Miss Wynchester swept into the Duke
of Faircliffe’s dining room with her head high.
Faircliffe’s throat went dry and his
mind emptied of rational thought.
Gone was the insipid blandness of
tan-on-tan. Her curves were now draped in a slip of mauve twill, overlaid with
a sweeping frock of white netting. The dark velvet trim on the light rose
bodice matched the velvet vandyke points decorating the skirt. The gauzy
romantic colors brought out the dark brown of her hair and the deep brown of
her long-lashed eyes.
His body tightened. It was all he
could do not to reach for her. Pull her against his chest, and claim her in
ravenous kisses that weren’t his to take.
A smile flitted at her lips, as if
she sensed the maelstrom she’d unleashed within him.
His lungs tangled, making it hard to
speak. Each syllable was the rasp of a drowning man. “You look magnificent.”
She stood much too far away for Faircliffe’s
taste. That bodice would be displayed at its best pillowed against his chest,
the perfect distance for a man to embark on a trail of kisses from her rosy
lips, down the column of her throat, and into the swell of her bosom.
Tonight, he would dream of nothing
else.
Miss Wynchester took a step toward
the table. He watched, rapt. The swing of her hips was sensual and confident. She
was a Wynchester. A woman of flesh and blood. Not being a highborn lady erased
none of her power. The empty dining room crackled with it.
He leapt to his feet to help her
into her chair.
She stopped her forward progress
when she was less than an arm’s length from him. Close enough to touch. Close
enough to see.
Her eyes were the warmest shade of
brown he had ever beheld. They were fathomless, penetrating. He wanted to see those
eyes flutter closed in pleasure, and know that it was he who had brought her to
that peak.
“That.” Her voice was warm honey.
“Whatever you’re thinking at this very moment. That is what you should be
doing.”
He’d been thinking of her. Of
devouring her kiss by kiss, lick by lick, until she was limp and sated in his
arms.
It was highly improper dinner party
behavior.
His voice was hoarse. “I don’t think
you understand what I…”
“Don’t I?” Her eyes were hot on his,
her gaze intense and unwavering.
He tried to calm the rushing in his
veins, carnal desires straining to be set free. She meant this. That he should be and do as
he pleased.
But what he wanted would lead them
both to ruin.
“My father...” His voice was too
low, too rough. A rumble of thunder on a spring day. “Father was emotional and
impulsive. It made him a laughingstock.” It had made Faircliffe a laughingstock. “I will not compound
his mistakes.”
Even if there was nothing he wanted
more than to end this conversation by covering her mouth with his. Giving in.
Allowing passion to consume him.
Her gaze searched his face. “What if
it’s not a mistake? How will you know, if you keep yourself gaoled inside your
head?”
Gaol. That was exactly what he
should do with the urge to take her, kiss her, taste her. Lock his visceral,
libidinous urges behind bars and throw away the key. It was the only way he
would be strong enough to resist temptation.
“I...” Had he stepped closer? Had
she? Their forbidden kiss was a breath away.
Her eyes sparked with challenge.
“What would you do, Your Grace? If you were the sort of craven rogue who
indulged his every desire. What impulse are you trying to fight?”
He reached up to touch her cheek. He
should not have. Its softness was his undoing.
Faircliffe was done fighting. For
the moment, he would allow desire to break free from its chains. With no gaoler
to stop him, there was only one thing Faircliffe wanted… and she was right in
front of him.
He grasped her face, his fingers
delving into the softness of her hair, and brought her to him. Heaven. Hell. His
lips upon hers were less a kiss, and more two souls crashing into each other,
shattering and melding at the same time.
She smelled like honeysuckle and
tasted like fresh tea. Had he thought he hated the substance? He adored it when
it came from her lips. No amount of sugar could compare to the sweetness of her
mouth, the fierce rush of her fingers twisting in his hair.
Something fluttered in his chest, an
unfurling, a rebirth. He explored the contours of her mouth, mapping each
hidden corner to remember later, to revisit in his mind when he could not have
her in his hands.
Both palms now cupped her cheeks.
Not to keep her in place, but to stop himself from skimming his eager hands
down the column of her neck, the hollow of her back, the flare of her hips.
If he touched her body, he’d be
tempted to pull her closer. To leave no doubt that kissing her was no fleeting
impulse, but a gale-force of temptation he barricaded himself against every
time he thought her name or saw her face. This was what he had hungered
for. Her. Beneath his fingers. Had he truly believed he could stay away?
Kissing her was as inevitable as the
rain falling from swollen clouds, and just as impossible to hold in one’s hands
forever.
He forced himself to wrench his
mouth from hers, panting. Her face was still in his hands, her lips swollen
from his kisses. He touched their foreheads together and tried to regain his
breath. It was no use.
“Now you know.” The words were a
growl, a plea. “All I can offer you is a moment’s passion. Do not ask me to
uncage myself again, unless this is what you want.”
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