She touched a fingertip to her lips. They were still swollen from the intensity of the kiss…from the delicious scrape of his beard.
She hoped the feeling never faded.
She entered the dining room and found Kilmuir rising to his feet—as a gentleman should—at the other end of a long, oval table gleaming with the reflected glow of flickering light from the candelabras placed along the perimeter of the room. The crystal chandelier above remained unlit, for which she was grateful. It would’ve made the dinner feel formal. She much preferred this cozy feel.
Her gaze met his. A taut silence stretched long, and, of a sudden, the twenty feet between them was nothing.
The kiss… It was here.
The knowledge of it.
The remembered feel of it.
A feel that hadn’t left her lips…
Or her hands from touching his body…
From touching…
Him.
A feel that had her squeezing her thighs together beneath her skirts.
For the place that corresponded withhimwas still begging for a touch ofherown.
“You look…” he began, clearly searching for words.
Juliet plucked at her skirts. “Like your grandmother?”
He snorted. “Hardly.”
“Like your grandmother’s ghost?”
He cocked his head.
“The dress, my lord,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “It was in fashion when Marie Antoinette yet remained in possession of her head.”
“Ah,” he said, resuming his seat when she took hers. “I don’t go in for lady’s fashions.”
“I should hope not,” she said. “The empire waist wouldn’t suit you.”
He gave a dry laugh. “And here it is.”
“Herewhatis?”
“The renowned wit of Miss Windermere.”
The remark wasn’t in the least caustic, but spoken with that too-appealing lopsided smile of his. He wasn’t the least intimidated by her wit, that smile said.
She liked that about him.
His solid, quiet confidence.
Oh, she more than liked it. She found it…ravishing.
“We shall have to shout our conversation all night if we keep these places at the table,” she said.
He nodded. “Perhaps we meet halfway?”