Page 67 of The Seduction of an English Scoundrel

Her heart skipped a beat. They hovered on the verge of something, a fall into the unknown. She sensed it and could not decide whether she should be afraid or not. “What?”

“You’re not meeting this Armhurst. I forbid it.”

“And if I do?” she asked, teasing him a little.

“Then I’ll be there, and Armhurst won’t dare even look at you.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been involved in any duels,” she said, her heart quickening at this display of possessive autocracy. What had changed between them?

“My morals are not in question right now, Jane.” Which, he reflected wryly, was a damned good thing, considering the immoral things he wanted to do to her.

She laid her head back on the sofa. “Tell me something, Sedgecroft. Would you marry a woman if you didn’t love her? If your family insisted, or she had pots and pots of money and was a great beauty?”

He reached back to put his glass on the table behind him. This was dangerous ground, being able to talk so openly to a woman. “Jane, to be completely honest, I have never been sure I would marry a woman I loved, pots of money or not.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“Well, a month or so ago I would rather have been boiled in oil than submit to being leg-shackled. But lately, I’ve been looking at life in a different way.”

She felt him shift forward, a move on the chessboard. Her mouth went dry. In another moment she would slide into his lap. She would pull that warm, powerful body against her and disgrace them both. “Since your father died, you mean? The Boscastle burden of responsibility you told me about?”

He brushed his knuckles across her plush lower lip, responsibility the last thing on his mind. He wanted her so badly that his very bones ached. “That, and other things. Has anyone ever told you that your mouth is highly erotic?”

“Of course not,” she said quickly. “Nigel probably doesn’t even know what the word means.”

Suddenly she could not remember what they had been discussing. Not with his decadent mouth a whiskey-scented breath from hers. Not when those blue-silver eyes speared her with sensual possession, and her body thrummed, tightened in response to his unspoken demands. She wanted to give him whatever he desired, however wild, however dangerous that might be.

“I shouldn’t have stayed,” he said, his voice thick.

“I know.”

And she closed her eyes as his hands slid up the sides of her gown, gently enfolding the globes of her breasts in his large palms.

“Do you know how much I wanted to do this in the theater?” he asked huskily, kissing her neck, the underside of her chin, pulling the bronze silk bodice down to bare the top of her plump breasts. “What a beautiful body you have. I want it, Jane.”

She shivered in a surge of desire and disbelief. “I thought we were going to play cards.”

“Let’s play something else instead.”

He pulled her by her shoulders onto his lap, pushing her skirts up as he kissed her, her breasts wantonly pressed in his face. She felt light-headed with the flood of sensations this position unleashed, her bottom trapped between his solidly muscled thighs, his deep, wet kiss wringing a whimper from her. Her head reeled as his hand trailed up the side of her leg, and then he was touching her with an intimacy that set her nerves on fire.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered, his fingers tangling in her damp patch of hair. “You’re already wet. I could drown in you. I have thought about you every hour since that night in the maze.”

His deep voice came from so far away, barely penetrating the haze of desire that enshrouded her. She was overwhelmed by his strength and gentleness. She clung to his shoulders and felt his muscles ripple like hot steel beneath her fingers. Below, the most intimate recesses of her body opened to him, an erotic response beyond her control, a surrender to the elemental male who had captured his prey and now would play with her at his pleasure.

The house was so quiet. The soft intimate sounds of a man pleasuring his woman seemed amplified in the silence, absorbed by the heavy layers of damask curtains, the tapestries on the walls. The cry she gave when he pressed his forefinger deep inside her. The ormolu clock behind them that marked the passage of time. His groan of satisfaction to be touching her like this.

His eyes almost black with remorse and desire, he said roughly, “I shouldn’t be here. You tempt me beyond reason. I have to leave—”

“No.” She could not believe the desperate note in her voice. She touched his cheek, fingers caressing the chiseled bone structure, and looked into his eyes. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Oh, Jane,” he whispered, turning his face into the soft palm of her hand. “Do not encourage me. I am already on the edge. I know all too well what this could lead to.”

She felt her pulse pounding in her throat. He looked like temptation incarnate with his disheveled golden mane of hair and warlord’s body disguised in the elegance of his evening clothes. And he desired her, this man who had befriended her at a time when she was a social disgrace. What would this lead to?

“I don’t care,” she whispered, leaning forward to kiss his firm mouth. “I want you to stay.”

His voice was anguished. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” He couldn’t resist her. No other woman could calm this turmoil deep inside him. And she felt the same. Or thought she did. “You haven’t done this before. I have an unfair advantage.”