And he was once more baptized in a pool of flame.
His need for her was stronger than his next breath. The knowledge he was alone with her in the library, that at any moment her father or brother or an errant servant could cross the threshold and catch them alone together, was not enough to stop him. He was beyond control.
She had made him this way, brought him to this.
Sunk him, like a ship tossed upon the rocky shoals off the shore in the depths of the darkest night. In the midst of high winds, storm-ravaged seas. She was the siren, luring him to his painful, inevitable demise. He could not let her.
“We should not,” she said, but her arms had encircled his neck. And her lashes had fluttered against her cheeks. Her head was tipped back, those lush lips his for the taking.
He had not come here for this, for her. But now that she was in his arms, not even his raging anger at her actions could keep him from seizing what he wanted: her lips.
Her.
“No, we should not,” he agreed. “Indeed, we never should have, and that is why we currently find ourselves at this damnable impasse.”
And yet…
His head dipped. Their mouths met. She tasted as sweet as ever. Her lips clung to his. He had known other kisses in his life, but none had held a candle to Helena’s. Mayhap it was the time he had spent longing for her in secret. Mayhap it was the way her mouth moved against his. Mayhap it was merely the woman herself.
Whatever it was, indefinable as it was, she had it. This woman in his arms. This woman he would wed.
She had the power to bring him to his knees. To dismantle everything he had previously believed about himself. He hated the power she had over him. He hated it, and he longed for it. Whilst he resented what she had done, he could not deny the way he felt for her. Or the way she felt in his arms.
Too good.
Perfect, in fact.
He kissed her hard, with almost bruising force, wanting to punish her lips. To punishher. To please her, also. Her mouth opened, her tongue moving tentatively against his. A throaty sound of surrender tore from her throat. He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck, his fingers plunging into her silken hair. Need for her thundered through him. He caught her lower lip between his teeth and tugged.
Another mewl escaped her. He dragged his lips lower, down her throat, finding her pounding pulse, the evidence she was every bit as moved by their embrace as he was. All the doubts which had been eating away at him since his interview with Lady Beatrice gave way. There was nothing—no anger, no fear, no bitterness. There was nothing but desire.
“Helena,” he whispered her name against her neck, then kissed a path to her ear, his lips grazing the shell.
“Huntingdon, please.” She gasped when he bit her fleshy earlobe, then almost purred when he licked the hollow behind it.
She trembled in his arms, pressing herself nearer. His cockstand was hard and insistent in his trousers. Not even his self-loathing could abate the swift rush of lust coursing through him. He ought to be better than this, he knew. Lemon and bergamot twined around his senses like the cloying constriction of ivy vines. He was aflame.
The floor of the library creaked as they moved together, the frenzy of their embrace heightening. The sound was a reminder of the reality in which they found themselves. They were not alone. They were not wed.
Good God, they were all but making love in her father’s library when they were already being rushed to the altar to avoid scandal. He was stupid. So bloody stupid. Powerless, at the mercy of his need. Like his father before him.
This would not do.
He had to put a halt to this madness before he took things between them any further. Before they wound up in a tangle on the floor. Before someone caught them. Before the web in which they had been ensnared grew more complicated.
Summoning all the control he possessed, Huntingdon ended the kiss. He tore his lips from hers and set her away from him. As before, her eyes were dazed, cheeks flushed, lips dark. He wanted to despise her for what she had done, for the lies she had told, and yet, he could not.
“We will be wed in one week’s time,” he told her, his voice ragged. “I think it is for the best if we refrain from seeing each other until that day. Prepare yourself as you must.”
Confusion dawned on her expressive face. “But Huntingdon—”
“For once in your life, listen to me, Helena,” he interrupted. “I am taking my leave now. I shall see you on our wedding day.”
How strange the words felt.
Not as strange as they should.
Huntingdon bowed, and then he turned and stalked away from her. He was going to have to figure out how in the hell he could gird himself against his future wife.
