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The firelight was flattering, casting shadows over her skin, warming her flesh, and this time she didn’t try to hide herself from his gaze. “We need no names,” she murmured back.
“You’re right.” He sat down opposite her.
His eyes were hazel, with a hint of gold. Intelligent but with a cynical gleam that reinforced her belief that he didn’t take life very seriously. But then, growing up in a wealthy and titled family, he’d never had to. In a way, she envied him his carefree manner—it must be restful to be so self-centered—but she knew she could never be like him.
“I’d very much like to see your face,” he said quietly, in that voice that made her think of bed.
“No.”
“You don’t think you can trust me? I’m good at keeping secrets.”
Was he? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to trust him with hers.
He must have read her answer in her silence, because he shrugged and smiled, as if it didn’t concern him either way. Reaching out a hand, he touched her fingers, resting on the sofa arm. She could feel him through her thin glove. For a moment he simply smoothed the lace cloth with his thumb, gently caressing. He was watching her from beneath half-closed lids, trying to gauge her reaction.
“You’re a very beautiful woman.”
“How do you know?”
“You have an air.”
“An air of what?” she mocked.
“Assurance. You expect to be looked at.”
He was clever. She removed her hand, checking that her veil was firmly in place.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t peek.” For a moment his gaze caressed her idly, and then he spoke in a lazy voice. “May I do something I’ve been longing to do ever since I saw you?”
She was still fussing with her veil, but he didn’t wait for her answer. In a sudden swift movement he was on his feet, reaching for her hands, tugging her smoothly to a standing position in front of him.
Portia gave a gasp, shocked despite herself. In her world, gentlemen did not manhandle ladies, and never so masterfully. She realized that beneath his well-made clothing he must be all hard muscle. She opened her mouth to reprimand him and then closed it again. Wasn’t this what she wanted? Wasn’t this why she was here? There was no going back now, she reminded herself with a shiver of excitement.
“What is it you want to do?” she whispered, taking a step away, giving herself room to breathe.
“This,” he said, and before she could react, he slipped his finger beneath her low neckline and smoothly tugged it down a fraction.
She didn’t struggle. She didn’t reach up to cover herself, or shriek, o
r slap his face. She stood facing him, half naked now, and proud as a queen.
He remembered to breathe. “I apologize,” he heard himself say. Apologizing wasn’t something he did very often, but her bearing made him want to beg her pardon.
“Why?” she asked in that husky whisper that was playing havoc with his senses. “You said you wanted to do it.”
“I should have shown more finesse,” he answered. “I usually do.”
“We could begin again, if you want?”
He laughed without humor. “I don’t think so.” It was difficult not being able to see her face, to look into her eyes, although he could see something of her against the firelight—the shape of her cheek, the curve of her chin.
He reached out and touched her breast, and then bent his head to taste her. She made a sound, a purr in her throat, and he drew her nipple into his mouth, rolling the hard bud with his tongue. Her hands closed on his head, fingers almost painful as she combed them through his hair.
That exotic scent rose from her skin, musky and alluring.
“Do you still want me to stop?” he said, sliding his hands over her shoulders, caressing her back.
“No, I don’t want you to stop.”
