Page 16 of The Devilish Pleasures of a Duke

“I did what?” she asked, her voice startled.

“I meant that you put me at ease and I enjoyed your company.”

His answer soothed as well as surprised her.

“I was merely being polite.”

“You stole three comfits from a wedding cake,” he reminded her, smiling.

“Don’t you dare tell my family. I’m…I’m the good one.”

“Are you?”

His strong fingers sifted through the pale hair that framed her face. The gentle seduction of this simple act mesmerized her. She was not a woman easily, if ever, tempted by the sensual. She would allow this novel pleasure to continue for only a moment more. Yet how good his touch felt, how it lowered her guard.

“There’s even fire in your hair,” he said, his breath warming her lips. “It’s like gold silk. And deep inside, I’ve always been attracted to fire. Are you a dangerous woman, Emma Boscastle?” he asked lazily.

“Lord Wolverton,” she said with a sigh. Wolf.

“Stay with me awhile,” he said, his gaze holding hers.

“I can’t. We both know that.”

“Only a few moments more. I detest this inactivity. I detest being alone. That’s all I ask.”

He reached behind him and snuffed out the candle between his thumb and forefinger. Emma breathed in the pleasingly mingled scent of his cologne and the tang of smoke that wafted toward the bed.

Terrifying. Thrilling. The ordinary act of extinguishing a candle, performed as if he had done so a hundred times in a similar scenario. But so effective. Shadows engulfed them. She sensed him relax, his powerful muscles untensing. Felt his masculine hands close around her waist. Her breath hitched. Pure male. Mystery, strength, and temptation. He was afraid of being alone.

The sudden darkness lowered inhibitions. How many times had Emma warned others to sidestep shadows, and the men who dwelled, beckoned therein? She hovered now, on the verge herself. And if her principles were being put to the test?

“You were married,” he said quietly. His hand idly stroked her arm, his fingers possessive, knowing.

His firm lips teased hers, captured her sigh. “Yes.”

Slowly he brought his other hand up her side to the silken undercurve of her breast. She quivered, went still, prepared to resist. The hollow between her thighs began to throb. “How long has it been?” he whispered in a gentle voice.

“Are you asking me—”

“Yes.”

She arched her neck, afraid her nerves would shatter. No one else in the world had ever asked, would have dared to ask a question that intimate of her. She did not understand why his curiosity was not offensive. It seemed natural. Again she blamed the dark of the night, his indisposition.

“My husband died almost five years ago,” she answered against the warm hollow of his neck.

His other arm tightened around her waist in a possessive male gesture that sent a shiver of longing through the depths of her body.

“Five years,” he murmured. “And no one’s touched you since? How can that be?”

“Please,” she whispered, swallowed dryly. The heat in her belly intensified until it hurt. How his voice enticed her.

“It must be your choice,” he mused. “Other men have tried, haven’t they? That dandyprat today.”

She couldn’t answer, could barely breathe. And he understood. He told her as much with a touch that moved over her trembling skin, half consolation, half warrior’s conquest. No one else had presumed as much until today. Panic and desire mingled deep inside her.

The worst part of what he’d said was that the absence of love, of passion, in her life had seemed bearable until now. Oh, she’d suffered the lack, but a lady would not acknowledge it.

Not even to herself if she were strong.