Some hitherto unrecognized female instinct was convinced that if Giles set his mind to the task, his kisses would burn her to ashes. But that same instinct warned against sharing that insight. “Don’t push your luck.”
With a grunt of laughter, he stood. “Never.”
She frowned up at him. He was so tall, taller than Paul or Frederick, who were both at least six feet. As a boy, he’d been all gangling awkwardness, hands and feet too big for his lanky limbs. A nose too large for his face. And those swarthy, heavy features were too striking for a child’s face to carry with any conviction.
But somewhere in the last few years, he’d grown into all that character and strength. For the first time, she understood why the London ladies were mad for him. He’d never be classically handsome but, by God, he was interesting and vivid and compelling.
“Giles, if you were teasing about teaching me how to kiss, I’ll never forgive you.”
“Perish the thought.” Attractive self-mockery twisted those full lips. “How the devil can I resist turning you into another man’s dream lover?”
Dream lover…
Memories of that disturbing dream washed over her again. Staring at Giles, Serena had a sudden discomfiting suspicion that, despite knowing him most of her life, she didn’t really know him. And that accepting amorous lessons from him mightn’t be altogether wise.
The cynical tinge faded from his smile. “Second thoughts?”
Chapter 3
Serena sucked in a deep breath of cold ecclesiastical air and told herself not to be a ninny. She always responded to a challenge—and the idea of kissing Giles was sinfully appealing. “I’d be a fool not to take advantage of your expertise.”
Unholy delight lit Giles’s dark face to flashing brilliance. She realized that while he mightn’t be handsome, he was breathtakingly attractive and brimming with potent masculinity more powerful than mere good looks.
“Consider me at your service, Miss Talbot.” He extended his hand toward her. “Shall we go?”
She took his hand and started when the contact burned, even through his fine leather gloves. Her heart leaped about like a March hare, and anticipation fizzed in her veins. “Go?”
He cast a cool eye around the cavernous church. “Your illustrious ancestors are making me deuced self-conscious.”
She and Giles couldn’t stand in the middle of St. Lawrence’s and do naughty things to one another. What had happened to her brain? “So where?”
He tipped his chin toward the doorway. “That’s a very fine kissing bough in the vestibule.”
“Yes, there is,” she said shakily, as the ghost of her dream stirred anew. The mistletoe that had caused all the trouble came from that kissing bough. “The vicar doesn’t altogether approve of a pagan symbol in a Christian domain, but the villagers would throw rocks through his stained glass windows if he banned the tradition.”
“I’m all for tradition.” Giles drew her down the center aisle and through the doorway to the narrow room marking the boundary between the church and th
e outdoors. A shadowy domain between the sacred and the profane, where worshippers could pause to remove their coats and gather their thoughts. And at Christmastime, a place for village lads and maidens to steal a kiss or two.
As Giles positioned her under the pretty ball of ribbons and greenery, Serena shivered with a mixture of dread and tremulous excitement.
“Are you cold?” he whispered, although there was nobody to overhear them.
Yes. No. It was colder here than in the body of the church—and that had been like an Eskimo’s kitchen. “I’m…nervous.”
He stepped back and observed her dispassionately, as if checking to see if a painting was straight. “I promise this won’t hurt.”
She shifted from one foot to the other. It might be lily-livered to confess it, but she felt much braver when he touched her. “That’s not why I’m nervous, and you know it.”
Unexpected and breathtaking tenderness tinged his smile. “You can change your mind.”
She straightened and tried to sound nonchalant, but her voice emerged as a croak. “If I deny a kiss under the mistletoe to anyone who requests it, I won’t get married next year.”
He tugged off his gloves and slid them into his pocket. Something about the deliberate action made her shiver again. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” she said on a thread of sound. “In Torver, we’re very serious about our superstitions.”
“Superstitions are dangerous things.”