After the Kiss by Karen Ranney

that he would not speak her name in quite that fashion. It was almost a caress.
    Perhaps he was correct. She should have left when she’d first seen him. Or when he’d touched her cheek. Drawn up her dignity, her pride, and departed the room. Perhaps scourged him with a look first, so thathe knew she was not the sort to be enchanted with words and masculine perfection.
    But it seemed she was not wise after all. Perhaps curiosity was a good enough pretense.
    “Secondly,” he said, smiling softly. “You are a distraction because you possess a mouth made for kissing.”
    She stared at him.
    Her blood felt hot, as if it flowed through her body carrying fire. Her breath was captured and held in ransom for her good sense. Leave this room, Margaret. Leave him . It seemed as if the ghost of her Gran reprimanded her for her hesitation.
    “It is better, perhaps,” she said a moment later, still rooted to the spot, “to be congratulated for ordinary virtues. Neatness, some accomplishment.”
    “Kindness,” he contributed with a smile.
    She nodded.
    “Are you kind, Margaret?”
    “I believe I am.” She studied the carpet beneath her feet again. “Are you?”
    “Some would say I am not. Otherwise, you would not still be here. I should have allowed you to conduct your business and left you alone.”
    “Why didn’t you?” She glanced up and discovered him watching her so intently that it felt as if he touched her with his gaze.
    He walked back to where she stood beside the fire.
    She looked away. The room was suddenly too warm; she felt almost faint.
    “Because I want my kiss,” he said flatly.
    Margaret jerked her head up to meet his look. Her eyes widened and she licked suddenly dry lips. The words settled in a hollow spot inside her.
    She turned and walked to the window, concentrated upon the view. Desperate in a way she had never been before to find herself in the flurry of her thoughts.
    She marked the journey of a carriage, then focused upon a bird flying to the roof of a house. The morning sky had been gray, a dismal London day. She had often seen such. Yet now the sun was shining brightly. A transformation. Not unlike the one she felt within herself.
    She turned and glanced back at him.
    He had not moved, a statue of restraint, a muscle flexing in his cheek. He neither smiled nor eased the words with charm.
    It would be unwise to allow the boundaries between them to be lowered, even for a moment. She knew that without understanding why. Yet she wanted to touch him. What sort of woman did that make her?
    “One kiss,” he said, as if he knew she wavered.
    She should have left the moment she saw him in the room. Instead, they flirted with danger, and with each other.
    “I don’t know you,” she said almost desperately.
    “What do you need to know in payment for a kiss?” he asked, impatiently, frowning.
    “Why me?” A question to hide the unsettling truth. Both the pragmatic, demure, quiet, and proper Margaret and this woman she had become upon meeting him wanted to kiss him. So deeply and completely that she could taste the flavor of it when it was done.
    “I don’t know.” His scowl deepened. “It’s a question I’ve asked myself for too many weeks.”
    “Have you come to no satisfactory answer?”
    “Yes. One kiss.”
    “That’s all?”
    “Yes. When it’s over, the bond will be severed, the fascination will ease. I will, blessedly, be able to concentrate upon my work and my marriage.”
    She glanced at him, shocked.
    “I’m not married yet,” he said, one eyebrow arching. “Nor affianced. You are a distraction to that also.”
    She turned back to the window. “So this might be an act of charity on my part, to enable you to continue your life unfettered by diversions,” she said, unexpectedly amused.
    “Margaret.” His voice was so close to her that she jumped, startled. He stood behind her, his finger trailing at the collar of her spencer, barely touched the nape of her neck. Her