Frances’s face was but a few inches from his, her fingers cradling the bones of his jaw. The room was all her bright hazel eyes, the gentle arch of her brow, her warm dark hair, her creamy skin. He’d seen Frances, talked to her many times in the past few weeks. He’d even been alone with her, touched her, a not-quite-proper clasp of fingers. But now… he’d really talked to her. They were truly alone. And he was finally seeing her, clever and desirable—and oh God, did he want to touch her some more. She held his face in light fingertips, waiting for him to say or do something. Her breathing was shallow and quick. Henry was not sure he was breathing at all. Before his brain could voice a contrary opinion, he leaned forward and brushed her lips with his. Ah. Soft as the feather of a quill, faint as the line drawing that guided the form of a painting. It was an art, the touch of mouth on mouth, and he was out of practice, but it did not matter.
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