."

There it was again, that blasted curiosity. Putting on her most uninterested expression, she asked, "Did you travel greatly

with your family?"

His mouth curled with bitterness. "My family , as you put it, consisted of my mother and a father who abandoned us when I was five years old. But even before then, we

were stealing away in the middle of the night because we were unable to pay for our rooms. Scandalous, I know." He splayed

a hand over his chest with comic insincerity, and yet there was something lurking in his eyes that made her heart ache for

the boy who'd never had a home. "Flit forward three and twenty years, and I'm hying off to a small hamlet in Lincolnshire

because a bloodthirsty Spaniard wants to sever my head from my body. So you see, not much has altered. Like father, like son,

I suppose."

A jolt of alarm sliced through her. "Is that true?"

"Do you want it to be true?" His brow arched with insouciant disinterest.

"Must you always be so aloof? I think waiting for a stone to deliver sap would be simpler than expecting you to say anything

remotely personal." She huffed. "Then again, whyever should I care? If I knew more about you, I might be plagued with concern,

and I wouldn't know what to do with that."

She saw the instant the shutters fell in place and he stepped into the role of the bored rake.

"I could offer a few suggestions, if you like," he said, his voice suggestive as he absently shuffled the cards in his hands, his gaze skimming over her with prurient intent. "Or we could just play our game. I'm simply ravenous."

Against her will, her pulse responded to that slumberous look in his eyes... and something flipped in the pit of her stomach.

She ignored the sensation. "There are times when I hardly know what to make of you."

"I'd wager that bothers you exceedingly," he said, watching her with imperious amusement as he shrugged out of his coat and

laid it aside.

Yes , she thought as her gaze skimmed over his broad shoulders and the outline of muscles beneath a tailored waistcoat, you do bother me exceedingly .

She had seen gentlemen without their coats on a number of occasions so she didn't know why she felt flushed. Then again, it

was a rather hot day. She could not fault him for wanting to be cooler.

After all, she was garbed in the sprigged muslin she'd finally located in the attic, the capped sleeves displaying nearly

every inch of her arms. Not to mention, her figure had rounded somewhat since she'd last worn the dress, and the rounded bodice

that had once been modest now displayed a fair amount—albeit not unseemly—of her décolletage.

And she had caught him admiring her figure with a heated appreciation that did not offend her in the least. Nor was she offended

that he was rolling up the cuffs of his shirtsleeves. As he gradually exposed the sinewy strength and dusting of dark hair

along his forearms, she felt another wash of heat. But it was a hot day, after all.

Focusing her attention on the cards, she fanned them out for him to choose. When he drew a Ten of Diamonds— her choice —she contemplated the contents of the basket with devious intent.

"I think an egg for you, Mr. Flint, since you will soon have egg on your face."

She didn't give him a chance to respond with a taunt of his own but brought the offering to his closed mouth. When he did not open straightaway, she coasted the smooth white surface over his bottom lip. And for some inexplicable reason, she felt a tingling sensation on her own lips.

She saw the hint of a snake curl at the corner of his mouth as if he knew. Her gaze met his, but all she found there was simmering

heat. Then his lips slowly parted, and he sank his teeth down into the soft flesh.

She withdrew the other half of the egg, only to have him capture her wrist. His lips parted, taking the remainder and the very tips of her fingers into the humid interior of his mouth. His tongue flicked over her flesh, tasting her as tingles

chased up her arm and scattered over her skin like errant sparks from a Catherine wheel.

She slipped free. He wasn't playing fair.

"Delicious," he said with erudite satisfaction before reaching for the cards.

Refusing to reveal any of her unwelcome responses, she primly slid an Ace of Spades from the deck. His choice, dash it all.

"Hmm..." he murmured, peering into the basket. "A radish will certainly suit your spicy temperament today."

"You have no idea."

"Now, close your eyes." When her eyes turned flinty with suspicion he said, "It's just a radish."

He was asking her to trust him, and since he'd trusted her a bit, she could do the same.

Closing her eyes, she felt the fan of her lashes resting on the upper curve of her cheek as she waited. She expected a nudge

against her lips an instant before the offered bite. But he kept it just out of reach. She knew this because she caught the

peppery scent. It hit her at the back of her throat and caused a small pool of anticipatory saliva to gather just beneath

her tongue.

She understood at once that he was doing this by design. He wanted her to be wholly absorbed in this one bite. This one moment.

Reflexively she swallowed, becoming aware of the sinuous glide of her own throat and the supple texture of her lips as she

wet them with the tip of her tongue. She heard his sharp inhale, and her pulse kicked up a notch, her lips tingling and plump.

And when he finally nudged the smooth root against her lips, she felt a corresponding sensation deep in the pit of her stomach.

He dragged it slowly over her bottom lip, and her own breathing faltered. She bumped it with the tip of her tongue, gauging

the size, then opened her mouth a bit wider. As she sank her teeth into the firm flesh of the radish, the full flavor burst

on her tongue.

She opened her eyes to find his gaze on her lips, dark and hungry as he took the remaining half into his own mouth. And she

was thankful he finished it, because she wasn't sure her hammering pulse could survive another bite of radish.

This was nothing more than attraction, she told herself. Perfectly innocent animal attraction. And she was strong enough to

resist it.

His turn came next. Eight of Clubs. And he wickedly declared that he would like to feast on tongue. The scoundrel.

In the basket, the beef and lamb were in slender slices within a shallow earthenware dish. She lifted out a long sliver of

spit-roasted tongue. Shifting to her knees, she leaned forward to dangle the tip for him.

But he surprised her by closing his eyes. He tilted his head so that she was obliged to feed it to him, bit by bit. Distractedly,

she watched the muscles of his jaw flick and the way his throat worked on a swallow.

Then he suckled the juices from the tips of her fingers with a hum of pleasure. And, she realized belatedly, he wasn't holding her wrist captive. She was lingering all on her own. Dash it all!

When her cheeks flushed with color, he chewed with relish. "Your turn."

She could just imagine that he was tallying up points for that round as well.

Gathering her composure, she drew the King of Spades.

His choice. Again. It seemed that every hand had given him the advantage.

He withdrew a peach the color of a perfect sunrise, a soft pinkish orange. She'd been waiting for the fruit to ripen in their

orchard and had yet to sample this year's crop. The aroma was so sweet her mouth watered in anticipation.

But he didn't offer it straightaway. Instead, he held it to his own mouth, his nostrils flaring as he drew in a deep breath.

"I'm tempted to keep this for myself. There's only one in the basket."

"Don't you dare." Her hand curved around his wrist. She wouldn't put it past him to devour it himself.

But this round would belong to her.

She felt the jump of his pulse beneath her fingertips, the masculine strength of hard bone and sinewy muscle beneath the taut

layer of heated skin. He allowed her to draw his hand to her mouth, and she held his gaze as she parted her lips.

The light furring of the fruit tingled against her skin. The ripe fragrance assailed her nostrils, teasing her tongue. Then

her teeth sank into the flesh.

Her eyes closed on a moan of pure ecstasy. Nectar, lush and sweet, flooded her mouth with so much decadent juice that it dribbled

down her chin. She tried to catch it with her fingertips before it dripped onto her bodice. But Oscar was faster.

As her mouth fastened on the fruit, his other hand cupped her chin, collecting the syrup before bringing it to his own lips,

sipping thirstily before coming back for more.

She took another bite, the tender, succulent flesh melting on her tongue, and his hand returned to her chin. And she didn't know if it was gluttony, an insatiable appetite or something else altogether, but she took another greedy bite.

A river of nectar surged forth, and Oscar leaned in, his mouth opening over her chin. The flat of his tongue laved the vulnerable

skin beneath, licking along the runnel of juice to the corner of her mouth. And then he sealed his lips on the other side

of the peach, his eyes dark with desire as they both devoured the fruit, making hungry sounds as if they were animals ravaging

their newly felled prey.

When the pit was all that was left between them, he took hold of her hand and licked away the sticky sweetness from wrist

to fingertips. A prickle of gooseflesh danced over her skin. Her nipples tightened. A pulse rabbited through her body, exciting

nerves along the way before settling low between her thighs.

Thrumming, she leaned closer to skim her thumb over his lips and capture the glossy traces and suck them into her own mouth.

He growled and drew a card without looking. Then urged her hand into the basket.

She wasn't even sure what she chose. It didn't matter. After the peach, their picnic turned rather salacious.

Before long, they were dipping into jam pots and suckling the sweetness from each other's fingers. They were not taking their

time to select with care but delving into the basket blindly, sharing whatever they found—a wedge of sharp, tangy cheese;

rich, succulent roast duck; currant scones; clotted cream; pear tarts; ripe plums—their mouths only a morsel apart.

In the back of her mind, she knew that this was far more dangerous than kissing. And yet, it made her feel so alive. Every

taste, nibble and sip made her acutely aware of the pleasure in each moment until she wasn't even certain she'd been living

before at all.

It was her turn, and her heart was racing in anticipation.

Her gaze fell from the cards to the hedonistic remains on the shawl. One would think a bacchanalian orgy had taken place.

Panting, she searched through cards in a frenzy, tossing the wrong ones out of the way. But she couldn't find it.

"Looking for this?" He held up the Queen of Hearts between his fingers.

When the corner of his mouth curled with the smugness of victory, her fevered skin suddenly felt chilled as if she'd been

buried beneath an avalanche of snow.

This had been a game. A mere game to him. And she was mortified to realize that, somehow, it had started to feel like something

more to her. What that something might have been, she refused to think about.

"Congratulations, Mr. Flint," she said coolly. "It appears that I'm the one with egg on my face."

"That wasn't my intention."

"You intended to win. That was the purpose, was it not?"

"The prize wasn't to make a fool of you, Honoria. I wanted—" He growled, raking a hand through his hair.

Refusing to reveal her curiosity by prodding him, she went about cleaning up. They had certainly made a mess of things.

"Damn it all, I wanted you to kiss me. More than that, I wanted you to want to kiss me."

"Forgive me if I doubt your sincerity. After all, I already kissed you on two previous occasions."

"And you said you wouldn't ever again, and that..." He scrubbed a hand over his mouth, his words muffled when he added,

"...bothered me."

She was not so angry or embarrassed that she couldn't see that this confession was difficult for him. Nor did she revel in

her own sense of triumph—well, not too much—at the fact that the threatened withdrawal of her kisses had been the catalyst

of his actions.

He had done all of this, inventing a game not simply to lord a victory over her but to ensure that she kissed him? What an idiot.

She felt the tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth but quickly subdued it. "I didn't quite catch that last part."

"I said, Miss Honoria Hartley," he growled, "that you bother me. Exceedingly."

Facing the hamper, she gave in to a small grin. "You bother me, too."