Page 29 of The Lady Plays with Fire

“Aye.”

He was, not to put too fine a point on it, a right prick most of the time. Bored by others’ attempts at cleverness. Irritated beyond measure by almost every person he met. Hell, everyone knew he didn’t like people. But he wanted Julia Addison—which was not at all, in his mind, the same sort of thing.

Especially not when his longing was more than half motivated by her refusal to admit, even to herself, that she wanted him too.

“There isn’t room, my lord,” she chided. She might not have practiced her seductive glance enough to perfect it, but evidently she had prepared for her possible future as a governess. She spoke in the sort of voice usually reserved for wayward children. “Sir Henry’s study is far too small.”

“So it is,” he conceded, without releasing her hand. “Whatever shall we do instead?”

She half turned her head, though not far enough that he could look into her eyes. Once more, the tip of her tongue swept over her lips. “What is it you want from me, my lord?”

Raising his other hand, he grazed his knuckles beneath her chin, urging her to face him. Something glimmered deep in her eyes. Trepidation, perhaps, but not fear. In the flicker of candlelight, her mouth glistened invitingly. Slowly, not breaking her gaze until the very last moment, he lowered his mouth to hers.

She would kiss like a clergyman’s daughter, he told himself. Puckered and prudish. An innocent. It would cure him of this strange malady of attraction that had afflicted him. It would surely cool the fire in his blood.

Aye, innocent.

After a moment’s hesitation, she gave a sigh of surrender and stepped into his embrace, pressing her breasts against the wall of his chest. Soft and sweet, every inch of her. The tentative brush of her lips, the mere promise of heat, was everything he had never known he needed.

Oh God, oh God.

His fingertips swept along her jaw, down her throat, before firming against the back of her neck, drawing her closer still, holding her prisoner to his kiss. Her free hand settled at his waist, light as a butterfly, but making no effort to push him away.

Nay, nay, nay.

The kiss was rapidly spiraling out of his control. Rather than making him want her less, having her in his arms made him want more . . . made him want everything. Her artless but eager response made it seem as if she wanted more too.

Had she forgotten how awful he really was? Well, it was a simple enough matter to remind her. He traced the seam of her lips, then thrust his tongue between them when they parted in surprise. Nothing playful this time. Plundering. Punishing.

She stiffened in surprise, then moaned softly and opened to him. Rather than being repulsed by the invasion, she seemed to be inviting him to deepen the kiss further still. To devour her, if he wished it.

And by God, he did.

His hungry, primal kiss was little more than an invitation for her to slap his face. To make clear that he had misjudged her intentions. But he welcomed that stinging blow, anything to bring him back to his senses.

It never came.

At last, he tore his mouth from hers, and she sank back onto her heels, so that her eyes were level with his cravat. Their hands were still joined, her fingers still curled in the fabric of his coat.

“Now that you’ve taken what you wanted, my lord”—her breasts rose and fell, brushing against his abdomen with each rapid breath—“I have something to ask of you in return.”

His eyelids fluttered down. But of course. Would she demand a proposal of marriage? He’d laid the groundwork with his questions, his kisses. Walked right into the trap.

Though, truth be told, it felt far less like a trap than he’d expected.

What might it be like, to spend every cold, dark Highland night with this woman in his arms, in his bed?

“Go on.” It required no effort to sound gruff. Passion—and the promise of more yet—had rendered him almost beyond the power of speech.

“I know you’re Ransom Blackadder’s patron. I want you to secure permission for me to observe the rehearsals for his new play.”

His eyes popped open. He tilted his head to the side like some shaggy Celtic hound, certain he must have heard her wrong. “You want to see The Poison Pen?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

She was trying to sound nonchalant, but failed. When she glanced upward, he saw the light in her eyes, the breathless hope that parted her lips . . . For whatever reason, she wanted that favor quite desperately. Almost—perhaps more—than she wanted him.

A man of sense would ask why.