The thought seemed somehow traitorous. But she could not change the way she felt. Their brief kiss in the library, before it had been interrupted by Ewan, had been a mere prelude. This kiss was an owning of her mouth. It was commanding and demanding and delicious.
She pressed herself shamelessly into him, her breasts crushing against his chest. Her nipples were hard and aching. A fluttering sensation had begun in her belly and traveled lower, settling between her thighs.
This was wickedness, surely.
And yet, if it was wickedness, why did it not feel wrong? Why did it instead feel oh so very right?
He pulled his mouth from hers, but the kiss was not over yet. Instead, he dragged his lips along her jaw. Then he kissed her throat. A bolt of desire slid through her. This kiss was every bit as incendiary. Her head fell back. The most astonishing thing happened. He sucked on her skin. Hot, open-mouthed kisses trailed to her collarbone. His hands were on her waist, gripping her and holding her steady when her knees threatened to give way.
She tunneled her fingers through his hair. It was surprisingly soft and silken.
His knowing lips traveled to the place where her throat met her shoulder. The cut of her decolletage left her flesh bare for his exploration. There, he nibbled lightly. A sigh escaped her. She was caught hopelessly in the sensual spell he wove around her.
Belatedly, she recalled he had silenced her with a kiss. How highhanded of him. She ought to have delivered a blistering set-down. Instead, her determination had turned to pudding just the same as the rest of her. This was what rakehells did, was it not? They kissed ladies senseless in darkened alcoves and moonlit gardens. They slipped into bedchamber windows and whispered false promises and lured innocent misses into sin.
They were the opposite of gentlemen.
They were nothing like Walter had been.
Good heavens, he had not even kissed her until their betrothal. The waiting had been agonizing, and even when she had finally known his lips on hers, the kiss had been surprisingly chaste. It had scarcely compared to the ardent carnality of Dorset’s kisses…
Thoughts of the man she had loved and lost brought a return of her faculties.
She jerked away from Dorset, her heart pounding, breath ragged. He allowed her to go without any protest. How she wished she could see his countenance. But the shadows and the night obscured much of his face.
“We will never find ourselves back inside if we continue in such a manner,” she told him.
He rubbed his jaw. “It seemed an excellent way to keep you from chastising me.”
“I was not chastising you,” she argued.
Though in truth, she supposed shehadbeen.
“Hmm,” was all he said.
The longer they lingered in the darkness together, away from the rest of the house party, the greater their chances of discovery. There also remained the possibility they would be seen should they travel back down the path from which they had come. They were not alone in the gardens, and the couple who had chanced into the moonlight for an assignation likely remained somewhere out there.
Desperate, she swept past the marquess, seizing the door herself.
“Locked,” she grumbled.
“As I said.” His voice was at her shoulder. Wry and far too near.
More awareness prickled through her. Why did he have to be so skilled at kissing? She was sure that was all it was. Any rake could have kissed her, and if he had been as adept at the art of wooing as Dorset, her body’s reaction would have proven the same.
Her thumb traveled over the lock. Life with an older sister who had adored playing cruel tricks on her by locking her in rooms had imbued Clementine with the ability to pick locks. When one was desperate, one also became quite creative.
She reached into her carefully styled coiffure, feeling about for hair pins. Finding one, she pulled it free and then jammed the end into the lock.
“What are you doing?” Dorset asked.
This time, he stood in such proximity that she swore she could feel the warmth of his breath upon her throat.
She sent him a nettled glare. “Attempting to get us into the library.”
“I am certain it is the conservatory, as I said.” There was a pause, then, “You are trying to pick the lock?”
“No, I am building a boat,” she drawled. “Of course I am trying to pick the lock. Have you any other suggestions?”
