Page 54 of A Portrait of Love

Honey’s eyelids fluttered shut as he began to nibble and kiss his way down her chin to her throat, his free hand lightly stroking her midriff in ever increasing circles.

His mouth arrived at her chest and she felt the hot, slick tip of his tongue trace the top edge of her snug bodice. She shuddered as his finger inadvertently brushed over a taut, pebble-hard nipple pressed against the silk.

And then he did it again.

The third time he did it, she realized it was no accident.

Honey arched into his hand as he palmed her breast.

“So sweet,” he murmured. “But I need to taste you.”

Warm, strong fingers slid beneath the already low neckline of her bodice, pulling the thin fabric beneath her breasts, the taut material forming a shelf that pushed them higher.

A vague image of how wanton she must appear—sprawled and half-naked—coalesced in her mind but Honey ignored it, instead arching her back and presenting herself to him like a pagan offering.

Warm breath bathed her exposed breasts and she whimpered when his hot, wet mouth closed over her nipple, the erotic shock sending a bolt of lightning to her sex.

What the devil do you think you are doing? the voice in her head demanded, louder this time.

Louder and oddly … male sounding.

Honey’s eyes flew open.

The Duke of Plimpton was standing behind the couch, hovering over them, his angry gray eyes burning into her.

Chapter Sixteen

Honey gawked up at the duke and screamed.

Simon pulled her protectively toward his chest while simultaneously twisting around to see what had made her yell. She felt his body jolt when he saw his brother.

“Goddammit, Wyndham, what the hell do you think you are doing?” he roared, holding Honey’s unresisting body against him while his hand fumbled between them to pull up the crushed, damp silk of her bodice.

“Gentleman, will you please excuse us.” The duke’s voice was as chilly as a hailstorm.

Honey could not see his face and did not want to. She burrowed into Simon’s shoulder like the coward she was.

The door closed with a snap and Simon spoke low into her ear. “I am going to release you, but only if I have done an adequate job of fixing your gown,” he hesitated. “Have I?”

Honey dragged a hand up over her bosom; she was covered. “Yes.”

He shifted her off his lap far more carefully than he’d put her there.

Honey stared up at him, her face scalding; he looked murderous.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his gentle tone showing the murder in his eyes was not for her.

Again, she nodded.

He flashed her a quick, hard smile and then turned to where his brother waited.

The duke was leaning against the front of his desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze on Honey rather than Simon. “I apologize for what my brother—”

“You never apologize for my actions!” Simon surged to his feet with balletic grace—no sign of his earlier intoxication evident in his motions. He was in front of the duke in half a heartbeat and his fist connected with the side of his brother’s face with a sharp crack even as the other man ducked.

Honey’s hands flew to her mouth. “Simon!” The word came out a strangled sob.

He lifted his hand to deliver a second blow.