Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers, #1)

by Lisa Kleypas

Were there an ounce of poetry in Simon’s soul, he might have thought of dozens of rapturous phrases to describe her charms. But he was common to the core, and he could not find words accurately to describe his attraction.

“A pretty sound, that,” he said softly. Annabelle struggled to find her voice. “What is?” she asked. “Your laughter.”

Screaming omg

Evie leaned into her partial hug as if she was seeking comfort. “Aunt F-Florence says I look like a f-flaming torch with my hair pinned up like this,” she said. Daisy scowled at the comment. “Your aunt Florence should hardly make such statements when she looks like a hobgoblin.”

“How should I . . .” Annabelle began, and paused as she felt a soft prickle along the nape of her neck, as if someone had drawn the fronds of a fern across her skin. Wondering what had caused it, she reached up to touch the back of her neck, and suddenly found her gaze caught by Simon Hunt’s.

His heavy dark hair needed an application of pomade . . . already a thick forelock had fallen over his forehead. It bothered Annabelle for some reason, that unruly lock. She wanted to push it back from his face.

Annabelle hesitated, inwardly groaning. There was little she could accomplish on a walk with Kendall when they’d be accompanied by at least two dozen women. One might as well try to have a quiet conversation in the midst of a flock of screaming magpies.

“Lovely,” she murmured, her face gleaming in the shadow cast by the canopy of ancient, interlaced branches. “Yes.” But Hunt was looking at her.

In Simon’s entire life, he had never experienced such potent craving as he had the moment he had seen Annabelle half-undressed in the meadow.

Filled with equal parts of confusion and gratitude, Annabelle fumbled for the large hand that moved so gently on her chest. She was so feeble that the gesture required all her strength. Assuming that she was trying to push him away, Hunt began to withdraw, but as he felt her fingers curl around two of his, he went very still. “Thank you,” she whispered.

At the first realization that Annabelle was ill, he had felt his chest turn painfully hollow, as if his heart had been seized for ransom. There had been no question in his mind that he would do whatever was necessary to make her safe and comfortable.

God help him if Annabelle ever came to realize the power she had over him . . . a power that posed a perilous threat to pride and self-control. He wanted to possess every part of her body and soul, in every imaginable cast of intimacy. The ever-increasing depth of his passion for her shocked him.

“You look like a butterfly that’s just flown in from the garden,” Hunt said softly.

His eyes were definitely his most attractive feature, Annabelle thought distractedly. Vibrant and full of life, they made her wonder why people generally preferred blue eyes to dark ones. No shade of blue could ever convey the simmering intelligence that lurked in the depths of Simon Hunt’s sable eyes.

As she looked up at him, she realized that with very little effort he could have bent down and kissed her. The thought caused her to tremble. She actually wanted to feel his mouth on hers. She wanted him to hold her again.