She wouldn’t speak the next line to him.O stay and hear, your true love’s coming.Clara swallowed, collecting her jumbled emotions, tamping down the unwanted warmth that threatened to steal over her. “Soon enough, I’ll be roaming to Virginia.”
“Newly wed and already prepared to flee, little dove? I can’t be as bad as all that, can I?” He took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a kiss that was hot as a brand, even through her glove.
She would have tugged her hand from his grasp but he held fast. “Your reputation precedes you, my lord.”
He grinned, his touch sliding to her wrist. He caught her glove with his teeth, and removed it in one fluid motion. “Call me Julian. I’m your husband now, after all.”
Julian.It suited him. A strong name, equal parts bold and leonine. Becoming more familiar with him than necessary would not be wise. She’d already allowed him far too many liberties.
“Not truly,” she insisted. He must not be allowed to forget the nature of their union. “Ours is a temporary joining, my lord.”
“It needn’t be.” His bare fingers tangled with hers. “You could remain my countess, little dove.”
The contact and the solemnity with which he undermined all her intentions jolted her. “I have no wish to be your countess.”
But her breathless tone belied her words. Even she had to admit to herself that she was not entirely immune to him, for here she sat, watching as he took the tip of her index finger and gave her a wicked little nip. And the thoughts swirling through her mind had nothing to do with boarding a vessel bound for her homeland and everything to do with the debauched things he would do to her body if she but allowed him.
He sucked her finger, his hold on her wrist light enough now that she could escape him. “Pity.” His tongue trailed a slow path to her knuckle. He bit again, catching the smallest bit of her skin in his even, white teeth.
Those teeth were as beautiful as the rest of him. It was unfair for a man so jaded with sin to be as handsome as he. She inhaled, a current of desire pooling between her legs like molten honey.
Clara snatched her hand away before he could weaken her defenses with any more of his lurid games. “The true pity would be to mire ourselves in an unwanted marriage the same as so many other men and women before us.”
His direct gaze sparked with sensual promise. “Never think you’re unwanted, little dove. Not for a minute.”
How easily he could tempt her. She must never underestimate him, must harden her heart and her intentions. “We wouldn’t suit, my lord. I don’t like cynical reprobates who cozen my father out of two hundred thousand pounds.”
“Ah.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Were we not meant to split your dowry evenly? One hundred thousand apiece, no?”
She frowned. “You also requested stocks.”
“Curious little dove.” Idly, he stroked the satin brocade of her skirts, his finger tracing the rose pattern set against a backdrop of vivid blue. “If a man must sell himself, his price ought to be high enough to make it worthwhile.”
She couldn’t argue with his logic or stop tracking the mesmerizing progression of that lone finger. With a fluid grace, he trailed it to the center of her skirts, not stopping until he was directly above the juncture of her thighs. Layers of fabric were the only barriers between them. Inexplicably, she recalled how it had felt before when he’d slid his hand beneath her skirts. When he’d stroked her, told her that next time he’d use his tongue instead.
She had to keep her mind on practical matters. Drat it all, what had he said? She tore her attention from his wicked, wandering finger and looked back to his handsome face. He watched her intently, in that piercing way he had.
“I didn’t buy you, Lord Ravenscroft,” she forced herself to say with a cool hauteur she didn’t feel. “I bought my freedom.”
“What if they could be one and the same, Lady Ravenscroft?” His eyes dipped to her mouth and she felt it with the force of a caress.
It was as if he sought to seduce her by slow torture. Small touches, nips, and licks, the heat of a stare, the suggestion of his sensual mouth. The air in the brougham seemed stifling. How could he render her so helpless with such little effort? There must be some flaw in her character, some absent moral girding that he exploited. Her heartbeat quickened. Surely it was not merelyhim.
“You mustn’t call me that.” Her tone was prim as any governess but inside, she raged with fever. He was making her hot. Weak. Dizzy.
He opened his hand, fingers splaying over her skirts in a possessive gesture, and pressed down. She felt him through her many layers, as if he claimed her and taunted her all at once. Just barely, she suppressed the need to tip her hips as if she were seeking him.
“What mustn’t I call you, little dove?” Dark amusement colored his voice.
He knew the effect he had on her. Of course he did. She thought of the first night she’d come to him in his study, how he’d been entertained by her, how he’d toyed with her. The rattler was back, coiled and ready to strike.
“Lady Ravenscroft,” she snapped, irritated with herself for her damnable weakness. Why had she not prepared herself better? Why had she ever imagined she could manage a man like the Earl of Ravenscroft? “It’s a mantle that ought to be reserved for your true wife. I’ll not wear it for long.”
He leaned into her, so near she felt his hot breath on her lower lip. “Do you know the only thing I’d prefer you not wear for long, darling?”
She tried to escape him, put some distance between them by tilting her head back against the carriage walls. But the brougham was designed to be an intimate vehicle for two passengers, and there was only so far that she could go. “This is most improper, my lord.”
With his free hand, he touched the chiffon ruffle that edged her décolletage and fell in a cascade between her breasts. “This dress, little dove. I want to peel it off your luscious body, strip off all your undergarments. I want you naked and beneath me. Does that shock you?”
