But just as the thought hit her, so, too, did an undulating tide of pain from her injury, radiating up her leg. She shifted again, attempting to remove all weight from it when he stilled.
Perhaps he sensed her movement and knew what it meant without needing to ask. Perhaps he was carried away by her declaration. She would never know. But he had suddenly taken her up in his arms, and he was carrying her in the wrong direction. Not toward the beckoning invitation of her bed, but to his own chamber.
“Searle,” she protested, flushed and needy and confused.
He ignored her and kept walking.
Her arms locked around his neck, and she could not help but to admire his profile. How strong his jaw was and set at a determined angle. His cravat was not tied with a fop’s love of intricate knots and falls, but simplistically instead, revealing far more of his neck than gentlemen ordinarily allowed.
She wanted to bite him there as he had done to her. To sink her teeth into his flesh. To make him as wild and mindless as he had made her, with nothing more than a few simple touches and a wicked mouth. She ought to be ashamed of herself, shocked by her own reactions. What periphery-dwelling, lame-legged spinster entertained such beastly cravings?
“I want you inmybed,” he told her, staring straight ahead as he carted her over the threshold and into his territory as if she weighed nothing.
Yes.
She thought she said the word aloud, agreeing with him, for there was suddenly no place she would rather be. But she could not be sure, because he had once again rattled her senses, addling her wits.
He was a strong man to carry her thus, for she was no willowy miss. With his broad body and lean strength, she had no doubt it would have been difficult indeed for the enemy to take him prisoner. He would have fought viciously. The notion gave her a shiver, for she wondered again how much he had suffered. What had happened to him?
He looked down at her, a slight frown marring the flesh between his brows. “Cold?”
For a moment, she was reminded of the first evening she had made his acquaintance, when he had descended upon Freddy’s private salon and had tended to her, ordering her about in clipped, one-word sentences. She wondered if he was always looking after the wellbeing of others. He hardly seemed the sort of man to be possessed of a caretaking nature. Perhaps it was ingrained in him from his time spent at war.
“No,” she answered, awash in sensation, in emotion, inhim.
The Marquess of Searle affected her as she had not even known was possible. Her gaze dipped to his mouth, and how she wished to feel it upon hers, hard and hot as she somehow knew it would be.
But before she could act upon her restless urgings, he had deposited her on her feet alongside his bed.
“Certain?” he asked.
For a beat, she wondered what he was asking her. Her mind was filled with thoughts of the immense, beautifully carved bed at her side. With what would happen. With his mouth.
“I am not cold,” she said at last, her mind returning.
“Good.” His hand found the heavy chignon keeping her wild curls tamed, his fingers spearing through it until he held her tight, angling her face toward his.
He lowered his head.
At long last, his lips connected with hers. It was a kiss.
Her first kiss.
And it was more than she had dared to dream a kiss could be, not just a meeting of the mouths but an onslaught. It was as if he stood at the brink of damnation, a hellfire in eternity, and kissing her was the only act that would keep him from the flames. He kissed her long and hard, demanding, coaxing, his lips working over hers, his tongue finding the seam and sliding inside to tangle with hers.
She tasted his tea in truth now, the sweetness of sugar upon her tongue and the dark truth of something else, him.Searle.His kiss tore her apart and then put her back together again. It was bruising and harsh, yet powerful and tender. She would never be the same.
But as quickly as it had begun, the conflagration ended. His mouth lifted from hers, and there was a sound of denial in the air. A protest. Hers? His? She could not be sure. All she could do was blink, attempting to find her purchase in a world torn desperately asunder. Her lips tingled. And she wanted more.
“Your chemise,” he said roughly, releasing his hold on her as her body cried out in protest. “I want you to remove it for me.”
His wicked directive stole her breath, and she hesitated, fear and shame threatening, attempting to crowd the desire from her mind and body. She had a lame leg. Her hips were too full, her belly too rounded, her bottom far too large. No man had wanted her since her comeout. Why would this one be any different?
“Please,” he added.
This lone word, this torn and ragged and desperate sounding word, was what tipped the scales for her. Her hands fisted in the linen of her chemise, and with one effortless tug, she had it over her head, sending it sailing somewhere behind her. It landed, she knew not where, with a hushed whisper, but all thoughts of the garment and anything that was not the Marquess of Searle fled her at the look of blatant need that came over his face.
Beneath his gaze, she felt…transformed. She felt as if she were someone different than Limping Leonora. As if she were beautiful and desirable. She arched her back and inhaled as his eyes raked her form, and she told herself she would not cover her imperfections. She would not hide anything from him. She was herself, and she was horridly flawed, but she was also the woman he had wed.
