Page 7 of Charlotte's Kisses

Everything was perfect, except his damnable mask kept scratching her. Not that she complained about it. He ripped it off and let it fall to the ground.

Her eyes wide, she studied him. “You are so handsome.”

So he’d been told. Hundreds of times. He chuckled. “I’m glad you think so.” He reached for her mask.

She grasped his wrist to stop him. “No.”

“How unfair. You can see me.” He shrugged. “Besides, I like to see the woman in my arms.”

That wasn’t entirely true. As long as a woman’s cunny was warm and tight, he cared not what she looked like. However, the same couldnotbe said about this fair-haired vision sparkling in the moonlight. He desired more than anything to see everything about her.

She peered up at him, worrying her lip. The threads in her dress, the crystals on her mask, and the diamonds in her hair sparkled and twinkled like the pretty little glowing bugs that danced on summer fields. This chit was beyond magical.

“Please, my little glowworm,’ he cajoled.

She wrinkled her adorable nose. “First a sausage and now an insect?”

Sausage? What was she talking about? He had not heard the aristocratic fool he’d just knocked out call her any such thing. She must be referencing something else. Besides, that pompous arse could probably quote Lord Byron's poetry by the mouthful.

Well, Hugh would write original poetry to this maiden. “In Japan, they are calledhotaraand symbolize passionate love. In France, they call themlucioles,In the Americas, they call them fireflies, and the females flash to attract their mate. ’Tis said that in the southern colonies, they are so bright you can read by their light.” He cringed. So much for being a poet. Oh well, at least he’d recalled something from his years of academics.

“Firefly?” She smiled. “That sounds lovely.”

Fireflyit was. “Please, my little Firefly, take off your mask so that I can see you.”

Her mask fluttered to the ground,landing beside his.

“My God. You are beautiful.” And indeed, she was. Feminine and perfect. And not of his class. He had a cousin who was a duke on his mother’s side, but his late father had owned a genteel inn in Brighton. Hugh’s parents had made sure he attended the finest schools. But none of this made him worthy of this woman. He was an incorrigible Bow Street runner who could not keep himself out of trouble, and she was probably the daughter of a marquess or an earl. Or maybe even a wealthy baron. Additionally, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

His fingertips gently traced circles along her hairline, where blonde wisps had fallen from her intricate coiffure. Her skin was soft, her hair even softer. His thumbs explored her temple and traveled down to her delightfully round cheeks, which were currently blushing a deep red. He traced her lips, which were plump and pink and swollen from their kisses.

“Why are those men chasing you?” she asked.

“I’ve not a clue.” He had no desire to talk unless it was to murmur enticements in this chit’s ear. He pressed his thigh into her skirt, spreading her legs, then rubbed his knee against her cunny.

Her head flew back as she gasped.

So damn responsive! But if he had to guess from her awkward, albeit delicious tongue, she was inexperienced. And bloody hell, he wanted to be her first. This garden might not be the best place to get her naked, especially with her probable fiancé lying a few feet from them. The Capes and Criminals were also chasing him, and the masquerade ball in the main house was in full swing. But he’d had one deuce of a night. He deserved to have this woman after being pursued from one end of London to the other. And since she was mostlikely a virgin, he’d ensure her pleasure before he chased his own.

Christ, he wanted to see her nipples. “If only there were someplace private we might go to get you out of that lovely gown.” What in bloody hell was wrong with him? She wasn’t some doxy. She was a gently-breed lady.

Her face lit with joy. “You think my dress is lovely?”

He had been a deplorable cad, and she was thinking about her frock? Women! But it was a lovely garment.

“’Tis quite beautiful,” he said. “Undoubtedly custom-designed for you by one of the best modists in London.” That compliment ought to earn him passage under that pretty dress.

Aye. He was maggot dung.

Still smiling, she fluttered her lashes, not like a coquettish wench, but more like a shy lass. “My stepmother said I look a fright in it.”

Had her stepmother compared her to a sausage? Anger at this woman he’d never met surged through him. “Then your stepmother is a wicked witch with horrific taste.” He was not proclaiming this simply to endear himself enough to get close to her cunny, even though getting under those skirts had become his reason for being. “Jealous of your beauty, I am sure.”

She rested her head on his chest and exhaled. “Thank you for saying that.”

Hugh’s power of deduction was strong. Without a doubt, this sweet virginal chit was in his arms because she planned to do something wicked to get back at a jealous stepmother she did not favor.

Did he care?