Evelyn had always imaginedthat embracing in a carriage would be an uncomfortable affair, the jolting and rumble not conducive to amatory encounters.
How wrong could a girl be?
This being the Rothwell sprung carriage, it scarcely rattled at all over the cobbles, instead producing a pleasant joggle which encouraged their bodies to rub, lips sliding and hands trailing.
She recalled all the reasons why this was dangerous, but the duke did not wish to hear the truth today and she herself no longer wished to be bound by it. Rather like a convict let loose for an hour before their hanging – she would grasp freedom and pleasure whilst she could.
Large hands sank into her hair, Casper’s mouth travelling her neck as though he wished to map every inch, an explorer searching a river’s source.
“You wore this dress when we first met,” he murmured huskily. “And how I longed to wrench it from you.”
To know he’d suffered from that same intangible passion since the outset bewattled her senses, and her spine arched as he yanked at the shoulder of her gown to mouth scorched kisses upon her bared skin.
A street corner was taken too fast, wheel clipping the kerbstone, and she gasped as his body was thrown close, the blanket slipping, only for it to be replaced by Casper’s thigh, similarly heated, tangling with her skirts – dangerous and wicked.
She clutched his hair, welcomed the rush of repressed desire as it gushed forth, his lips upon her décolletage, nipping and kissing and tasting.
Yet…
If she yielded her body, her heart would surely follow as the migrating swift trailed the warmer air.
Whichever future path she peered down, she saw that heart lying shattered. Pieces gifted to Casper, never to be returned.
And she would require all her fortitude to shape a future for herself and Artemisia. To withstand Filgrave’s threats and make a new start as companion to Lady Owlswick. To leave Casper.
Fingers caressed her knee, crept up her thigh, their intent obvious, his rocking hips and blatant arousal.
And she whispered the word, “Stop.”
His mouth paused. His breath persisted, grating and avid against her breast. “Evelyn?”
“I cannot, Casper. M-my reasoning still stands. I should not have responded.”
Ever the gentleman, his head rose from her skin and she gasped. His eyes had deepened to near onyx, cheekbone flushed and blond hair awry.
“No, ’tis I that is at fault, but…” A gentle press of lips. “You once said I should immerse myself in colour and life, not art’s depiction of a past moment.” His gaze caressed her face. “Yet you, Evelyn Swift, are both. A unique work of art that also breathes, comforts and entices. And you…affect me so.”
For this stern, dutiful duke to say such words tore at her protected heart, chipped at the façade to discover the beating force within. And yet guilt for her deception and the disparity of their statuses in life patched that hole, a mend that would forever be fragile.
She was no unique work but a woman with flaws and failings.
Tenderly, she brushed fingers through his hair, smoothing the spikes; Casper tilted to her touch, lids closing, frisson shimmering between them an–
The duke’s eyes snapped open and with a curse, he threw himself to the seat opposite. “We have reached Mayfair,” he rasped, sprawling back in a display of utter masculine hedonism. “I recognise the smoother cobbles.”
Their sojourn was over.
Nodding, she took the time to straighten her skewwhiff bodice and uncrease her skirts but putting hand to hair, she groaned – it was a tangle, pins strewn, and Casper had sat on her hat.
“I would assist you in neatening yourself,” he drawled, with a gaze that could boil tea, “but I don’t believe I can be trusted.”
Chapter 25
“What madness has seized you?”
(Virgil…the poet, not the uncle)
“Icaught him on that desk of his with a hand on her…well…”
