The book.
Ah, yes.
She extracted her right hand from his hair, touched his shoulder. Dear Lord, his tongue flicked against her skin. Her nipples tightened, and she pictured him dragging her gown down, exposing her, sucking a rosy peak into his mouth as the wicked groom in her book had done to Lady Letitia.
And then, her fingers—meant to glide over his jacket to better discover the little lump of her book and rescue it at last—went straight past his jacket. Curiosity had ever been the greatest weakness of Lady Boadicea Harrington. That, and handsome men, good wine, and depraved literature.
What would be the harm in touching him? Investigating the part of him that currently intrigued her as much as his proficient lips and tongue? Her wanton hand went between her skirts and his body, and opened. Suddenly, there he was, warm and firm and large, burning into her palm.
Oh.
amn it all to hell.Her hand was on his cock.
Never mind that no lady should ever imagine such a violation of propriety, let alone commit it. Never mind that she was an anathema to him. He didn’t like her. She was too bold, too brash, too beautiful. Her family was an assorted portmanteau of scandal and ruin. His brother was salivating over her, for the love of all that was holy, attempting to court the minx.
Somehow, none of that mattered.
Something primitive and unpolished, deep inside him, knew that the fiery woman in his arms was not meant for Harry. She wasn’t meant for anyone else. She was meant for him. Her body, her scent, her sweet lips, curved waist, the secret place behind her ear that drove her to distraction, the swell of her breasts, the pounding of her heart…it was all his.
Surely.
Or was this madness?
He rocked against her again. So good. So bloody good.
Yes, madness.
The breath hissed from his lungs. His hips jerked. Three years without a woman. He had not wanted. Had not lusted. He had controlled himself. He had bloody well learned to tame the beast within. He could govern anything. No impulse could rule him ever again. Control and solitude were all he needed. All he craved.
Or so he’d thought.
Because Lady Boadicea Harrington was cupping his straining length as if it were a baby bird—gentle and tentative—and his ballocks were tightening as though in preparation to spend.
Fuck.
His face was buried in her luscious bosom, a place that smelled and looked like heaven on earth, and he was about to spend in his trousers from nothing more than an untutored touch. Her fingers tightened then, clutching him.
He snapped. Spencer Marlow, unimpeachable Duke of Bainbridge, wrangled the woman his brother was courting about the waist, lifted her from the floor, and carried her halfway across the haven of his library, hell-bent on debauching her. She was in his arms, her voluminous skirts billowing about them, and he didn’t give a damn. In six steps, he had her on a divan. In under three seconds, he caught her skirts in his fists, rucking them to her waist.
She watched him, her vivid forget-me-not eyes taking him in with an intensity that gave him pause. His conscience pierced him, reminding him that his brother, who was beloved to him, fancied himself in love with her. And then his customary jadedness returned full-force, replacing all else.
For a woman who was being courted by another man, she was awfully responsive. Not a hint of protest had fallen from her facile tongue. Perhaps she was the wanton tart he’d accused her of being. But what did that make him? Far, far worse. For what manner of man would take such daring liberties with the woman his brother wanted as his own? No gentleman, certainly.
But then again, no gentleman would be responsible for his wife’s death.
The reminder dampened his ardor. Millicent had died because of him. He couldn’t forget. Wouldn’t forget. Penitence. That was how he lived day by day, in the attempt to forgive himself. By denial, by sinking himself into the abyss of the duchy and his myriad duties. And by feeling nothing, neither passion nor gratification, and never this shameless, unsettled yearning that threatened to upend his carefully crafted life.
He willed his arousal to abate, reminding himself that he didn’t deserve the pleasures of the flesh. That Lady Boadicea Harrington was unsuitable and fast. That he had made a vow over Millicent’s cold, ashen form. Years could not dim the hells he’d endured.
Time provided distance but not a panacea.
Nothing could heal what ailed him.
Why then, did his hands span Lady Boadicea’s waist? Her legs, clad in silk stockings and adorned in tempting scarlet garters, claimed his attention. Trim ankles, shapely calves, feminine thighs hidden beneath her frilled and embroidered drawers. By God, he swore he could smell her musk, fragrant and heady, sweet and alluring as all the rest of her. His eyes settled on the vee of her limbs, her hidden center, and his mouth went dry.
Right or wrong, he longed to have this woman.
He would give his bloody soul over to slide home inside her now.
