The Summer of Wine and Scandal: A Novella by Shana Galen Read Free Book Online Page A

stop, sweet Caro? Will you order me to unhand you?”
    “No.” She shook her head. “I’m just as wicked as you. Perhaps more so.”
    “Then we are made for each other.” He brushed his lips over hers in the softest, sweetest kiss she’d ever had. The feel of his mouth on hers tickled and tantalized, and she sighed in pleasure when he applied a tiny bit more pressure and pressed his lips to hers. He kissed every inch of her lips, exploring each corner and every hill and valley.
    And then he stepped back, his eyes so very golden in the afternoon light. She wanted to rush again into his arms, but she kept her feet rooted in place. She hadn’t known kissing could be like that, so sweet and light and wonderful. She wanted more.
    He took her hand, kissed her knuckles. “And now I must play the gentleman and drive you home.”
    She held up a hand.
    “I won’t accept a refusal. It would be unforgivable if I made you walk home.”
    It would cause far too many questions if he drove her. “It is quite forgivable, as I prefer to walk. I assure you, you have done your gentleman’s deed for the day.” She forced her feet to move and backed away from him.
    “Will you be at the little stream again tomorrow?” he asked.
    She almost stumbled. “I don’t know. I go there often, but not every day.”
    “Perhaps I shall see you there again.”
    “Perhaps. You’d have to find it again.”
    “There’s the rub. Leave me a trail of bread crumbs to follow, will you?”
    She waved and started away. “Good-bye, Mr. Lochley.”
    But she smiled all the way back and the entire evening as well.

Chapter Four
    H e didn’t know why he’d kissed her. He didn’t like country misses. He didn’t know why he walked in the woods again, why he hoped to see her. He didn’t like country misses.
    Except he did like her. He liked her far too much. He liked her in spite of her ugly dresses, her too-often prickly attitude, and the fact that she was a country miss. He’d amused himself at the Friar’s House all day yesterday, resisting the urge to walk in the woods. The rain had convinced him she would not venture to that spot where he’d encountered her anyway.
    But this day had dawned clear and dry, and he knew he would go mad—and possibly drive Georgie and Bertie mad as well—if he did not go out.
    And so he wandered through the woods without any sign of bread crumbs and cursed himself for a fool.
    Until he all but stumbled into the water of a little stream.
    “Aha!” he said to no one in particular. But he had not arrived yet. There had been more of a bank in the spot where he’d encountered the lovely Caro. He’d have to follow the stream and see if he could find that same location again.
    He set off, frowning at the state of his boots. They were covered in mud. At one time he would have been mortified to subject his boots to such treatment. Today he didn’t particularly care. He’d subject his boots to far worse if it meant kissing Caro again.
    Really, his behavior was appalling. He’d kissed women before. Why should he be unable to strip the thought of one very chaste kiss from his mind?
    Because kissing Caro Martin had not felt like kissing any other woman. Kissing her had felt like coming home. As much as he wanted to deny it, as much as his mind screamed that nothing about Hellshawe or Kent or the Friar’s House was home, kissing her had felt right. When his lips touched hers, it had seemed he was finally doing what he was meant to all his life.
    Which was absurd. He wasn’t Byron or any of those other lovesick poets. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny. Two people joined together in marriage or fell into bed together because of money or land or lust. But none of those applied to Caro. Oh, he lusted after her. That was true enough. How could he not lust after her when she possessed a body that would make any man dry-mouthed? But lust he could control. That kiss had not been born of lust.
    “I wondered if you might