Page 27 of Never Tempt a Widow

Rowland lifted an eyebrow. “How well you understand him. I wonder—” He removed his gloves and gazed at his fingers. “I wonder how well you understand me.”

His voice was low but with an edge to it. She couldn’t stop looking at his hands, strong, masculine hands, with beautifully smooth skin. Capable hands, despite the angle in the little fingers, which he’d never revealed to her before. Was this some kind of test?

“I—” She swallowed. “I doubt I know you at all. I have learned that you are perhaps more… forgiving than other men.”

“More forgiving than your father, you mean.”

No—she wasn’t thinking about Papa. Her thoughts had turned to Dundas and his plan to murder her. The more she’d thought about it, in the dark hours of the night when she lay awake after feeding Edgar, the more convinced she’d become that he had never intended to marry her. He could do better, with his good looks, than the youngest daughter of a duke.

So could theman who was sitting next to her on the bed. Her pulse jerked.

“I see you don’t want to talk about your family now. Admittedly, it’s late. I’m for bed.” Rowland applied himself to the buttons of his waistcoat, fumbling awkwardly. “Damn it—my fingers get cold so quickly when my gloves aren’t on.”

“Don’t tear at your buttons, or they’ll fly off.” She knelt on top of the bed and helped, deftly undoing the silk-covered discs one by one, all the while aware of Rowland’s gaze on her face. She felt his eyes dip lower. And suddenly realised she wasn’t undressing an angry man. She was unleashing a tiger.

She mustn’t think about him like that. They’d agreed. And yet—he’d forgiven her. He still wanted her, and he wanted an heir. She would sell her soul for another child of her own. So, where was the harm in making the best of her situation?

With his chest now free, she could watch his breathing. His shirt was tucked in tight across his stomach, and the urge to splay her hands across the firm flesh was so strong, it hurt. By the time he’d tugged the shirt loose she was a mess of longing and desire. She looked at him helplessly.

His hands cupped the sides of her breasts. His fingers didn’t feel cold at all. Why, the deceitful rogue! He could have undone his buttons perfectly well.

His kiss cut off her complaint, his lips hard and demanding. She thrust her hands into his hair and clutched him close, thrilling at the potent pressure of his mouth, as need rose through her chest with a feeling akin to panic.

The massaging of lips gave way to a teasing of tongues—no sooner had he delved into her mouth than she met him with equal excitement. He tasted of brandy, of pipe-smoke, and drugging, irresistible male.

He was not Dundas. He was Rowland, her husband. They both needed this. Lips still clinging to hers, his hands fondled her aching breasts, enfolding them in his palms, gentle but appreciative. Her nipples peaked.

He broke away. “Spread your knees, Wife.”

She did, her hands pressing on his shoulders, hungrily reclaiming his mouth in a heated kiss. Until something distracted her. “Oh!”

“Does that feel good?” He purred against her lips.

One wicked finger had found its way to her sensitive folds and was rubbing, gently, insistently, against the swollen flesh. It felt better than good. But she wasn’t prepared to be his plaything. She wanted to be involved.

“Take off your shirt.”

He grinned, his face the perfect picture of satisfaction and lust combined. The shirt was dragged over his head and discarded, and she pulled in a breath, amazed by his firelight-gilded body.

He’d remove his breeches next. Assuming the buttons didn’t fly off by themselves—his erection had arrived with swift optimism. Allowing herself a secret smile, she leaned in, nuzzling and nipping at his ear.

His finger twitched, probed further—and found her entrance, tight and moist. Oh, God. She’d been here before. With an excellent seducer, who’d made her forget herself and stolen every last inch of her resistance. After which, he’d caused her misery beyond belief.

“Rowland, no.”

He drew back, running a hand through his tangled hair. She watched the muscles ripple across his chest, his biceps bulging as he raised his arm. “Forgive me. I forgot you’d been forced. I’ll go more slowly.”

“I wasn’t forced.” Her shoulders relaxed. It felt good to release the lie. Not that she’d deliberately deceived him—he’d just assumed. “I wanted Dundas. I let him take me. In the end, he took everything.”

He exhaled slowly. “I’m relieved to hear that you weren’t forced. Understand that I am a man who has no intention of taking without giving.” His eyes were dark, the blue defeated by the huge ink-black pupils. “But I thought you wanted me.”

She stared at the shadows and mounds of his chest, the rampant bulge of his manhood, the confused but determined expression on his face. He didn’t intend to pressure her. It made her want him more.

“Take off your breeches.” She shifted backwards on the bed.

The confused look vanished. “Anything to please a lady.” He stood up and disrobed with his back to her while she gazed shamelessly at his narrow hips and delightfully curved buttocks. His back was sturdy, his shoulders wide—he could lift her up with ease, and she tried to imagine what it would feel like to be raised in those arms and held skin to skin.

As he turned around, she wrenched her nightgown over her head and stepped off the bed. And then they were touching, flesh against flesh, heat flaring like wildfire between them.