“You must try to live a more interesting life. If you were a Wynchester…” She wiped tears from her eyes. “What is yoursecond-deepest shame? Stirring in a circular motion instead of back and forth like a true gentleman?”
He crossed his arms. “You don’t understand the pressures of my position.”
“You’re right,” she confirmed. “I would be aterribleduke. And it would have nothing to do with my tea consumption at parties. Was that why you were hiding in your carriage? Or do you not evenlikesociety events?”
“I wasn’t hiding…exactly.” He leaned back. “What does ‘liking’ society have to do with anything?”
“Nothing? Everything?” She lifted a shoulder. “What is the point of being a duke if you cannot at least conduct your own life as you please?”
“That’s not the point of a peerage. Privilege is not about oneself. It’s an honor bestowed upon one’s line and the solemn duty to—”
“Good God.” She shuddered. “All of that may be true, but you cannot believe ‘responsibility’ means no longer being oneself.”
“Publicly,” he clarified, lest she misunderstand the entire point. “Publicly I must be perfect in all things, but privately I have never seen this teapot before in my life.”
Her head tilted to one side. “What else are you hiding?”
His muscles froze. “Nothing.”
“Everyone hides something. What else are you stifling to be more palatable to your peers?”
Art.
The thought came to his head unbidden. Lawrence had always dreamed that if he hadn’t been a duke, he would have been a painter. Not a Royal Academy artist, but something experimental. He might not become famous, but he’d be happy and carefree. He wouldn’t have to be perfect.
And he wouldn’t marry Miss York. Not just because her family would never condone a courtship with a common painter, but because there would be no need for political allies and strategic marital dynasties. Instead, he could pursue whomever he wished. He’d be perfectly free to lean forward and—
“That.” Miss Wynchester’s voice was like warm honey. “Whatever you’re thinking at this very moment.Thatis 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 on his, her gaze intense and unwavering.
He tried to calm his runaway pulse, his carnal desires straining to be set free. Shemeantthis. 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 madeLawrencea 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.
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 those 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 leaned closer? Hadshe? Their forbidden kiss was a breath away.
Her eyes sparked with challenge. “Whatwouldyou do, Your Grace? If youwerethe 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.
With no gaoler to stop him, there was only one thing Lawrence wanted…and she was right in front of him. He was done fighting. For the moment he would allow desire to break free from its chains.
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.
