He was going to kiss her. It was the most wonderful and awful thing that could possibly happen.
But oh, how she wanted this.
She knew she was going to regret this tomorrow. She let out a smothered, choking sort of laugh. Who was she kidding? She’d regret it in ten minutes. But she had spent the last two years remembering what it felt like to be in his arms, and she wasn’t sure she’d make it through the rest of her days without at least one more memory to keep her going.
His finger floated across her cheek to her temple, and then from there traced her eyebrow, ruffling the soft hairs as it moved to the bridge of her nose. “So pretty,” he said softly, “like a storybook fairy. Sometimes I think you couldn’t possibly be real.”
Her only reply was a quickening of breath.
“I think I’m going to kiss you,” he whispered.
“You think?”
“I think I have to kiss you,” he said, looking as if he couldn’t quite believe his own words. “It’s rather like breathing. One doesn’t have much choice in the matter.”
Benedict’s kiss was achingly tender. His lips brushed across hers in a feather-light caress, back and forth with just the barest hint of friction. It was utterly breathtaking, but there was something more, something that made her dizzy and weak. Sophie clutched at his shoulders, wondering why she felt so off-balance and strange, and then it suddenly came to her—
It was just like before.
The way his lips brushed hers so soft and sweet, the way he began with gentle titillation, rather than forcing entry—it was just what he’d done at the masquerade. After two years of dreams, Sophie was finally reliving the single most exquisite moment of her life.
“You’re crying,” Benedict said, touching her cheek.
Sophie blinked, then reached up to wipe away the tears she hadn’t even known were falling.
“Do you want me to stop?” he whispered.
She shook her head. No, she didn’t want him to stop. She wanted him to kiss her just as he had at the masquerade, the gentle caress giving way to a more passionate joining. And then she wanted him to kiss her some more, because this time the clock wasn’t going to strike midnight, and she wouldn’t have to flee.
And she wanted him to know that she was the woman from the masquerade. And she desperately prayed that he
would never recognize her. And she was just so bloody confused, and...
And he kissed her.
Really kissed her, with fierce lips and probing tongue, and all the passion and desire a woman could ever want. He made her feel beautiful, precious, priceless. He treated her like a woman, not some serving wench, and until that very moment, she hadn’t realized just how much she missed being treated like a person. Gentry and aristocrats didn’t see their servants, they tried not to hear them, and when they were forced to converse, they kept it as short and perfunctory as possible.
But when Benedict kissed her, she felt real.
And when he kissed her, he did so with his entire body. His lips, which had begun the intimacy with such gentle reverence, were now fierce and demanding on hers. His hands, so large and strong they seemed to cover half her back, held her to him with a strength that left her breathless. And his body—dear God, it ought to be illegal the way it was pressed against hers, the heat of it seeping through her clothing, searing her very soul.
He made her shiver. He made her melt.
He made her want to give herself to him, something she’d sworn she would never do outside the sacrament of marriage.
“Oh, Sophie,” he murmured, his voice husky against her lips. “I’ve never felt—”
Sophie stiffened, because she was fairly certain he’d intended to say he’d never felt that way before, and she had no idea how she felt about that. On the one hand, it was thrilling to be the one woman who could bring him to his knees, make him dizzy with desire and need.
On the other hand, he’d kissed her before. Hadn’t he felt the same exquisite torture then, too?
Dear God, was she jealous of herself?
He pulled back a half inch. “What’s wrong?”
She gave her head a little shake. “Nothing.”
Benedict touched his fingers to the tip of her chin and tilted her face up. “Don’t lie to me, Sophie. What’s wrong?”
“I’m—I’m only nervous,” she stammered. “That’s all.”
His eyes narrowed with concerned suspicion. “Are you certain?”
“Absolutely certain.” She tugged herself from his grasp and took a few steps away from him, her arms hugging over her chest. “I don’t do this sort of thing, you know.”
Benedict watched her walk away, studying the bleak line of her back. “I know,” he said softly. “You’re not the sort of girl who would.”
She gave a little laugh at that, and even though he could not see her face, he could well imagine its expression. “How do you know that?” she asked.
“It’s obvious in everything you do.”
She didn’t turn around. She didn’t say anything.
And then, before he had any idea what he was saying, the most bizarre question tumbled from his mouth. “Who are you, Sophie?” he asked. “Who are you, really?”
She still didn’t turn around, and when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “What do you mean?”
“Something isn’t quite right about you,” he said. “You speak too well to be a maid.”
Her hand was nervously fidgeting with the folds of her skirt as she said, “Is it a crime to wish to speak well? One can’t get very far in this country with a lowborn accent.”