“Come,” he ordered grimly in a tone that brooked no argument.
Before she could respond either way, he began hauling her across the library, to the far end where his desk was strewn with more papers and a crackling fire burned merrily in the immense hearth.
“Your Grace,” she protested. “There is much work to be done, and I have no wish to dither.”
“To the devil with dithering.” He pulled her to the hearth, where more warmth suffused her, but he did not release her hands as he scowled down at her. “Do not be a martyr, Miss Hilgrove. If your fingers are so cold you are throwing papers all over the floor, you must warm them. It is only common sense.”
She tugged at her hands, but he refused to release them. “I am capable of warming myself, sir. I shall only need a moment. I take my obligations quite seriously.”
“As do I.” His tone was stern, his countenance stark in its forbidding beauty. “I will not have you suffering, madam.”
Madam.
How formal of him. She supposed this, too, was an indication of his frustration with her. Why? Because she had not dared to be reckless with him? What had he been urging her to do? To kiss him?
Why was she looking at his lips now?
Why were they so intriguingly sculpted, so sensual?
She licked her own lips, as if that would quell the restlessness rising within her, brimming to the surface despite all her intentions to keep it buried. “I am not suffering. My hands are a bit chilled. That is all.”
“Your hands are like blocks of Wenham Lake ice.” He raised them to the lips she could not seem to stop admiring and blew soft puffs of air on them.
He was fussing over her.
Her hands were alarmingly near to his mouth.
His gaze fastened upon hers.
And in that next breath, everything changed. The air between them went heavy. A charge seemed to rend the moment, the silence. She lost herself in his eyes, in the deep pools of Prussian blue. Need clamored to life. They were no longer duke and female typewriter. The vast sea of differences between them vanished. And they were man and woman.
Suddenly, he yanked her into his chest. His arms went around her, anchoring her to every inch of his tall, lean body. Her hands went to his chest. One pressed over his pounding heart. The fabric of his coat was fine. Soft and supple. Heated from him and from the fire. She should push him away. Put an end to this.
And yet…
Be reckless, for just a moment.
Could she be? Did she dare?
“Miss Hilgrove,” he said, his voice low and strained. Almost guttural. “If you do not get as far away from me as you can in the next five seconds, I am going to kiss you.”
His warning should have sent her fleeing. Should have been the reminder she needed to restore her common sense, her logic, her wisdom, her honor. Instead, it had the opposite effect, holding her fast.
She was helplessly in his thrall now. Nothing could induce her to leave his arms, to go another second without the promise of his mouth on hers.
He did not need to wait the five seconds, and neither did she. She rose on her toes and pressed her mouth to his.
Her mouth wassofter than velvet. Warm and tentative. So bloody delicious. He held still, imprisoned by shock as much as the cataclysmic rush of need pounding through his veins and pooling in his loins. The rest of her was cold. Small and delicate. She had seemed almost fragile this morning, like the delicate orchid she wore as a scent: a rare blossom, unique in her beauty, yet difficult to cultivate.
Her lips, however, were hot and lush. Demanding and potent. There was no finesse in her kiss; instead, she slammed her mouth to his with an almost animalistic aggression he would have found uninspiring in any other woman.
Conversely, in Miss Hilgrove, he found it intoxicating. In the force of her sudden act, she demonstrated just how helpless she was to resist the fierce, electric jolt of attraction sparking between them more by the day, hour, minute, second, heartbeat,breath.
His hands were on the small of her back, pinning her body to his, holding them together. He inhaled slowly, drinking in the sweetness of her scent, the boldness of her kiss, marshaling his restraint. And then slowly, he took control. He moved his lips against hers, angling them. He kissed the corners where her disapproval of him so oft dwelled. He sucked the lush lower fullness into his mouth. Nipped it with his teeth, tugging.
She made a soft, kittenish sound of surrender, her lips opening to him. His tongue slipped inside, into her satiny heat. She tasted of her morning tea: bergamot and sugar. But she tasted too of mysterious, delicious woman. She tasted like something he had been starving for without ever having known it existed.
His hands followed her spine as he kissed her, the fabric of her hideous dress keeping him from her skin. This would have to be enough, though the frantic hunger for her clawing at him railed against the travesty. He wanted to tear at her buttons, peel down her bodice, strip away her layers. He wanted to lower her to the carpet when she was nothing but pink and cream, warm and willing woman.
