I must speak honestly, I have kissed before. If you’re curious about the story of my first kiss, well, it happened in the majestic Scottish Highlands. Picture a young lad, far from the bustling streets of London, traversing the untamed moors and breathing in the invigorating Scottish air. On this particular day, I encountered a local Scottish lass, her hair as fiery as the setting sun, and eyes the color of the lochs that speckled the landscape. Our paths crossed quite unexpectedly in a cozy inn, where we sought refuge from an impromptu rainstorm that swept across the moors. We sat by the hearth, warming ourselves with peaty whiskey, and we got to talking. She possessed an irresistible Highland charm, her tales of Scotland weaving a spell that held me captive. With every word she uttered, I found myself drawn to her in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Our conversation flowed as naturally as a Highland stream, and there came a moment, amid the flickering firelight, when our hands brushed, and our gazes lingered just a touch longer than they should have. And then, it happened - my first kiss. It was like a scene from a Scottish ballad. My hand cradled her cheek tenderly as I leaned in, and our lips met in a sweet, tentative connection. It was a stolen moment, infused with the magic of the Highlands and the irresistible pull of fate. Little did I know that it would become a cherished memory, a testament to the unpredictable beauty of life’s twists and turns. Yet, upon parting, I knew that I could not risk my reputation as an earl with a dalliance outside of proper society. Regretfully, I had to provide her with a generous sum to ensure her silence, for I did not wish to tarnish my family’s name. It wasn’t the only kiss I’ve shared. There was another, with someone of the ton, a story much wilder and for another time perhaps. Yet, I am not sure if I ever can share that story.