She was dismayed she had recognized him in the dearth of light when he had failed to do the same with her. “What do you mean, you ought to have known it would be me? I will have you know, I make no habit of wandering about in the night.”
“You had damned well better not,” he growled.
He sounded frustrated. The same way she felt. All the emotions and sensations rioting within her were heightened in the inkiness of the night, alone with the earl, his male warmth seeping into her.
“Why?” she whispered, a new, distinctly unwise ribbon of daring unfurling within her.
His hands were gliding over her lower back now, moving in a slow seduction she had no desire to stay. “A lady should never go wandering in the night. She could cross paths with the wrong man.”
She tipped her head back, trying to find the familiar planes and angles of his face. But there were no windows in this interior hall, no silver moonlight to aid her. She wanted his lips. His mouth was near enough, his breath fanned over hers in the fleeting promise of a kiss.
“Are you the wrong man, my lord?” she asked, keeping her voice low and hushed.
Anyone could come upon them at any moment.
Somehow, the knowledge made molten warmth pool between her thighs. Her body felt heavy and languorous, weighed down by desire. Her hands traveled too, tracing the strength and breadth of his shoulders. He was not wearing a coat or waistcoat. Nothing to separate him from her save the fine lawn of his shirt.
“Every bit as much as you are the wrong woman,” he rasped.
She reminded herself she owed him a harangue. That he believed the worst of her. He believed the baron’s lies were the truth. But somehow, not even that could keep her caress from wandering up his neck, or her fingers from sinking into his hair. It was silky and thick.
His head lowered.
Her lips parted.
He already believed her ruined. What was the harm in one more kiss? Just one. If she was to continue with her plan of ferreting out the suitors with sinful intentions from amongst the gentlemen in attendance, surely she could kiss the earl and then walk away, finding the library as had been her initial intention.
That was what she told herself until the moment his mouth slanted over hers. Until he took her lips with such possessive intensity, everything inside her melted. The resistance. All the ire. Even the pride, gone. All of it. And she was kissing him back, and his tongue was in her mouth, and her ability to think anything vanished.
There was only hunger.
Need.
Desperation.
In her hands, in his. They turned as one, until her back was against the wall, and his big, hard body held her there, his willing captive. He dragged his mouth down her throat. “Go back to your chamber, Eugie.”
The directive was as dark as the night. Tinged with danger. But with promise too, and it was the latter she heeded.
She grasped his hair. It was longer than it had felt beneath her gloves, softer too. The shape of his head seemed perfect beneath her wandering fingers. His mouth opened on her skin, his teeth gently nipping the vee of her shoulder and neck, just where her night rail’s prim collar ended.
“Perhaps you should go…” Her words trailed off when his thigh wedged itself between hers.
Instinctively, she rocked against him, and the sensation that exploded in her core was so intense, she could not resist moving again. Her dressing gown parted. Her night rail was a barrier she did not want. Too much fabric between her body and that rigid, warm thigh.
But she did not have long to worry, for his hand grasped a fistful of fabric, lifting it higher. Cool air kissed her bare calf, her knee, and then a hot hand glided over her skin, chasing the cold, making her flesh pebble with awareness. A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the December night and everything to do with the man set upon devouring her.
She loved his hands on her. His scent surrounding her. Loved how firm he was. All the places where he was so different from her: his strong arms, his taut abdomen, the coarse stubble of whiskers on his jaw. The contrast between man and woman had never before been so delicious. So decadent.
Why had she been determined to harangue him? Why had she promised Grace she would not kiss him again?
She could not recall. She did not care. Eugie was coming to life in the shadows, her body awakened in a way it never before had. The ache between her thighs became a steady throb. Her breasts felt heavy, her nipples tightening into hardened buds. The friction of her night rail against them felt wicked and wonderful as she moved. She wanted him to touch her there.
And then, the worst part of her imagined what it would be like for him to use his mouth upon her aching flesh. The thought made her hungry, but not in a sense she had ever known before. It made her ache for the maleness of him. All his sharpness and hard edges. His ridges and strength. She knew enough from her discussions with Lady Emilia and the naughty books Christabella had obtained that she understood what happened when a man and woman were intimate.
He would put himself inside her. And she wanted that. It was the reason for the ache, the hollowness which needed to be filled. She moved over his thigh, seeking relief. Seeking something only he could give.
“Eugie.” Her name was part groan. Half prayer.
