Page 47 of A Stranger’s Promise

Nicholas burst into hearty laughter amidst gasps of shock—and Alistair strode out the door, headed to the grand staircase.

He took the steps two at a time. On the top floor, he found the object of his attention strolling the candle-lit corridor, her attention buried in the pages of a book while she balanced a tray on her hip.

He had her now. Alistair crept up behind her. Once within reach, he plucked the tray from her grasp. She whirled as he set it on a nearby marble-topped table.

Sir!” she cried.

He caught her about the waist and whirled her around, then pushed her back against the wall.

“My lord.” Her eyes widened with surprise as she hugged the book close to her breast.

Alistair braced his hands against the wall on each side of her head and smiled down at her. “Alistair,” he corrected. “Were you not to join me for dinner?”

Her lashes fluttered and she tilted her head toward the tray. “Oliver needed a milk posset—”

“Excuses.” He inhaled deep of the heady perfume of her hair and leaned closer for a kiss.

She ducked under his arm and retreated two paces.

He pushed from the wall and arched a brow.

She lifted her chin.

He grinned. No matter. He had a few tricks of his own. He knew the value of patience.

“Surely, you should attend your guests,” she said. The devilish gleam he had come to love returned to her lively hazel eyes. “You will disappoint the ladies. They will miss out on your carving of the beef, my lord.”

“Alistair,” he corrected. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the wall. He frowned. “The carving of the beef? Is the carving of meat a manly thing admired by women?”

“To be sure.” She gave a solemn nod completely at odds with the teasing spark in her eyes. “Does it not prove you’ve been trained in good fashion? A graceful performance is presumed to mark a person—or so it says here in The Fine Art of Deportment which ensures it must be true.” She lifted the book she grasped.

With a dry chuckle, Alistair plucked it from her hand. He glanced at the title, then tossed it on the table next to the tray. “I see, Miss Atchenson. You would rather read about such things than attend a dinner where I might impress you with a wondrous demonstration?”

She laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I fear I would not be properly impressed, my lord. At least, not until I have finished the book to learn just what exactly should impress me. I confess, until a moment ago, I never thought the carving of meat to be an art.”

He studied her. “Tell me, what does impress you?”

“I fear I am not a proper enough lady to know—”

Quick as a flash, he yanked her into his arms. She squeaked. There was no book between them now. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest. Her eyes were large, wide, and soft.

“You swear like a sailor,” he murmured. How long would he be able to resist her? His body needed her touch. “And you’re unimpressed with manly knife skills at the dinner table, yet…” He allowed his voice to trail away as the alluring depths of her hazel eyes drew him in. “If you keep looking at me like that, Charlotte, I will have to kiss you,” he warned in a hoarse whisper. “Propriety be damned.”

This time, she didn’t slip away. He covered her mouth with his. She melted beneath him as his tongue demanded immediate entry. She opened at once. He delved inside her hot, sweet mouth and sparred with her tongue.

He pressed her against the wall as their tongues danced, entwined, and tasted one another. She felt so delicate in his arms. She responded to his every touch, each nip of his teeth. Alistair twirled one of her errant curls around his finger, as he began to feather a slow line of kisses along her jaw and nibbled the sensitive skin beneath her earlobe. She shuddered.

“There she is,” he breathed in her ear.

“She?” Charlotte panted.

He drew back enough to see her face “The minx I have glimpsed here and there.” He dropped another kiss on her mouth and grazed her bottom lip with his teeth. “Do let her out to play more often, sweetheart.”

“Perhaps she should be tamed,” she suggested in velvet tones.

He snorted and raked his gaze down her body. “Tamed? Never. Never with me. I say let her run loose and as free as the wind. She’s welcome to rap my knuckles with a spoon and drink the rose water each day of the week.”

A glimmer of humor arced through her eyes and her long lashes fluttered.