As he’d clutched his bleeding face and crawled through the mud, with musket shots and cannonballs screeching all around him, he’d sworn to the Heavens that if he lived to see another sunrise, then he’d stop being such a stupid, stubborn bastard. He would go back to England, find Lucy Montgomery, and beg her to marry him.
He'd lived to see another sunrise. And he’d thought of her incessantly while his wound healed. But when he’d finally returned to London, it was to discover that while Lucy had returned from her trip to Brazil, she’d almost immediately set sail again, this time for the island of Madagascar, in the Indian Ocean. She was thousands of miles away again, and all Will could do was curb his miserable impatience and wait.
Ithadn’t taken him long to realize that instead of being repulsed by the scar that now curved across his eyebrow and cheekbone, ladies of every social level found it almost irresistibly attractive.
Before his injury, he’d have taken solace in a merry widow, or the practiced charms of the cyprians who frequented the clubs and brothels of Covent Garden. But the only woman he wanted now was Lucy, and despite the hunger and frustration humming through his veins, he hadn’t been able to muster up the slightest interest in any of the tarts who approached him.
Subsequently, the only release he’d known for months had been provided by his own hand, which was a piss-poor substitute for the woman he ached to hold.
The thought that Lucy might reject him because of his physical imperfection didn’t cross his mind. She’d never put any store into her own extraordinary good looks, nor been impressed by anyone else’s beauty, and he was sure that she prized intelligence and wit over such superficial concerns.
There was, of course, the distinct possibility that she’d reject him for being too ill-read, or not amusing enough, or for lacking sufficient ambition and drive. All of those were true.
But not for his looks.
She’d always found him attractive. He had enough experience with women to know the signs. She sneaked glances at him whenever she thought he wasn’t looking, and her reaction whenever he stood close to her was delightful. Her cheeks grew pink, her lips parted as she drew little panicked breaths, and her pulse beat in her throat in a way that made him want to press his lips there and inhale the heady perfume of her skin.
Will closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the memory of their one kiss rose up to haunt him.
It had been the best, most erotic moment of his entire life.
He’d been home on leave from the army, and they’d both attended Sylvia Greenwood’s garden party.
Still in denial about his feelings for her, he’d avoided Lucy all evening and, as if to prove to himself that he didn’t desire her, he’d agreed to meet Cressida Bonham in the maze at midnight.
Cressida was a well-known flirt, already widowed at twenty-five thanks to the death of her elderly husband, and Will had anticipated a brief, mutually pleasurable interlude before he left to rejoin his regiment.
He’d entered the maze, and a shadowy female arm had emerged from a side-path and tugged him into a leafy alcove. Assuming it was Cressida, he’d caught her in his arms and kissed her—forcefully—and been gratified when she moaned in immediate pleasure.
A second later he realized his mistake. The woman he was kissing was too small to be Cressida. She didn’t smell like Cressida, either. She smelled better,delicious, a scent so familiar and yet at the same time so elusive that he struggled to place it.
Will stilled, his lips still on hers, as his confused brain tried to catch up with his hammering pulse.
The mystery woman gave a little sound of impatience and pushed herself up on tiptoe, silently encouraging him to continue. Her small hands slid over his shoulders and up the back of his neck, and it was at that moment Will realized exactly who he was kissing.
Lucy Bloody Montgomery.
For a split second his brain simply refused to believe it. Then desire surged through his bloodstream like hot lightning, obliterating logic and the need to know how this miracle had happened. Only one, irrefutable fact remained: Lucy was here, in his arms,kissing him back, and he might never get this chance again.
Did she thinkhewas someone else, too? Had she agreed to meet another man out here in the gardens for a kiss? A stab of pure, possessive jealousy shot through him at the thought, but it vanished in the same instant. It didn’t matter. Fate had put them here.
He had to keep kissing her.
He followed that instinct without any further ado. He slid his left arm around Lucy’s waist, using it to tug her body completely against his, and her little gasp of shocked delight mirrored his own pleasure.
God she was perfect.Every dip and curve of her body fitted against the planes of his, and his cock hardened at the press of her breasts against his chest and the way she seemed to melt into him.
With his right hand he cupped the back of her head, tilting her face with a thumb under her chin so her lips were perfectly aligned with his.
In the distant part of his brain that still retained analytical ability, he marveled at the softness of the skin on her jaw, and the delicious warmth of her nape, and he stored the sensations away for future recall.
He kissed her again, more slowly this time, reining in his desire to give the moment the reverence it deserved. He grazed her lips with his own, savoring the sensation, marveling at the pillowy softness of her. She made a little humming sound of pleasure, a vibration against his mouth, and returned the pressure, tilting her head and parting her lips in silent, unknowing invitation.
She wanted him, even if she didn’twantto want him.
His exultant heartbeat thundered in his ears.
When he ran his tongue across the seam of her lips, seeking entrance, she seemed initially confused, but when his tongue touched hers, she gave a little gasp and opened her mouth fully.
