Page 16 of Introducing Mr. Winterbourne

Perhaps Lysander’s expression was a mirror of Freeman’s, because the man’s lips curved as his gaze flitted over Lysander’s face. And then he said the impossible.

“I want to kiss you.”

Those words turned Lysander’s world on its head. Or perhaps it was just that, finally, the world had been righted, so that the impossible became possible, if only in this moment.

“Then do it,” Lysander whispered, and the mingled relief and excitement in Freeman’s gaze made his heart clench, hard.

Lysander was not particularly experienced with kissing—or anything else, truth be told—but Freeman’s lips were warm and mobile, persuasive and delicious, and when he teased at the seam of Lysander’s mouth with the tip of his tongue, Lysander felt ready to come in his breeches. Instead, he opened his mouth, welcoming the surprising intrusion of Freeman’s tongue, helpless to stop the soft groan that escaped him as the slick muscle entwined with his own.

Adam Freeman was kissing him.

Adam Freeman was kissing him, and his big, square hands were cupping Lysander’s face, his touch as gentle as any more conventional lover’s. They were kissing and—

The door to the terrace rattled.

They sprang apart, staring at one another for a brief, shocked instant before turning to lean over the balustrade again. Just two friends enjoying the cool evening air.

They greeted the group of middle-aged gentlemen who strolled out to join them a moment later, lingering to converse politely for a few minutes before they returned to the ballroom.

The chandeliers blazed with candles, banishing the soft, forgiving night, restoring normality. That kiss on the balcony might never have happened. Lysander was once again an ordinary gentleman at a ball. Here to dance with lovely young ladies and drink weak, tepid punch. The world was back on its usual axis.

Except that Adam leaned in and whispered, “How soon can we leave?”

And Lysander replied, breathlessly, “When the supper dance starts. No one will notice if we leave quietly.”

It was, as Lysander had anticipated, an easy time to escape. Their hosts were at their busiest, and the rest of the guests were either thronging the ballroom floor or going to the refreshment room early. They slipped away, collecting their coats and hats on the way out.

Once they were outside, standing on the street, Freeman looked at Lysander. “What now, then? Your club?”

Lysander shook his head, swallowing hard against the nervous lump in his throat. “How about your house? I’m told the wine cellar rivals MacGill’s ...”

Chapter 7

Freeman’s house wasvery grand. Larger by far than the Winterbourne townhouse. Simon had rented it for him, for the whole season.

Freeman dismissed the footman who’d opened the door to them, telling the man to take himself off to bed. Then he led Lysander upstairs to his private apartments.