Page 37 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Abigail halted. “What?”

Reade reached the door and yanked it open.

“Marry me,” Liam shouted as Reade shoved him into the hallway.

Reade slammed the door, locked it, and swung to face her as Liam began pounding on the door. Reade crossed to the hearth, lit a taper, then went to the wall to the right of the wardrobe and began examining the floor.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

More pounding on the door. “Abigail,” Liam shouted.

“Oh, go away,” Abigail shouted back. She hurried to where Reade stood and saw the slightly ajar door to a secret passageway. “Good Lord.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Reade said.

“Abigail,” Liam shouted again.

Reade handed her the candle, then stalked to the door. He twisted the lock, yanked the door open and Liam fell into the room. Reade yanked him to his feet and gave him a quick punch to the nose.

“Reade!” Abigail rushed to the door, but he had again tossed Liam into the hallway.

She glimpsed Liam’s wide-eyed shock—and Lord John standing in his doorway across the hall—as Reade slammed the door shut. She reached the door and grabbed for the handle, but he gently moved her hand aside and clicked the lock into place.

“What have you done?” she demanded.

“It was a light tap to the nose, Abigail. I received worse sparring with my cousins.” He took two steps, then looked over his shoulder and said, “Do not open that door.”

Abigail stared, open mouthed, torn between uncertainty at being ordered about by a man and unable to tear her gaze from his naked body. She didn’t know how it was possible, but his cock still jutted straight as a rod. The man clearly suffered not the slightest bit of embarrassment. Why should he? He was magnificent.

He crossed to the secretary that stood to the left of the hearth, dragged the desk over to the wall next to the wardrobe and shoved it against the secret door. He pulled both wing backed chairs over and placed them against the desk. She knew the chairs were of no use--and felt certain he knew that, as well. Still, hands on hips, he surveyed his handiwork for three heartbeats, then faced her.

“Are you ready for bed?”

“Bed?” she repeated.

He strode to her. “Bed.” He pulled her to the bed, drew back the curtain and helped her onto the mattress. He crawled in beside her and she scooted over in order to avoid him laying on top of her.

“I am tired of pretending,” he said.

“Pretending? What are you talking about?”

“Lady Elana wants everyone to think we’re lovers. I wasn’t meant to pretend.”

“It’s been less than a day,” she said. “Twelve hours, at most.”

“A lifetime,” he said and rolled on top of her.

Abigail had no intention of arguing. His body felt heavenly on top of hers. There was just one problem. “Wait,” she said. “She pushed him off.

“Abigail, did I misread your interest?” he asked.

Good Lord, he thought she didn’t want him. Abigail planted a hard kiss on his mouth, then pushed to her knees. She pulled her nightgown over her head and tossed it aside. She flopped back onto the mattress and pulled him onto her. This time, his flesh made contact with hers, and his delicious warmth enveloped her. A sense of contentment wound through her. She pulled his face down to hers as she wrapped one leg around his hip and kissed him.

His hard length pressed into her abdomen. How wonderful it would be when he drove his cock inside her. He thrust against her stomach as he slipped his tongue between her lips. Their tongues sparred. Slowly, she ran her flattened hands down his back and over the curve of his firm buttocks. She squeezed. He groaned a heavenly male groan that sent a ripple of pleasure through her. He nipped at her lips, her chin, her neck…her breasts.

When he began to suckle, she arched into him. It had been so long since a man had held her like this. And Reade…tossing Liam out of the room. She had many men fight over her, and had even a dual fought in her honor—that had terrified her. But there was something different about Reade. For the French, everything was about passion. For the English, control. Reade kept a tight rein on his emotions. What had he said? I am tired of pretending. He was tired of pretending to be her lover? Most people preferred to live their entire lives in some sort of lie. She had lived a lie the last four years. Yet Reade hadn’t lasted twelve hours.

He suckled harder as he caressed her stomach, her hip, then slipped his hand between them and dipped a finger into the moist folds between her legs. She gasped, wrapped the other leg around his hip, arched, and rubbed her sex against him.