On a terrace…
“Rosalind,” he murmured. “Rosie. You are so beautiful.” One of his magical fingers trailed down her cheek, traced her lips.
She? Beautiful? She had never thought so before; she was too tall, too redheaded, too freckled. In his arms, at this moment, she was beautiful. He made it so.
“Not as beautiful as you, Lord Morley.”
He smiled, and his hands slid up to cradle her face. “My name is Michael.” A sip of brandy, in her mouth. “Michael.”
He groaned and bent his head to kiss her again. She fell back against the wall of the house. The stone was cold and sharp through the thick silk of her gown, but she scarcely noticed it when Lord Morley—Michael—leaned in closer. His lips slid from hers along the line of her throat, down to her bare shoulder.
“So sweet,” he whispered, the words reverberating against her skin…