Chapter 3 What Midnight Promises
Paige
The gardens seemed made for temptation.
Moonlight silvered the hedges and marble statues, turning the gravel paths pale beneath our feet. The scent of blossoms drifted through the cool air, mingling with damp stone and the faint sweetness of roses climbing over the garden walls. Somewhere beyond the fountains, a night bird called once and then went quiet.
The prince offered me his arm with the ease of a man accustomed to being accepted.
I should have been more cautious after the warning about midnight, but instead I rested my hand on his sleeve and let him lead me deeper into the gardens.
For a while we walked without speaking. The silence should have been awkward between two strangers, yet it felt charged instead, crowded with everything that had passed between us on the dance floor.
His gaze dropped toward me. “You keep tugging at your gown.”
I glanced down and realized my fingers had found the neckline again. “It is rather daring.”
“That is one word for it.”
I looked up, catching the curve of his mouth. “And what would be yours?”
He slowed until I had no choice but to stop with him.
“Dangerous.”
His gaze moved openly over me, not crude, but far from polite. The attention should have made me want to cover myself. Instead, heat climbed my throat.
“The cut flatters every soft curve the gods were generous enough to give you,” he said.
No one had ever looked at me that way and made admiration sound so matter-of-fact.
“You are practiced in flattery.”
“I am practiced in observation.”
He stepped closer, leaving only a breath of space between us. His fingertips brushed the silk at my waist, so lightly I might have imagined it if every nerve in my body hadn’t noticed.
“It reveals enough to provoke,” he murmured, “while leaving enough concealed to torment a man’s imagination.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
“Though I confess mine has already pictured this gown on my bedchamber floor.”
For several embarrassing seconds, I forgot how conversation worked.
He smiled. “You blush very prettily.”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet you have not fled.”
That was the infuriating part.
He was right.
We continued along the path, passing a fountain where moonlight trembled across black water. When the stones became uneven, his hand settled at the small of my back to guide me. The touch was perfectly defensible and completely unnecessary, which seemed to be a talent of his.
His knuckles brushed my bare arm while he pointed toward a carved pavilion. His thumb lingered over my wrist when he helped me down a shallow step. Each touch lasted only a moment, but none of them felt accidental anymore.
“Tell me,” he said, “do you always hide yourself so carefully?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You carry yourself as though apologizing for being looked at.”
The words landed too close to something I preferred not to examine.
He must have seen it in my face, because the teasing eased from his expression.
“You should not.”
I looked away toward the fountain. “Do you make a habit of psychoanalyzing strangers at balls?”
“Only the interesting ones.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
He did stop.
I took another step, realized I was walking alone, and turned back. He stood several feet away, watching me with an intensity that made the humor die softly in my throat.
“What?”
His expression changed, becoming quieter somehow.
“I have spent the entire evening trying not to kiss you.”
My pulse stumbled.
He crossed the distance slowly enough that I could have stepped away. Instead I remained where I was while he lifted one hand to my face and traced his thumb along my cheek.
The gesture was a question.
I answered by leaning into it.
His mouth touched mine.
The kiss was unhurried, warm and deliberate, giving me enough time to understand exactly what was happening and choose it again with every passing second. His hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck as my fingers curled into the front of his coat.
By the time he drew away, my breathing had gone embarrassingly uneven.
“That,” he murmured, his forehead almost touching mine, “was me exercising restraint.”
I laughed softly. “You seem very proud of yourself.”
“You have no idea.”
The second kiss came beneath an arbor heavy with roses. I kissed him first that time.
His answering sound was low and pleased, and the hand that settled at my waist drew me closer. I felt the hard line of his body against mine before he eased back just enough to speak near my ear.
“You taste like temptation.”
“You say alarming things with far too much confidence.”
“I am a prince. Confidence is hereditary.”
I laughed again, and his mouth curved against my temple.
Somewhere along the way, the palace lights grew distant behind us. His flirtation became bolder, and mine did too. I stopped pretending every touch startled me and began leaning into some of them, curious about what would happen if I quit acting like the woman I was outside this story.
His fingers traced the side of my throat, then skimmed lower over the top edge of my bodice. My breath caught when the backs of his knuckles brushed the upper swell of my breast.
His gaze met mine immediately.
He waited.
I did not move away.
That permission changed something in his expression.
His hand slid down to capture mine, and for one foolish second I thought he meant to kiss my knuckles again. Instead he guided my palm to the hard ridge beneath his velvet breeches.
I gasped.
He held my gaze while my hand rested on his cock.
“This,” he said, his voice rougher now, “is what you do to me.”
The shock should have made me snatch my hand back.
I didn’t.
His body was rigid beneath my palm, and the knowledge that I had caused that sent a thrill through me so sharp it was almost frightening.
“Not one woman in that ballroom tempted me toward sin,” he said, “and here I stand half-mad with wanting you.”
That was somehow worse than the cruder version my imagination supplied.
Or better.
I was still deciding when bells rang in the distance.
The sound broke through the heat gathering between us.
I pulled my hand away and looked toward the palace. “It’s late.”
His expression tightened, but he stepped back immediately.
“I need to go.”
For a heartbeat disappointment flashed across his face. Then he inclined his head and offered me his arm with maddening courtly grace.
“As my lady wishes.”
I accepted, although walking beside him now felt considerably less innocent.
The carriage waited beyond the garden path, lanterns glowing against the dark. I released his arm when we reached the edge of the hedges and gathered my skirts and began to run toward the carriage, suddenly desperate for enough distance to remember how to think.
I had made it halfway to the carriage when footsteps sounded behind me.
