Holy God, she tasted like heaven.
Her lips tasted like sweet cider and sunshine. He licked the seam, gaining entry with his tongue as he slowly drew out a languid kiss that had his knees weakening and his morals cheerfully nose diving right out the window.
Sara let out a breathy moan as she tangled her hands in his curly hair.
He lifted her off the ground and swung her around, memorizing her taste, the velvet softness of her tongue as she met him kiss for kiss, pleasure for pleasure.
“Ahem.” A throat cleared.
He stumbled back, dropping Sara to her slippered feet.
“What is this?” The Duchess of Ashbury demanded an answer, but Jackson really didn’t have one, too shocked, and dumbfounded from that kiss, all he could do was stare at her. For he knew it wasn’t done.
Kissing a green girl in the dark shadows.
Kissing an innocent girl, regardless of his intentions, could ruin her, and the very last thing he wanted to do was ruin Sara.
Thankfully, he’d planned for everything and foolishly had been ready to do anything to gain a kiss, so he’d put mistletoe in his pocket.
With a smile, he swiftly pulled it free from his waistcoat and held it out. “It fell, but rules are rules, though we may have gotten carried away.”
The lie fell easily from his lips.
The duchess offered a stern expression then muttered, “Well, it is Christmas Eve.” And sauntered off.
Jackson exhaled a curse and turned to offer Sara an apology, but she had slipped away.
The very next day he went in search of her, only to find out she was already gone, their family had been called away on Christmas Day.
Weeks later, he searched for her at a ball, desperate to convey his affections, but he was trapped by a widowed seductress hell-bent on becoming his mistress — she’d accosted him with her mouth so hard he nearly gained a bruise from her mouth.
By the time he rejoined the ball, Sara was already dancing with someone else, and when he approached her later…
The cut direct.
“So, this is war,” he whispered, more to himself than anything. There was no love, not where she was concerned.
It was a kiss.
A kiss he read into entirely too much, for he wanted to offer for more than her hand — but her heart.
Jack was nothing but a kiss.
A tempting kiss in the shadows.
He took a look around the ballroom as people danced and laughed, suddenly sick to his stomach, he averted his eyes, and stomped away from the merriment. Away from the memories attached to it.
Away from it all.
Because of Sara.
It was always because of Sara.
CHAPTER FOUR
SARA WAS IN A foul mood, and after sparring with Jackson, the ball had lost all its holiday wonder, for when she looked at the smiling faces, the laughter, the dancing, all she was reminded of was the one boy who had kissed her with the lips of forever.
And claimed it a Christmas game.
She swallowed the lump in her throat then pressed her fingertips to her lips. At least she’d been kissed well.
There was that.
Dratted man! How dare he ruin her for every other man! Because that was what Jack did. He ruined things, shattered fragile china into a million sharp pieces then stomped his shiny Hessians right over them just to be sure there was nothing left but dust.
She saw the promise in his eyes, had known it was coming, his offer for courtship. After all, that was the logical step to take between them. They might be the youngest of the six, but they’d always been forced to stick together, while everyone else fought.
They stole brandy from the pantry.
Cheroots from the study.
And yes, at one point, lit Jack on fire. But the man had panicked! Therefore she had panicked.
“I believe,” came Jackson’s deep voice. “That you set me on fire, near that very tree.” He pointed to the tree near the maze.
She straightened her shoulders, ready for another all out war that would leave her exhausted. “Yes well, I had no idea the fire would leap from the ground to your short sleeves. And we were only twelve.”
“And last night? During the maze? What is your excuse then?”
“Oh, that…” She turned to face him, “…was entirely on purpose. They say memories are good for the soul, I was merely providing you with my favorite.”
“Ah.” His eyes twinkled. “Why doesn’t it not surprise me that your favorite memory of us includes my almost dying?”
“To be fair,” she mused. “At one time it had been my favorite game. The many ways to kill Jackson Mayford.”
He nodded seriously then offered his arm. Begrudgingly, she took it as they made their way outside toward the still torch-lit maze.
“There were the spiders.” His voice pierced through the chilly silence.” And my personal favorite, strangulation by bed sheets.”
“Don’t forget a horrible carriage accident that leaves you disfigured.”
He shuddered. “It worries me, the way your mind always leans towards the most graphic of affairs. Have I not warned you? All I have is my face?”