“Less so,” Cecilia breathed.

“What about this?” He bit her lower lip so softly she gasped from the fierce gentleness of it. Immediately he took the chance to slip his tongue inside, sweeping its tip against the roof of her mouth until she moaned and clutched at his waistcoat. How rude he was! How disgraceful! She lifted herself on her toes to get closer, curving her tongue around his, not wanting him to escape.

But he drew back, and she caught her breath in regret before she could stop herself. He blinked at the sound of it, and for one small moment he looked as vulnerable as she felt. Then he took her face between his hands and kissed her again, long and deep and achingly tender. The softness filled her body, made her feel so boneless she had to lean against him to stay upright. He wrapped an arm around her, drawing her in more surely, moving his kisses from her mouth to her temple and brow. She wrapped a leg around his and, in an act that felt more daring than leaping from an airborne house, briefly kissed his jaw.

He tensed against her. His breath shook. So she kissed him again, even braver this time, at the corner of his mouth. He shifted, and their lips met, their hearts met; disarmed, she slipped with him into warm, lush bliss.

Slowly the kiss eased. The embrace of their bodies deepened until passion became comfort, mouths separating but hearts drawing closer. Their pulses felt like small, gentle kisses through their clothes. Cecilia sighed. This, now, was a softness more dangerous than any weapon. When was the last time anyone had held her in such a fashion? Not since the day her mother died. Cecilia hadn’t understood until now how much she’d longed for it.

“I’m sorry for being impolite,” he said.

“So you should be,” she murmured, closing her eyes, wishing she could remain in his arms forever.

“When next we discuss hardness, it will be somewhere more conducive to a demonstration than Lady Armitage’s kitchen.”

Cecilia smiled dreamily—and then began to frown as her wits worked through that sentence. Their eventual comprehension shocked her, and she pushed him away with the fervor she really should have applied several moments ago. He stepped back, grinning rakishly.

But his eyes were heavy, and there was a depth to his grin she did not want to see. The man was a scoundrel, nothing more, and she must resist him! Turning away, she snatched a lantern from the kitchen bench.

“I’m going to search for Morvath’s house,” she said firmly.

“I’m going with you,” Ned replied.

“No. Someone needs to stay and watch over Lady Armitage.” And getting some distance from this man seemed like a wise idea right now.

“She’s not a concern. I put a sleeping draft in her sherry.”

Cecilia frowned. “Where did you get a sleeping draft?”

He crossed the kitchen to tap against a small cupboard set on the wall above the coffee grinder. Its door was marked with the word Poisons, beneath which was a delicate etching of a flower.