A Most Indecent Gentleman. Bronwyn Scott

Channing pressed.

      A stone settled in Jocelyn’s stomach, the magic of the evening severely curtailed. But magic was all illusion anyway, wasn’t it? Just a trick, a sleight of hand to delude the beholder. Oh, he’d been deluded all right. He’d believed the spontaneity of her kiss, of her bold vivacity.

      “Yes, I was with her.” But he’d be damned if he’d offer any details.

      “She’s a pretty piece. It’s hard to believe she’s related to old Burroughs,” Amery said slyly. “What happened in the garden?”

      Channing groaned. “Tell me you didn’t seduce her? The last thing we need is—”

      “I didn’t seduce her,” Jocelyn interrupted with a protest. “It was just a kiss.” Only it had felt like much more than a kiss at the time.

      “Just a kiss?” Amery grinned. “You’re a fast one, Eisley. You didn’t even know her name and you had her out in the garden for a kiss on a five-minute acquaintance. It serves Burroughs right for trying to uncover us.” He elbowed Jocelyn good-naturedly. “Well done, sir, well done.”