Page 8 of A Shore Thing

“I’m not sure,” she said to James. “I’ve been calling him the rake.”

“How jolly. I hope he seduced you.” James leaned over the stone wall, squinting. “James Raleigh. I’ve been prescribing seduction to Muriel for years.”

“Does she follow the doctor’s orders?” The rake looked between James and Muriel, adjusting his jacket. His white waistcoat, Muriel noticed, was embroidered all over with white lilies.

“Ha,” James retorted. “Never. She’s a terrible patient.”

“I seduced him, if you must know.” She almost clapped a hand over her mouth. Botheration. She knew better than to let James goad her into absurdity. The rake couldn’t mind, though, could he, if she imputed to the situation a little extra rakery?

“It was incredibly impulsive of me,” she plunged on. “And thrilling. And it didn’t involve plants. So, Dr. Raleigh. I believe I’ve heard the last from you on the subject of my summer activities.”

“You seduced him?” James raised a brow.

Muriel dared a glance at the rake. He’d also raised a brow.

“Just slightly,” she said. “But it counted.”

“Slightly,” echoed James. “What does that mean, exactly? A slight seduction?”

What indeed?

She shifted her feet, cheeks flaming.

“It was like…” She cleared her throat. “A low dosage of seduction.”

“It was like this,” said the rake. His voice vibrated in her ear, and she startled. She hadn’t realized he’d moved so close. The air around her felt different. It buzzed. Some part of her wondered if bees were circling her feet, but she couldn’t tear her eyes from his face.

His gaze drifted down, lingered on her mouth. His irises—they were a subtle shade of gray. The muted, moody color—the only subtle thing about him.

Her breath stopped.

Slowly, he leaned over her. His lips touched hers, the pressure light and warm. She froze, then her lids fluttered down, plunging her into velvety darkness.

This was a kiss. Dear God, how long had it been?

Some voice inside her answered instantly.

Forever.

How long since she’d felt this?

Forever. Forever and a day.

Heat streamed through her. She was melting. She must be melting, because the rake’s muscled arm wrapped her waist and he was holding her upright, already lifting his head away, breaking the kiss. Their mouths had only been in contact for the briefest of moments.

Her eyes flew open.

“More or less like that,” said the rake, turning his head to James, who looked flabbergasted.

Muriel broke away and stumbled back, heart pounding. The rake was looking at her now—no, smirking at her.

“You can thank me later,” he said, too low for James to hear, and winked.

“He hit his mental funny bone,” she blurted, as though this could explain everything, her behavior as well as his.

“Sounds serious.” James appraised the rake narrowly. “Did you lose consciousness?”

“No.” The rake shrugged. “My trousers are ruined, but that’s the worst of it.” He glared down at his grass-stained knees, then straightened. “Pleased to meet you both. I’m Kit Griffith.”