Fifty.
One hundred.
Fuck.
“Did he touch you?” he growled.
It was not what he intended to say. Not what he meant to ask. Indeed, even if the bastard had touched her, it was none of Duncan’s business. He could do nothing, say nothing about it. Of course she would wed another man, and it was well beyond his control.
What would she do?
Marry Duncan Kirkwood, the bastard son of a duke, gaming hell owner, man who had never given a bloody damn about the rules by which she had lived her life? Laughable, for he did not wish to marry anyone.
Did he?
The notion did not disturb him nearly as much as it ought. Indeed, it had rather a different effect entirely when he joined marriage and Lady Frederica in the same sentence. When he thought of making her his. Forever. Was it the idea of possession that thrilled him, or was it binding himself to Lady Frederica?
“No,” she said softly. “He did not touch me. Not as before. There was not opportunity, and I made certain he did not take one. We danced. He fetched me lemonade.”
Her words did nothing to ameliorate the warring emotions inside him. He did not want any other man to touch her. Ever. And she had indicated the suitor had forced unwanted attentions upon her previously. That thought set his teeth on edge.
He wanted her to be his.
Alone.
It was a hell of a development. One he did not know precisely what he could do with just yet. One he could not act upon. Not now, and likely not ever. For to do so would be nothing less than sheer folly. Would it not? Of course it would. She was the means by which he could at long last watch the bastard who had sired him pay for all his sins.
Every last one. Especially the sins against Duncan’s mother. He would exact extra penance for those when the time came.
The breath he had not realized he had been holding hissed from him. “This is your last evening here at my club.” He said it because he needed to hear it. Needed to acknowledge it. Perhaps in so doing, he could convince himself never seeing her again was best for him. Best for the both of them.
“Yes, it will be the last,” she agreed quietly. “My father returns tomorrow, and I expect my betrothal will be announced soon. I must thank you for your kindness in allowing my trespass here at your establishment.”
Her affirmation somehow set him on edge even more than he already had been. He did not want it to be the last,damn it all to hell. Nor did he like the detached manner in which she spoke, as if they had never kissed. As if he had never tasted her.
“Kindness,” he repeated, his lip curling, thinking of what he must do, how he would betray her to gain what he wanted. “I am not a kind man, Lady Frederica. I would think you wise enough to recognize greed when you see it.”
Show her the floor, urged a voice inside him.Allow her to roam for the evening and complete her research. She is the key to everything you have ever wanted. See her father upon his return and gain your revenge at last.
He knew he ought to heed the voice, but what if she was the key to everything he had ever wanted in more ways than just one? What if he could have his vengeance and her both? The question was too dangerous to entertain, too fraught with implications he did not dare to examine.
She stared at him with her fathomless gaze,seeinghim in a way no other before her ever had. “I do not think you are greedy at all, Duncan. Nor do I think you unkind.”
She would change her mind if she knew he was using her to gain what he wanted. If she knew she was his pawn. If she ever learned the truth, she would hate him. Her every memory of his touch and his kiss—the passion he had awakened within her—would burn and fade into ash.
But he did not want to think of that now, because she was wrong about him. He was greedy when it came to her. She had called him Duncan, and she was staring at him as if she longed for him every bit as much as he did her. It was an ache in his loins, a fire in his veins, like the waters of a river flowing, leading him inevitably forward.
“If I was kind, I would not do this.” He closed the distance between them, framed her lovely, pale face in his hands, and lowered his mouth to hers.
She opened for him with a sweet sigh, her lips moving against his in a wild, untutored hunger that only made him want her more. His mind could only comprehend small, violent bursts as a rush of pure need washed over him. Violets. Warmth. The tart bite of the lemonade she had consumed earlier. His tongue against hers. He caught her lower lip between his teeth, wishing he could consume her.
The kiss deepened. They were moving backward as one, his hands still on her hot, smooth skin, their mouths never parting. Toward his desk. Tongues dueling. Breaths intermingling. Desperation lit like a flame. Shame burned him. This was wrong. He was wrong for her, and he knew it. Kissing her was wrong. Wanting her was wrong.
But he couldn’t stop because she was the sun, the moon, and all the glittering stars in the blanket of the night sky at once. Fierce, brilliant, glorious. No other woman before her could compare, and he knew instinctively no woman after her would either.
Her fingers were in his hair. Her delectable arse met with the edge of his desk, and it was the night before all over again. Unlike last night’s frenzied lovemaking, however, tonight he wanted to savor. If it was indeed his last night with her, he would not act with haste.
He kissed her. And kissed her. Their lips melded perfectly. Kissed until his lips bruised hers. Licked into her mouth like he was delving inside her perfect, untouched cunny with his cock.
