A Ring from a Marquess

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Christine Merrill. A Ring from a Marquess

A Ring from a Marquess. Christine Merrill

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He closed the last inch between them and their lips met.

The kiss was exquisite. Not cherries or strawberries. They were both too sweet. Blackcurrant, perhaps. Tart and as complex as wine.

.....

There was another of the slight hesitations in his words that appeared when he was being particularly candid with her. She ignored it, sure that such a great man would have been appalled to demonstrate vulnerability. Tonight, when she remembered the conversation in her mind, she would think of that tiny fault with fondness, or perhaps something even warmer. He was like the ruby at the centre of the necklace he admired, all the more interesting for being slightly less than perfect.

It gave her pause. She was already planning the time before sleep to include thoughts of the Marquess of Fanworth. It was unwise to have such fantasies, even in the privacy of one’s own room. Perhaps Mr Pratchet was right. She was encouraging a rake and courting ruin.

.....