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“Miss Kendall, what a surprise.”
Otilia looked up from where she sat to see Viscount Carlton bowing to them. Oliver Trent was something of a dandy with a fairly flamboyant mannerism. They met when she had first been to town and bonded in sincere friendship. She might be one of the few who understood his real inclinations and respected him for that. He reciprocated the respect, treating her with consideration.
She smiled and stood up from her chair. “Oliver, so good to see you.”
“Would you excuse us, Lady Mandeville?” the Viscount said. “I have news for Otilia.”
“Do not mind me. You young folk go on your way.” The older lady squeezed Otilia’s hand warmly as another elderly lady approached her.
“I will be back,” Otilia assured the dowager and took the arm Oliver offered her.
A
Edmund stepped into the soiree, eyes roaming in search of Otilia. The woman had not left his head since, well, since he had met her at the manor. He had dealt with his business the whole morning, his mind elsewhere. The effort to concentrate caused him to be rather weary at the moment.
Of course, it might also be because he had a poor night’s sleep. That hurricane of a kiss haunted his memory from the moment he was unlucky enough to have to stop kissing her. Every time he remembered it, his body primed and readied.
In the early hours, he had fallen into a restless sleep full of fragmented dreams and erotic images, all related to the damned siren. He awoke spent, his sticky seed splashed on the sheets telling a story of its own. Groaning at his spent state, he was completely dissatisfied. The surging memory of what transpired the previous evening got him hard and hopeless all over again. He leapt from his bed and sprinkled cold water on his febrile body, relieving his rampant erection, but not his hunger.
It had been a few months since he and his last mistress parted ways. Around when cousin Earnest passed, and he found himself inundated with work. It was taking its toll on him, and he ought to get laid and be done with it. He ought to just go to one of the exclusive brothels that catered to refined tastes to take off the edge. Who had never heard of Madame Lafond’s? And forget. Forget Otilia’s cushioned lips, the scent of orange blossom and woman on her skin, the dips and swells of her feminine frame, how she held nothing back. Especially forget the way she breathed his name, the sounds she made. The way she taunted him.
Bloody hell! He was getting hard again.
And everything for what? To clatter downstairs this morning and find her sitting at the table prim and proper, the iceberg back in place.
It enraged him to an immeasurable length. Her refusal to even meet his eyes got him out of control. The anger melded with the frustrated desire and the poorly slept night in an explosive mixture. A recipe for disaster, clearly.
He sat at breakfast with no hunger for food, seeing her sitting mere feet from him without being able to touch her. Or unable to put her over his shoulder and lock them in his chamber to devour her in every possible way. It ate at him and consumed his civility.
His threadbare control toppled off when she said she was grateful they did not share a drop of blood. He forced his body to go still, cement-still. Her defiance brought him to the edge. To the precipice of a volcano. He had been a hairbreadth from springing from the chair and pouncing on her. To spread the delectable female on the table like the banquet he wanted to gobble in one bite. It took every ounce of willpower not to move, not to act on his fantasy, not to kiss her again like a possessed man.
Because, at this point, he was also grateful they did not share any blood. Very grateful. Blatantly so.
And then he delivered the barb and watched it hit home. Only to celebrate when she ogled him in the eyes at last, like she wanted to eat him alive, too. Glorious. So glorious, he had been about to round the table, near her and show her exactly how she affected him. By pressing her palm to—
Blasting hell!
A movement back in the salon caught his attention. Dressed in a water-colour yellow, high
-waist dress, she promenaded on the arm of Carlton. At twenty-eight-years-old, his blonde good looks matched hers. A nobleman had her on his arm. The view burned like acid in his guts, for no reason whatsoever.
Ah, he knew why. He scoffed inwardly. Otilia smiled at the Viscount so spontaneously, it could be compared to spring itself, full of colour and joy.
Great! He was waxing poetic, now. He, who could not even stand reading poetry, let alone writing it.
The last time she smiled at Edmund was eight years ago. These days, she reserved for him her grim, Ice-Queen stance.
At that minute, the sop said something to her, and she laughed. The chit simply laughed, something he never saw her doing. Its gurgling sound reached his ears and streamed down his guts, spreading warmth, light, and possessiveness. Unappeasable. Inescapable. Undeniable.
This impulse to go there, throw her over his shoulder and take her somewhere quiet bludgeoned him for the second time in less than twelve hours.
And he had not the slightest idea what to do with everything the woman instigated in him.
Without thinking very clearly about what he did, he strode to the pair. The Viscount saw him first. “Thornton,” he greeted.
From the corner of his eye, he registered Otilia stiffen. Every single muscle in her feminine figure froze, together with her smile, which hardened and lost its radiance. Edmund felt like the last crawling creature on earth for robbing her of her spontaneity. If he wished to be sure how she regarded him, this would be the ultimate sign. She would strive to keep him at arm’s length.
“Carlton,” he replied, bowing to both. “I see you are entertaining Miss Kendall.”
