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"Shall we find out? Because if we're unable to be convincing, we'd best discover that fact now—before the dowager arrives."
"I suspect you're right." No, that was she talking. Aurora was still reeling over her own audacity when Merlin's mouth closed over hers.
God help her, was this a kiss?
Shards of pleasure screamed through her in hot, jagged streaks, the simple joining of their lips igniting sparks too erotic to bear, too exquisite to abandon. Merlin felt it, too, for she heard his indrawn breath, felt him stiffen with reaction, shudder as the unexpected current of excitement ran between them. Then he angled her face closer, kissed her again—this time more deeply—and Aurora was dragged into an explosive inferno of sensation, one she'd never imagined, much less experienced. Flames leapt from Merlin's lips to hers and back again, and the kiss took on a life of its own, their mouths meeting, parting, only to meet again.
His tongue delved inside, finding and claiming hers, then taking it in deep, heated strokes that made everything inside Aurora melt, slide down to her toes.
She responded on instinct, immersing herself in the magic, her hands gliding up to his shoulders, clutching the warmth of his shirt. He raised her arms, twined them about his neck, and lifted her against him, sealing their lips in a bottomless, drugging, intimate kiss, penetrating her mouth again and again until the very room seemed to vanish, until nothing existed but the torrent of sensation blazing between them.
Neither of them heard the commotion below. Nor were they aware of the sound of pounding footsteps ascending the stairs. Thus, when the door to their room burst open and an unexpected audience swelled on the threshold, they both started, pulling apart to stare dazedly at the intrusion.
A gasp rose in Aurora's throat as Slayde strode into the room, nearly shoving George, a half-dozen sailors, and a sputtering Lady Altec from his path.
"Aurora, what in the name of…" His words died on his lips as he spied Merlin, and Aurora would never forget the look of naked pain, of stark disbelief on her brother's face. "You?" he bit out. "Of all the men on earth, you?" Stalking over, Slayde dragged Merlin from the bed, his rage a palpable entity Aurora could feel. "You filthy bastard, not even your father would have stooped this low." His fist shot out, connecting with Merlin's jaw. "Did it give you pleasure to ruin an innocent young woman? To destroy her life simply because she's a Huntley?"
On the verge of striking back, Merlin stopped dead, outrage supplanted by shock. "Huntley?" His stunned gaze shifted to Aurora, raking her from head to toe as if seeing her for the first time. "You're Aurora Huntley?"
An ominous knot formed in Aurora's stomach. "Should I know you?"
With a harsh laugh, Slayde reached over, yanking Aurora to her feet. "Didn't he introduce himself before he took you to bed? No? Then allow me. Aurora, meet the man you nearly forfeited your innocence to: Julian Bencroft, the newly ascended Duke of Morland."
* * *
Chapter 2
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Six long years.
Julian stood in the center of Morland's expansive library, hands clasped behind his back as he surveyed the formidable room. He saw beyond the oriental rug and mahogany bookshelves, beyond the high walls and gilded ceiling. What he saw were memories: ugly, indelible memories.
He'd nearly forgotten how much he despised this estate.
How many bitter arguments had he and his father engaged in within these very library walls? How many accusations had been fired between them before Julian had stormed off for good?
More than he could count, still more than he chose to remember.
Wearily Julian massaged his temples, then walked over to pour himself a drink.
His father had loathed the very sight of him.
That was fact, not supposition. Heaven only knew how many times Lawrence had bellowed his outrage, his shame, his censure … his remorse that it had been Hugh, not Julian, who'd been taken from him.
The last alone had hurt. Not because Julian gave a damn at being the object of his father's hatred, but because any mention of Hugh brought with it an acute sense of pain and loss. Julian had cared deeply for his kind, gentle older brother, an affection Hugh had reciprocated despite the fact that although separated in age by merely a year, their interests, aspirations—their very natures—had been as different as day and night. So far as Julian was concerned, Hugh had been his only family. When he'd died of a fever during his first term at Oxford, Julian's roots had died with him.
Still, Hugh had been the one thing Julian and his father agreed upon: more specifically, Hugh's suitability as the heir apparent. He would have made a fine duke, fine in a way that Lawrence, with his unprincipled, uncompromising values, couldn't begin to fathom. Hugh's qualities—compassion, decency, fair-mindedness—were the true foundations of nobility.
Julian's goblet struck the sideboard with a thud. What the hell was he reminiscing about? Further, why had he come back—not only to Devonshire, but to Morland?
The answer was laughable.
He'd come back to pay his final respects to a man who'd denounced him and was probably rolling over in his grave at the fact that Julian was the last remaining Bencroft and the sole heir to his precious title. A man who regarded Julian as lower than dirt and little better than a Huntley.
A Huntley.
As a result of last night's disaster, that name conjured up an entirely new image—or rather, an entirely new Huntley. An image that included a swarm of curious onlookers exploding into his room at Dawlish's as
