Willa threw herself into Alaric’s kiss the way a moth throws itself at a candle.

His kiss had a hint of the unknown, and at the same time, there was something familiar about it. He smelled a bit like the river, and a lot like lemon soap. He tasted a bit like Alaric and a lot like spearmint. He felt …

Bringing her hands down from his neck and resting them on his shoulders fogged her brain and she couldn’t come up with a suitable comparison. Sleek muscles flexed under her hands and her pulse quickened.

“I …” she gasped.

Alaric pulled himself away with a mumbled word.

“What did you just say?” she asked.

“I can’t repeat it in a lady’s presence.” That was a wicked smile. Sinful.

“You already said it, so you might as well repeat it.”

“A man can take only so many liberties in one day,” Alaric told her. His face was so close to hers that she could see that his eyelashes, a dark golden brown, turned to pure gold at the tips.

She brushed his right eyelash with a finger. “They are beautiful.”

“What?”

“Your eyelashes. They’re two colors.”

He propped himself up on one elbow. “Yours are mink brown, and they curl up at the ends.”

“Sometimes I color them black.” Willa was trying hard to be casual under non-casual circumstances, but it was difficult. Her legs were trembling, for one thing, and she felt as if she were growing more rosy by the moment.

His eyes were ranging over her face, and although she didn’t know what he was thinking, she knew he approved.

Willa cleared her throat, thinking it was time she suggest that he lever himself into a standing position and leave.

He must have seen it in her eyes, because he promptly kissed her again. She hadn’t had much experience with this sort of kissing—the kind that seared her bones and her lungs with heat and made her feel breathless and hungry for more.

One kiss led to another, or perhaps it was all the same kiss. After a while, Alaric wound his fingers back into her hair. Willa decided he was ensuring that he didn’t run his hands down her thighs, or over her breasts, or any of the places that were aching for his touch.

“Alaric,” she murmured, the word sounding unnervingly like a plea.

His shoulders bunched under her fingers as the delicious weight of his chest lifted away. His eyes had turned the steely blue of the ocean where it’s deep and cold.

But his eyes were not cold.

“Evie,” he answered, giving her a small, secret smile.

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?” If they were to keep kissing, she had to—to understand him better.

“Anything.”

“What kept you away from England for so long?”

He had been watching her, but as he thought about her question, he turned onto his back and stared at the stone ceiling far above them.

“Horatius died,” he said, his voice flattening. “I couldn’t imagine the castle without him. I loathed Lindow Moss because he lost his life there. I didn’t come home because it allowed me to pretend he wasn’t dead. That everyone I loved was still here.”

“I’m sorry,” Willa said, carefully. “I’ve heard of him, but we never met.”

A large, warm hand caught hers and held it against his chest. “I don’t think you would have liked him, at least, not until you came to know him very well.”

“Certainly I would have,” Willa said stoutly.

His eyes glinted at her, full of laughter. “Why do people always assume that the dead must have been delightful? Horatius was a royal ass. I loved him, but you wouldn’t have.”

“You don’t know my preferences,” Willa said.

“I know you do not like pretentious people. The color of your eyes changes when you think someone is being absurd. Horatius was often absurd.”

Since she’d never seen her eyes in that circumstance, she could hardly counter his observation.

“He was as stuffed full of virtue as a pincushion is with pins,” Alaric continued, his hand pressing hers tightly against his chest. “He was so intent on perfection that his halo gleamed. If there’s a heaven, he’s up there with a banner establishing that his is the topmost cloud. His harp is the largest.”

“You wouldn’t want him to be on a basement cloud,” Willa pointed out. “May I ask how he died? I mean, I know he died in Lindow Moss, but what happened?”

Alaric turned his head again and met her eyes. “Foolishness. It’s not impossible to cross the bog at night, but he was drunk.”

Willa’s fingers tightened on the warm muscles layering his chest. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning over and kissing his jaw.

“He was such a fool,” Alaric said. “If you ever find yourself caught in the bog, don’t move until you’re rescued.” His voice was sad, with a tinge of anger. “We couldn’t even recover his body. He has a gravestone, but the coffin was empty.”

“For years, I was furious at my parents for dying and leaving me,” Willa offered.

“Raging at the dead is useless,” Alaric said.

“I suppose it feels better to be distracted by foreign places.”

Alaric rolled again and she found herself on her back.

“This is so improper,” she gasped. “You must leave.”

“I know,” Alaric said, grinning at her. “But we’re getting married, so it’s all right.”

“I haven’t made up my mind,” she countered.

“I’ve already begun providing for you. I brought Sweetpea roly-polies.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made Willa’s heart skip a beat. It was intoxicating.

She sat up and pushed her chemise back down her legs. “You must leave, Alaric.”

He sat up as well, winding his arms around her waist from behind. “Look at Sweetpea’s basket.”

Willa turned her head—and gasped. The baby skunk was splayed on her back, eyes happily closed, while Hannibal placidly washed her belly.

“Oh my,” Willa breathed.

Alaric pushed her curls aside and kissed her neck. The brush of his lips made Willa feel raw and new. Vulnerable. She pulled free and got off the bed. “Please go.”

A flash of disappointment crossed Alaric’s eyes that made Willa’s stomach roil.

“I would like to marry you,” he stated, standing up.

She silently registered those words. He’d said them with about as much passion as one might mention a partiality for pears over apples. If there was one thing she was very good at, after her first Season, it was refusing offers of marriage.

“I am sorry to decline,” she said, making up her mind. “I couldn’t—I cannot marry someone whose life is shared by so many.”

A nerve jerked in his jaw. “My life is not shared.”

“Your many admirers would disagree.”

“You have many admirers of your own. According to my aunt, half of London proposed marriage to you in the last few months.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Those proposals reflect my penchant for following society’s rules, along with the fortune my parents left me.”

“In case you are wondering, I didn’t know you have a fortune and I have no need of it. I’d note that your beauty is a factor as well.”

She shrugged before she remembered that she never shrugged. “That too.”

“Your personality.”

“Lavinia and I present ourselves as ideal young ladies. Our personalities are unknown to our suitors.”

Alaric crossed his arms over his chest. “I have no wish to marry the shiny version of you.”

“I have no wish to marry you.”

He narrowed his eyes. “If anyone knew we spent this time together, you’d be ruined.”

“Are you threatening to tell anyone?” Willa smiled, because she knew to the core of her being that Alaric would never betray her. For any reason.

“I could.” He shifted his weight, just the tiniest motion.

Her smile widened. “No, you couldn’t. Now you must go. Did you give Sweetpea her rolypolies?”

He made a sound like a low growl. “Yes, I did. I’ll go—for now.” He walked over to the basket, and Hannibal hissed a warning. Alaric went down on his haunches beside the basket. Hannibal’s front leg whipped out, as fast as the wind, and his claws dug into Alaric’s sleeve.

“I’m not stealing your kitten,” Alaric said, his voice deep and low.

Hannibal unhooked his claws, as if tacitly admitting the possibility of an error.

Alaric stood and crossed the room. When he reached the door, he turned around. “What if I were to write a poem and bring you more roses? All the roses in the garden? My father likes you; he would sanction their sacrifice.”

“Are you in love with me, Alaric? Because in my experience, which, as you note, has been pleasingly full, such poems declare love.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do you make fun of all your suitors this way?”

Willa grinned. “I do not.”

“We get along uncommonly well,” he tried.

“I’m sorry,” Willa said, with genuine regret, because something about the way his voice had grown stiff was twisting her heart. “I want more from marriage.”

“Did I tell you that I’ve made up my mind to stop writing?”

She opened the door. “Your readers love your work so much.”

He left without another word. Her remark wasn’t meant as an insult, but it seemed he had taken it as such. Willa closed the door behind him and sank into a chair.

Sweetpea tumbled from the basket onto her nose. Hannibal grumbled. He reminded Willa of a fussy nanny, the kind who has raised numerous children.

She’d done the right thing; she knew it.

In that instant the door was flung open with such force that it struck the wall. Willa jumped to her feet. Alaric strode over to her, wrapped his arms around her, and took her mouth.

He devoured her, forcing a moan from deep in her chest. Kissing, by definition, involved lips. But Alaric’s kisses were a bodily experience. His tongue plundered her mouth; his hands went down her back, shaped her bottom and pulled her against his thighs.

Even had she been wearing four or five layers, instead of a thin chemise, she would have felt exactly what he had to offer.

“It’s a good thing we’re not on that damn bed any longer,” he said, pulling away.

Willa gasped for air.

“Perhaps you could kiss me next time,” he said. With that, he was gone.