Huntingdon had toescape from this bloody library. From her bloody presence.
Because although he despised himself and his weakness for her, and whilst he loathed her lies and machinations, he wanted her still. Damn him to his soul. And damn her, too.
“Huntingdon,” she called after him in her throaty contralto that never failed to curl around him like smoke.
Cloying, he told himself. Irritating.
Seductive, whispered a voice within.Delicious.
And she would soon behis. Not that he could rejoice in that fact now, when he had spent every waking hour in the past two days attempting to right the wrongs they had committed together and against each other. Not that he could rejoice in it ever, he amended. Because Lady Helena Davenport was dangerous. He wanted her too much. Felt too strongly. There was every chance she would lead him to ruin.
He had to do everything in his power to keep that from happening.
“Huntingdon, please.” The swishing of silk and her soft footfalls alerted him to her hurried pace in the moment before she threw herself between him and his only means of egress.
She was pale, and he could not help but to take note of the faintly purple half-moons shading the delicate flesh beneath her glorious emerald eyes. He had never known another female who called to him the way she did. Who made him both want her and despise her for that base need. Who undid him without lifting a dainty finger.
He had spent the last few years desiring her. Now that he would have her at last, he could not help but to feel guilt at his own sinful actions, which had led to his ability to make her his wife. If he had never touched her, never kissed her, he would have been able to look his friend in the eye and swear Helena was lying without a hint of compunction.
It would have been the truth.
But no.He had given in to his base desires.
“What do you want from me?” he ground out, feeling the beginning of a massive headache blossoming.
Ever since his friend had dealt him twin blows the day before, his head had been throbbing at irregular intervals. Being forced to deal with the ramifications of Helena’s revelations had not helped the matter.
Her bright eyes widened. “I…oh, drat you. I do not know what I want, my lord. But what I do know is that I cannot bear for you to be so angry with me.”
“Mayhap you should have considered that before telling Shelbourne I got you with child,” he pointed out, unable to keep the acid from his voice.
He would own all his sins. But he would be damned if he would suffer the consequences for those which he did not commit. Shelbourne was his oldest friend. They had been through much together. Shelbourne had helped Huntingdon through some of his darkest days. Days he would not think about now, lest those memories bring him low once more. He could not afford to be weak in Helena’s presence. Not now. Not again.
“You kissed me,” she blurted, a becoming flush stealing over her cheeks.
He had, and he had done more. And he would do more again.By God, he would do everything. He would have her in his bed, at his mercy. The side he had always kept at bay rejoiced. But the rest of him banished all such notions. The rest of him clung to the tattered shreds of his honor, to the man his grandfather had been proud of, to the man he had tried so bloody hard to be.
“Kissing you is not the same as bedding you,” he told her, not giving a damn if he shocked her. “You cannot get a babe in your belly from a kiss. Did not your bawdy books teach you that, my dear?”
He was taunting her. Throwing down the gauntlet between them. He could not help himself, it seemed.
Up went her chin. “Of course I know the difference. I was merely reminding you that you are not as innocent in this tangled web of ours as you would like to pretend.”
She dared to mock him.
The effect upon him was perverse. Unwanted. His cock swelled to stiff attention, pressed to the fall of his trousers. He had yet to indulge in the paradise he had been charged with enjoying. For a fleeting, mad moment, he thought of leading her to the far wall of the library, of pressing her to the bookcase, taking her lips, kissing her throat. Of raising her skirts to her waist and plunging into her willing heat.
Somehow, he knew she would be ready. He knew she would be slick.Damnation, he already knew the way she felt. Hedreamtabout it. Ever since he had touched her—and yes, even last night as he lay alone in bed, much to his shame, he had taken himself in hand to the memory of her silken flesh. Had thought about doing far more to her.
It was too much to bear.
Before he knew what he was about, he slid an arm around her waist, hauling her into him. He was awash with a complicated combination of yearning, desire, shame, and anger. Her breasts collided with his chest. Despite the impediment of her corset, her every curve seared him.
“You are a witch,” he said, using his free hand to cup her jaw.
To tilt her head.
Her skin was soft and warm and smooth. Her scent enveloped him.
