* * * *
Kenley found a small, vacant parlor beyond the foyer. She saw him peep his head inside; when he ducked through the doorway, she glanced about anxiously to make sure they were unobserved, and followed. He closed the door swiftly behind her, and Charlotte had no reasonable accounting for the sudden, thrilled tremble of her heart to be alone with him in the shadow-draped chamber.
“I am sorry,” Kenley said, turning to her. “You are right to be angry with me. I should have told you.”
He stepped toward her, closing what little space had stood between them. He was so abruptly near that her breath caught, and she shied back, disconcerted.
“I have been jailed, yes,” Kenley said quietly. “And pilloried besides. My father died when I was twelve, and I came to live with Lewis and my uncle at Woodside. I… I was very angry and confused. I did not understand my grief and shame, and I was wild for it. I stood in the stocks when I was twelve and again at fourteen, twice for drunkenness, two more times besides for brawling. I also spent three days in jail for pickpocketing and another week for burglary when I was fifteen.”
Charlotte met his gaze. “That is all?” she asked. He blinked, surprised; and then laughed. “Yes, that would fairly well cover the gamut of my offenses,” he said. “You are not impressed?”
“I just…from the telling, I had expected something a bit more nefarious,” she said.
Kenley laughed again. “I could go out and commit some grievous crime, if you would like,” he offered. “If it would re-endear me in your regard, I will go right now.”
She could not remain angry with him. He had offered her the truth with such vulnerability apparent in his eyes, the measure of his shame and remorse in the admittance had been nearly tangible. Charlotte smiled, helpless to prevent herself any longer. “I do not think that will be necessary,” she said.
He smiled, visibly relieved.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said quietly, lowering her gaze toward her skirt. “I am not a gossip, and you do not have to worry that I will say anything. I will not.”
“I know,” he said. “I trust you.”
She looked up at him, surprised and touched by his candor. “Why?”
“You have given me no reason not to,” he said. He stepped toward her again, and this time she did not shy. Again, she felt her breath flutter, her heart race in pounding measure. He reached for her, brushing the cuff of his fingers against her cheek, and her heart pounded more. His proximity was nearly dizzying to her; she did not understand this unfamiliar reaction any more than she wanted it to stop.
Despite the sudden warmth that suddenly spread through her, trembling through her form, a voice of reason within her cried in protest in her mind. She could not do this, she told herself. Not again—Lady Epping would bolt her in her room and forbid her to cross the threshold. “Lord Theydon…” she whispered as he cradled her cheek against his palm and leaned toward her. She wanted to stay him; she wanted to seize his face between her hands and kiss him. She was torn between the two, hiccupping for breath, her mind spinning. “Lord Theydon, we…we cannot…”
“Kenley,” he said softly, his mouth poised so near hers, she had to struggle not to lift her chin, to follow the guiding ease of his hand against her face and let his lips touch hers.
“Do not,” she said, ducking her head, drawing away from his touch, his proffered kiss. He stepped toward her and lifted her chin, giving her no moment for reconsideration or recoil. He kissed her deeply; yesterday’s fleeting brush had been only a whispered hint of this sudden, impulsive, impassioned advance. His mouth pressed against hers, and when she gasped for breath, she felt his lips part, his tongue delve between hers, tangling against her own.
She uttered a muffled whimper and he drew her closer, until her pannier buckled inward against his hips and her breasts pressed against the front of his jacket. His tongue moved against hers gently, exploring the intricacies of her palate with intimate, uncanny familiarity. Charlotte had never felt such wondrous friction before; the soft but firm press of his mouth against hers; the moist heat of his breath intermingling with her own.
He canted his head; his mouth slipped briefly from hers and settled again, stealing her breath against his tongue before she could even entertain dazed thought of reclaiming it. He tilted her head back gently with his hands, and she moved willingly. When his mouth left hers, his lips trailing along the line of her jaw before discovering her throat, she closed her eyes and gasped softly, laying her hands against his shoulders and pressing her fingertips fiercely against the wool of his justicoat.
He followed the contours of her throat with his lips, the tip of his tongue drawing slow, concentric circles against her skin. The sensation of this—his breath and tongue— was new and exquisite to her; again, she whimpered, tightening her grasp on his shoulders.
He found the measure of her heart pounding out its frantic rhythm along the slope of her neck, and his mouth lingered here. Her voice escaped her in a soft moan, and after a long, luxurious moment of his lips’ tender attentions, he lifted his head, looking at her.
“Do you want me to stop?” he said, his voice little more than a rumbled murmur from his throat.
She opened her eyes, reeling, and blinked at him as if emerging from a dream. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. He smiled at her, and that damnable voice of reason hissed in her head again. Just as Kenley lowered his face to kiss her again, just as she felt her chin tilt of its own accord to let him, she ducked her head, shrugged her shoulders, and stepped back from him. “I…I mean… I mean yes. We should not do this.”
He stepped against her again, and kissed her throat, his lips reacquainting themselves with those tremulous places only just abandoned and easing up from there toward the curve of her earlobe.
“My…my mother will be looking for me,” she whimpered, her head leaning back as she presented her neck to him. “I… I have to get back…”
His lips brushed against her ear; she gasped as he delicately traced along the lines and curves with his tongue. She felt the edge of his tongue hook against the bottom of her earlobe, drawing it lightly between his upper teeth and bottom lip. Her breath hitched in helpless delight as he offered a gentle tug with his mouth. “Please… stop…”
She planted her hands against his shoulders. “Stop,” she whispered. He looked up into her eyes, blessedly and cursedly pausing in his efforts. She forced herself to draw away from him, stumbling backward. “You will see me scolded,” she said. “I just… I have to get back.” She brushed past him, moving for the door, refusing to meet his gaze lest she be tempted to rush back to him.
“Forgive me,” he said. She turned to him and his brows lifted in implore. “I should not have done that. It was untoward and impulsive… ungentlemanly, and I… totally out of line and character, I promise you. I… I forgot myself. It… by my breath, Charlotte—please, it will not happen again.”
Charlotte smiled, her heart still trembling as the residual thrill of his touch, his kiss faded. “I did not say I minded,” she told him, making him blink in surprise. She caught a quick glimpse of his mouth lifting in a smile, opening as he laughed; and she turned, ducking out of the room and closing the door behind her.