Page 65 of The Pursuit of Lord Kit Cavanaugh

She drew her arm from his and faced him.

Mrs. Macintyre’s porch was inset beneath the upper floor of the house, and the small area was draped in shadows. Nevertheless, he could make out Sylvia’s wide eyes as she held out her hand and, decidedly breathlessly, said, “Thank you for a wonderful evening, my lord.”

He closed his hand about her fingers and arched a quizzical brow. “Am I really still ‘my lord’ to you?”

Although her eyes remained wide, she battled to suppress a spontaneous smile and, eventually, conceded with a tip of her head. “Kit, then.” Her eyes had locked with his. “And I truly enjoyed the evening immensely.”

Were he dealing with some London lady, he would have grinned and, using her hand, drawn her into his arms for a long, slow kiss.

But this was Sylvia Buckleberry, clergyman’s daughter.

He shackled his impulses and gently squeezed her fingers. “Thank you for your company and your help in navigating the shoals of Bristol society. I definitely wouldn’t have enjoyed the evening had you not been beside me.”

She had to know that was the unvarnished truth.

Silence descended.

He didn’t want to let go of her fingers—not until she drew them away.

She didn’t. Instead, she looked up at him as if trying to read his eyes…

Impulse—instinct—slipped its leash. Slowly, Kit raised his free hand and gently—so gently—cupped her face. Then, slow and smooth, he tipped her face upward as—slowly, slowly—he bent his head.

He fully expected her to retreat—to pull away at the last second.

He held his breath and slowed even more. His gaze had fallen to her luscious lips; he flicked it up to her eyes.

And saw that she’d lowered her gaze to his lips. In reaction, they throbbed and hungered for hers.

Lowering his gaze to her lips again, he was just in time to see the tip of her tongue pass swiftly over her plump lower lip.

On a muted groan, he abandoned restraint and pressed his lips to hers.

Instantly, he sensed her uncertainty, like a bird fluttering anxiously, unsure what it wanted—to escape the net or not.

He kept the contact gentle, light, and made no move to draw her to him even though his entire body ached for the contact. Instead, he devoted himself and his considerable talents to worshipping her lips.

Reverently.

Until he sensed her following his lead, albeit tentatively. Not as if she was totally inexperienced; more as if she was stepping into the unknown, and she was wary.

Wise woman. There was a great deal more he wanted to do, so much more he wanted to explore, but tonight, he reined back his rakish impulses with an iron grip and settled to the challenge of luring her to him simply with the brush of his lips, the subtle sweep of his tongue over her lips, the pressure as he supped and discovered his first taste of her.

Innocence and boldness—a fascinating combination.

Yet he kept the caress simple, very much within bounds.

His reward came when her fingers lightly touched, then traced his cheek, then she kissed him back—no longer tentatively but firmly.

And he got his first sensual glimpse of that passionate, fiery female he knew dwelled inside her.

She was there, close, yet still so contained.

But now it was she who was exploring his lips, moving hers against them, taking her time experimenting…

He mentally gritted his teeth, fisted his hands, and held back from reacting.

As he would have with any other woman.