He would not argue the point, for he was not certain he could. The only thing he had to be thankful for was his life, which had proved a dubious gift indeed. His imprisonment in Paris—many years ago during the brutal siege there—had altered him forever.
He spent most hours of the day awake, a husk of a man, fit for duty only, which was why he could not afford to lose his position in the Special League. Everything about him was dark and bitter and empty and jaded and wicked. Everything but his loyalty to Crown and country, that was.
“Nevertheless,” he drawled, forcing himself from his tangled thoughts, “you have returned to offer me your aid. One cannot help but to wonder why.”
A becoming shade of pink once more crept over Lady Violet’s high cheekbones. “A cure for boredom, nothing more.”
Griffin grinned, sensing he had hit upon a sensitive subject. “My kiss moved you so deeply, you cannot help but to crave another. You were reluctant to admit it yesterday, but today you are willing to acknowledge reason. Admit it.”
“I have a betrothed,” she reminded him sharply.
So sharply, he could not help but wonder if the reminder was as much for herself as it was for him. She was attracted to him. Dead though he may be inside, he was still a man, and he knew when a woman wanted him.
Lady Violet West wanted him. He would wager his freedom upon it.
“WhereisLord Flowerpot?” he asked, unable to resist the jibe.
He was a devil, and he knew it. Part of him longed to settle upon some initially innocuous seduction. Part of him was fiendishly jealous of Lord Almsley, a paragon whose true name even sounded benevolent.
Vomitus.
What a perfect, pure, honorable gentleman. The sainted Earl of Horticulture probably thought the Lord would make his cock fall off if he kissed Lady Violet with tongue. Just as well, for the notion of any man other than Griffin putting his tongue in Lady Violet’s mouth was an anathema.
Where in the hell were such ludicrous, possessive thoughts emerging from?
He had kissed her once. True, he had also cupped her breast in his hand—quite unintentionally, of course—and the high and full curve had been a delightful cushion with which to catch his fall. Still, he had felt breasts before, damn it all. He had known women enough in his lifetime to not lose his head over a single kiss.
She frowned at him, looking vexed. “You must stop flirting with me, Strathmore. Your kisses were pleasant enough, but nothing I have not experienced before. Let us turn our attention to more important matters, shall we?”
Griffin stared at the vexing creature, aghast. First, she had dared to insult his proficiency at kissing. Then she dared to suggest there existed any matter more important than his kiss?
Astounding.
No one dismissed his kisses aspleasant enough.
He stalked toward her, intent upon one goal and one goal only. “Pleasant enough, my lady? ‘Pleasant enough’ is the manner in which one might describe a ball with dreadful musicians and bland sustenance. ‘Pleasant enough’ is how one might refer to the weather. ‘Pleasant enough’ is a damned insult. If all I gave you waspleasant enough, I suppose I have no recourse other than to try again.”
Chapter Four
The Duke ofStrathmore was irate, and he was coming for her.
But not to do her harm. No indeed, he was stalking toward her, breathtakingly handsome with his beautiful face and that divine beard darkening his angular jaw and his sinful mouth…the mouth he intended to kiss her with once more.Oh.
She had no more time to think, for he was upon her. And though his words had vibrated with ferocity, his touch was gentle. Large hands, warm and tender upon her face, held her in place for his kiss.
She could have broken away with ease if she wished. She did not wish. Nothing and no one could have compelled her to move away from him.
Lips moved over hers, just the barest brush at first—once, twice, thrice—until she could not bear the keening need bursting inside her. Until strange sounds she did not recognize emerged from her, and her arms went around his neck, and she was shameless, pressing her body against his from hip to shoulder, rising on her toes, pulling him closer, seeking more.
He fitted his full lower lip to the seam of hers, delivering achingly slow, sensual kisses. He made love to her mouth. There was no other way to describe it, and she was wholly unprepared for the sensations he unleashed within her. She was aflame, lit up from within, burning, burning, burning.
The first kisses she had shared with him had been wondrous. These kisses were revelations, small and slow and steady, and achingly incredible. These were the kisses that would ruin her for any other mouth, any other kiss, any other man.
All she wanted was this one, this one,this one.
Another sound tore from her, part desperation, part need. Her fingers were somehow in his hair now, and it was luxurious and thick and soft. His scent enveloped her, all male, all Strathmore, all delicious. He surrounded her with his strong embrace, overwhelming her with his kiss, and then, just when she thought she could stand no more, his tongue sank inside her mouth.
This time, she ran her tongue against his. It was sinuous and wet, carnal and raw, and the act sent a fresh rush of need to her core, to the place between her legs that already ached. A steady thrum began, pulsing outward, like ripples on a lake whose pristine surface had been interrupted. She clung to him tighter, moving against him, hungry for the feel of him, for the taste of him. For as much of him as she could get.
