He kissed the high prominence of her bone structure. Her skin was silken. He could not resist trailing a path of kisses. She held still.
All the way to the corner of her lips.
There, he hesitated, drinking in the warmth of her breath as she inhaled, then exhaled her surprise. He wanted her mouth, but he would wait. He remained where he was. Breathing in her breaths. Nuzzling her hair with his nose. And,Christ help him, her scent was even more pronounced and delicious here, her tresses luxurious and soft.
She was intoxicating.
He had not meant to find her so.
And yet…she turned her head. Her mouth found his. And the connection…it was sheerelectricity. A jolt the likes of which he had not felt in as long as he could recall. Her lips were warm. Hot, actually. They parted on a gasp.
He took advantage, sliding his tongue into the velvety warmth of her mouth. She tasted of the strawberries she had consumed at breakfast. Sweet and summery and delicious. She hummed into the kiss, and then her tongue moved against his. Her hands slid over his shoulders and linked around his neck. The action pressed her body to his.
Lush breasts crushed into his chest. He clasped the generous curve of her waist, her heat scorching him through her silk gown and underlying layers of civility. He suddenly longed to devour her. Which made no sense. He did not even like her.
But his body certainly liked hers. His lips liked hers beneath them. His bodywantedhers beneath him, too.
Damnation.
With great regret, he tore his lips from hers.
And just in time, for the towheaded lad who had stolen his hat came tearing into the library.
“Ewan!” Clementine cried, practically leaping away from him, her cheeks pink and her mouth thoroughly kissed. “Why are you not with the rest of the group?”
“Rain!” he announced, racing down a wall of books, left arm out, sweeping down the entire row of volumes that were in line with his diminutive height.
The books fell to the carpets in dull thuds.
The scamp was deuced good at making mischief. “Here now, lad,” he felt compelled to say, “you will ruin the earl and countess’s book collection if you keep that up.”
His admonition seemed to have the desired effect, for the boy paused, scooped up an armful of books, and then fled the library.
Dorset turned back to Lady Clementine, who was nearly on the opposite end of the vast library by now, across a sea of Axminster. It was just as well. She could not tempt him from there.
“I must return to my chamber before the rest of the guests spy me here,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “Thank you for keeping me from a fall.”
“Lady Clementine,” he called after her, but she was gone in a swish of silken skirts.
He was left alone in the library, books heaped on the floor, his mouth tingling, and his heart pounding with the force of his unexpected reaction.
Grumbling a curse, he stalked to the books Clementine and the lad had dislodged from their shelves and began restoring them to their former places of glory. One question dogged him as he tidied the leather-bound volumes.
What the devil was he to do now?
Chapter 4
Clementine took her aim with care and released the arrow. It sailed through the air and landed with precision on the target, directly in the center where she had intended.
“Excellent shot, Tiny,” Charity congratulated her, clapping her hands as she used the sobriquet for Clementine which she had invented and she alone used.
“I was pretending it was Lord Dorset,” she announced.
That was a lie, of course.
She would never do the marquess violence. Quite the opposite in fact, and much to her dismay. Ever since he had kissed her in the library, all she could do was think about him. And long for more of his kisses.
Curse the man.
