Chapter Eight
September 15th, 1814
Cornwall
Georgie had shared kisses with Hubert during the eight months of their betrothal. Those kisses had been tender, playful, shy, thrilling—and absolutely nothing like Vickery’s kiss. There had been nothing tender or shy or playful about Vickery’s kiss. It had been fierce, heated, and intensely passionate.
She’d been a girl when she’d kissed Hubert, and his kisses had made her feel treasured; she was a woman now, and Vickery’s kiss had made her feel desired. Deeply and desperately desired. The bold play of their tongues, his crushing embrace, the breathless urgency.
Georgie wasn’t at all ashamed of kissing Vickery, but he was clearly mortified. He hadn’t met her eyes during the rest of their walk, hadn’t met her eyes during dinner, hadn’t met he
