Huntingdon was there to catch her before she fell. He pulled her into his arms, against his chest. Her hands settled upon the fine fabric of his coat. His familiar scent washed over her, along with a startling rush of longing.
She clutched his coat. “Forgive me for my lack of grace.”
His lips thinned. “Intentional?”
He thought she had thrown herself into his arms?
Helena frowned. “Hardly, my—”
His mouth swooped down on hers in the next breath, stealing her words.
Dear God, herlips.
Gabe had missed them beneath his.
The feeling of them, soft and supple and warm, obliterated all his good intentions. There was a fever in his blood, setting fire to every warning he had painstakingly issued to himself for the last bloody week.
Although he had told himself he must go into this marriage keeping his distance from her, that he must do everything in his power not to succumb to his fervent needs, he could not stop himself from kissing her. Kissing her in a way he had not permitted at the church, following their exchange of vows.
As if she were finally his.
Because she was.
But that did not make this right. Nor did it ameliorate what she had done. He could not trust her and he knew it. He ought to stop. And he would.
But first…
First, his tongue dipped between the seam of her lips to taste her. He told himself she was a liar. That the goddess in his arms was the same conniving woman who had told his oldest friend—now likely his former friend, judging from Shelbourne’s coldness at the wedding—that he had gotten her with child. That she had forced him to betray his grandfather’s wishes and his own sense of duty and honor.
Yet, her arms twined around his neck. Her breasts were two ripe temptations pressed to his chest. She smelled as delicious as ever, and she kissed with the wild abandon he longed for. And he could not keep himself from kissing her harder, from owning that mouth, from crushing her nearer, taking everything she so sweetly offered.
Even if it was a lie.
Yes, his darling liar was an elixir he could not seem to get his fill of. He could not shake from his mind an image of her in the church, standing before him in a slat of sunlight, her gown as golden as her hair. She had been the most glorious sight he had ever beheld. For a moment, he had forgotten he had not wanted her as his bride, forgotten the means by which she had landed at the altar with him. For a heartbeat, he had simply been in awe of her beauty.
That same, foolish response reawakened in him now as he plundered her mouth. The urge to punish her was there, almost as strong as the urge to take her. He nipped her lower lip with his teeth harder than he ought to have done. Her surprised whimper into his kiss told him so.
Gabe’s mind swirled with what seemed a thousand questions. What must the servants think, their master’s abrupt defection from one bride to the next, disappearing immediately into the bedchamber with his new Lady Huntingdon? Was the door still open? Could anyone see or hear what they were about?By God, did he care?
Then, the most salient question of all.
Why could he not cease kissing her?
Just one taste of her, and all his determination was dashed, his resistance obliterated. He was made of sterner stuff than this.
He tore his mouth from hers at last. She was so lovely, he ached just looking at her. Why should perfidy be so beautiful? He reminded himself he must cling to his anger, his distrust. Lust was a deceptive bedfellow.
“Here are the countess’s apartments,” he said through a throat thick with need. “I will leave you to get settled.”
That was when he should have gone, and yet he lingered. She appeared dazed, the fringes of her lashes fluttering over her vibrant eyes for a beat too long. In her wedding gown, she still dripped with golden, ethereal perfection. The rise of her bosom was a tantalizing promise only partially hidden by the blonde lace lining her décolletage.
His cockstand—already rigid after those kisses—grew harder. He did not think he had ever wanted a woman more.Damn her.
“No,” she said then, her husky contralto doing things to his senses no mere voice should be capable of implementing.
“No, Lady Huntingdon?” he repeated, hating the title on his tongue, how right it felt.
Mine, said the reckless part of him he had never quite been able to stifle from the moment he had so stupidly touched her.
