Jesus.
Something was wrong with him. He was sick. A vile creature. The inclination toward the wicked and the wrong hovered on the edge of his every interaction with her. From the moment he had first seen her at Harlton Hall, he had wanted her. But then, she had been his nephew’s governess, and his honor had not allowed him to dally with her as he had so desperately longed. Time had passed, yet he remained at the same untenable stalemate, albeit for vastly different reasons.
She was a woman he could never have.
A woman he must never touch again.
Leo made certain he had locked the door before he stalked down the hall. Each step he took mocked him.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.
It was a refrain inside his head. Everything he had just done to her within the chamber, every sensation rioting through him now, was wrong.
And yet he knew it without question. He would touch her again. He would kiss her again. As long as she was within his reach, he would bloody well do whatever she would allow him to do to her. Because he could not resist. Because she touched a part of him he had not known existed. A part that was weak and evil and vulnerable. That did not give a damn about her guilt or innocence. A part that was selfish and greedy and took what it wanted.
A better man than he would have made the woman who had abducted his nephew pay for her sins by now. A better man would have turned her over to the Home Office immediately so she could be imprisoned and sentenced as she deserved. A better man would not keep her within his control. Would not kiss or touch her. A better man would not want to sink home inside her.
Similarly, a better man would never have raised her skirts, found the opening in her drawers. He would not have bared her breasts and sucked her deliciously responsive nipples. He would never have heard her breathy, passionate intakes of breath.
But she was his weakness. His only weakness.
It was why he had stayed away. Why he had left a week ago after only returning for a scant few hours. He could not trust himself where she was concerned. But if he had hoped distance would have lessened the ache in his trousers that belonged solely to her, he had been mistaken. Because he wanted her more now than he ever had before.
And now, he wanted to lick her in truth. He wanted her spread beneath him on a bed, legs open. To suck her pearl into his mouth and sink his tongue deep inside her. Hell, if she was tied to the bed, even better, for he wanted nothing less than her complete submission.
It struck him then, with the force of a slap.
He didn’t want to see her to prison.
Impossible, for doing so was his duty.
He could not shake the feeling. It was a hell of a thing. There he stood, in the same hall he had traversed hundreds of times before she had ever entered his world, and yet he was hopelessly changed. He had somehow formed an attachment to the woman who would sooner lie to him—the woman who would sooner open her goddamn legs to him—than be honest.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
He traveled down the steps, making certain the domestics were prepared to accommodate his imminent departure. When they reached London, he promised himself, he would notify the Home Office of her presence. He would see her commended to…
Holy hell.
He had forgotten to bind her wrists. He had been too caught up in thoughts of lifting the banshee’s skirts and plowing into her. Leo spun on his heel and raced back in the direction from which he had just come, taking the steps two at a time. He reached the door and inserted his key into the lock. Misgiving churned inside him, for he wore no pistol, and neither did he have time to retrieve one.
Leo threw open the door, preparing for an attack.
Instead, he found her precisely where he had left her, back against the wall, bodice opened, chemise tugged back into place. She sat on the floor, drab skirts pooling about her, brilliant blue eyes still glazed as they met his.
He had expected to find a sword-wielding virago, a desperate woman about to make her attempt at escape. But she was such a small figure, almost childlike, and he knew another swift rush of shame at his callous treatment of her. The door clicked closed at his back, and he went to her, his strides eating up the distance between them.
“Miss Palliser,” he said, lowering to his haunches before her, feeling like a cad. She was his prisoner, for Christ’s sake. What had he been thinking to take advantage of her as he had? Though he had rushed back to attend to her bonds, the sole thing on his mind now was tending to her. “I beg your forgiveness for my actions. They were unpardonable. You have my word it shall not happen again.”
“You returned to apologize?” she asked, her husky voice steeped in incredulity.
Another punishing lash of self-loathing unleashed itself. “No. I returned to bind your wrists.”
“Of course.” Her lips, swollen and stained a darker berry hue from his kisses, compressed. “Perhaps you would be willing to wait until I restore my dress?”
He ought to retrieve her bindings and secure her now. His training and instincts told him as much. Yet he could not seem to move from this space now that he had once more found himself within reach of her. “I shall aid you.”
“I am perfectly capable.” Her fingers found the buttons, beginning to slide them through their neat moorings.
