When he said it like that, it made her feel ridiculous, and she ground her teeth. “I would hardly expect you to understand.”
“And I am to infer from this that you are not inclined to dance with me?”
“I could think of nothing more odious!”
He caught her chin and lifted her face to more fully meet his. “I do believe I accept the challenge,” he said, and for the first time, she saw a spark in his eyes—a spark of danger that made her stomach tighten. “You see, call it conceit, but I’ve never been greeted by quite so much derision before.”
“Perhaps you have been associating with the wrong people.” She tried to jerk her chin away, but he tightened his hold, smiling down at her in a way that made her realize just how much trouble she was in. He didn’t know who she was, but that didn’t matter to men like him—even if he had known, he would not have changed his behavior, she was certain. He was a man intent on getting what he wished, and Charlotte didn’t want to think about what it was he wanted from her.
“You are a pretty little thing,” he said pleasantly. “I shall enjoy this.”
“Unhand me, Your Grace.”
“We are unevenly matched.” Curiosity, faint in the moonlight, stained his eyes, and he took her upper arm with his other hand. “You know my name, yet I do not know yours.”
“If you think I shall tell you my name, you are mistaken.”
“No,” he said, a wicked smile on his mouth. Charlotte smelled the heavy tang of alcohol, and her stomach sank. He was drunk, and that was why he was taking so many liberties with her. If there was one thing she knew about men, it was that they were impossible to argue with when they were under the influence. “I do not think you will give me your name,” he continued. “I am, however, certain you will kiss me.”
“You brute.”
“That is an insult I will only allow my sister to give,” he said, and with that hand still on her chin, he bent and kissed her. Charlotte had never been kissed before—not unless you counted the rector’s son one time, and, considering his lips had been damp and she had shoved him back almost immediately, she was inclined not to consider that a kiss.
This, however… this she could not deny was a kiss. The Duke’s mouth was warm and firm against hers, easing her mouth open in a practiced movement, the fingers on her chin relaxing, brushing up along her jawline. Shock rendered her pliant, and she allowed him to draw her closer, the hand on her arm moving down her back and pressing her against him.
He tasted of whiskey and smoke and the endless glory of the night sky. When his tongue teased against hers, heat flared down her from the contact, joining the coiled feeling in the base of her stomach. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she allowed him into her mouth, obeying the pressure of his hands and tilting her face to better allow him access. The low sound that rumbled from the back of his throat stopped her breath, and he chuckled against her lips.
She was kissing the Duke of Hexham. She pushed against his chest, forcing him back, and in her haze of anger and humiliation, she hardly noticed he let her.
“You beast,” she choked. Her hands were shaking—everything was shaking because the Duke had kissed her, and she had kissed him back, despite his reputation and despite the fact hers were not the first lips he had encountered, maybe even that same evening.
She had kissed him back, and she hadlikedit.
That, of everything, was the worst part of all.
He caught her arm, wrapping his long fingers around her wrist. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it,” he said, a peculiar look in his eyes now as though he needed to assure himself of that fact as well as her. As though that mattered to someone like him.
“Ihatedit,” she spat, tugging at her hand.Lies. “Release me at once.”
“Not until you control your temper.”
Detestableman. Deciding she could not pull herself free, Charlotte changed tack and instead bent her head and sank her teeth into his hand.
He cursed and released her. Charlotte wasted no time in fleeing past him, back toward the glittering lights of Hexham Manor. Her heart pounded too high in her chest, and she could feel the haunting heat of his hand on her back; if she closed her eyes, she could have imagined him standing before her, tracing his fingers down her jaw.
At least she had repaid him for his troubles, she thought triumphantly, and she hoped her bite lingered on his skin as long as the sensation of their kiss, hot and pleasurable and utterly wrong, lingered on her mouth.
ChapterThree
Aaron idly traced the half-moon bruise on the back of his hand as he listened to his aunt Octavia talk about Constance’s forthcoming nuptials. Constance was with the dressmaker, and he apparently had nothing better to do than listen to his aunt’s insistence that they use the roses from the garden at the wedding. A good luck charm, Octavia called it. Aaron called it a damned inconvenience.
Especially as every mention of the garden brought back memories of the girl he had encountered there. She’d been unexpectedly feisty and had bitten him hard enough that he still had the bruise three days later.Thathad been an amusing story to tell his friends but a nuisance otherwise. He’d had to keep his gloves on at all times just to avoid the inevitable questions.
“Aaron, are you listening to me?”
Aaron stretched out his legs before him, crossing them at the ankles. “You know I always listen to you,” he said, offering her a lazy smile.
“I have yet to see evidence of it.” His aunt raised her eyebrows. “Are you not excited about Constance’s wedding? This is all your doing, you know.”
