He scarcely breathed.
She stood there, beautiful chestnut hair fell about her, rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. Her full ripe breasts thrust impudently through the diaphanous material like dark rose buds ready to be plucked. Wholly consumed with her, he memorized every curve, every detail. The gossamer gown molded itself to her, the trimness of her waist melding down over rounded hips, revealing the dark triangle of her womanhood. Like a magnificent goddess, and he, a mere mortal. Devon swallowed, imagining a hundred wicked things from her.
She poured a glass of wine and offered it to him. “I am new at this, so you will have to help me.”
Devon frowned. How many other men had known such a request from her? At the governor’s ball, did they not all cloy after her like dogs behind the butcher’s cart? Devon craved to banish the memory of them from her mind, craved to rub out every last trace of them from her body, if in fact, any had ever touched her. His doubts ate at him.
Her fingers brushed against his as he took the glass from her. Her slight touch bolted through him like lightening. She moved across the room, almost floating, the silky material as transparent as a dragon-tail’s wing, clung and slid with the swaying of her sweetly rounded hips. Devon closed his eyes. Torturous thoughts of long, slow lovemaking aroused him to a fevered pitch, as nothing he had experienced before. He wanted to kiss her there. To taste the sweet saltiness of her skin, to tease his tongue down the soft curvature of her spine. He kicked the door behind him shut.
Claire stirred. Conversation wasn’t working. His voice alone brushed over her skin, deepening her breath.
Or perhaps it was the intimation of privacy and isolation that cultivated a sensual aura.
Or perhaps her hands itched to touch him. She swayed with the need to press her face against his chest, to inhale the earthy male scent of him.
“Perhaps you would like to eat first?” Her voice sounded husky to her ears. A wicked spell wielded and weaved its power over them, sustaining a surreal quality. Carnal desire curled inside her. Claire, nearly naked, breathed a raw feminine power that made her potent. She saw him swallow. His gaze never left her.
She moved to a basket on the table, putting warm buttered bread, slices of roast beef, creamy potatoes, and cheese on a plate. “Come and eat,” she motioned to him.
Devon sat down, swept his booted feet upon a chair and leaned back to watch her. He fingered his fork then placed it down on the table. He folded his arms in front of him and smiled expectantly. “I prefer to be fed.”
Claire closed her eyes and itemized all the reasons to hate this man.
His arrogance.
His recklessness.
The way he chipped away at her defenses, ripping her away from the life she sought for so long, the independence she craved, the peace she desired. His revengeful nature could bury her. She would not let him succeed. What had brought her to this decision? Was it the fear of sharing a matrimonial bed with the likes Teakle or any other lord who vied for her hand that persecuted her? Or guilt and the handmaiden of shame of what she owed her real husband the catalyst that brought her to this place?
She assured herself she could survive with him a little longer, just this day, she promised, and emerge detached with her freedom in place. Claire opened her eyes. She lifted the fork from the table, fighting to remain unmoved. The silk glided over her breasts, her traitorous body responding, her nipples hardening beneath his glare. She saw where his eyes slid, saw his weakness. She stabbed a succulent piece of beef and placed it in his mouth, withdrawing the fork from between his white, even teeth with long protracted deliberateness. He slowly chewed and swallowed with relish, appearing in no hurry other than to idle the day away, so unlike his normal impetuousness.
He remained however, controlled, constrained far more than he would want her to believe. The long muscles in his legs flexed when she bent to spoon in another bite of potatoes. She smiled inwardly. He wasn’t as composed as he wanted to appear. That perception gave her the impetus to proceed.
She could finish this.
Devon tossed her a mango. “Prepare this for me.”
She raised a challenging brow. Without a word she stood there patiently, wifely, peeling a mango. He dreamed for a moment of this domestic side of Claire, imagining a home much like this with children surrounding them. His fanciful musings halted when she bent low and placed a sliver of sweet mango between his lips. Her finger glided across his lip. He sucked; the juice fell to his chin. She patted his face with a cloth.
Was she a seasoned seductress or a young woman sliding for the first time into seduction? Devon forced down the demon of jealousy rising and twisting inside him.
“Why Claire?” He wanted answers.
“You ask too many questions.”
“Will you answer then?”
“No.”
"Some demented fancy to lay with a slave? A way to eradicate boredom?"
“No.” She answered. “I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I cannot think. I want only to be rid of you. To be free of my dreaded promise.”
And what would please Devon right now was having all of Claire. What he desired most was to have what had been denied him for too many God-cursed months. His gaze raked over her, falling to the cleft between her breasts. It would be all so simple to remove her gown. He could remove it in seconds. He could... The air lay thick with the scent of roiling clouds engulfing the sun. As the temperature mounted, Devon worked hard to constrain the fiery urges that flooded him, to keep himself from simple rape.
He moved to her then, the front legs of his chair hitting the floor like a shot, so quickly he saw her intake of breath.
“Do not move,” he ordered.
