“And you are rude,” she countered. “Despicably so. Familiar as well, irritatingly so.”
“I am merely concerned for you, Pippa.” He stepped nearer.
Apparently, he could be more familiar still. She would not retreat. Not even as his hand came out. Ungloved from dinner. Strong and large, the fingers elegant yet thick and capable. The pads of his forefinger and middle finger grazed the hollow of her throat, then lingered there, the caress as gentle as if it might not have happened at all. And yet it had, because she burned where his skin met hers.
“Your heart is pounding so fast I could see your pulse leaping,” he said, then withdrew his fingers as quickly as he had touched her.
His bare skin on hers.
It meant nothing.
She felt nothing. She was already broken to bits. How could she feel anything at all, and for this man, the Duke of Northwich? It was impossible. Improbable. Ridiculous.
Beat, beat, beatwent her heart, a staccato reprimand, and her body was suddenly flushed despite the pleasant coolness of the evening. What a liar she was, to herself, to everyone around her, donning a polite mask, pretending she had not a care.I can still feel. I can still want.The revelation was wholly unwanted.
“Please,” she said, aware of the new heaviness settling in the air like a mantle. “Go back to the dining room. I need a moment to catch my breath.”
He did not move.
Nor did she.
“Pippa,” he repeated her name.
His voice was low and velvet. Seduction and temptation and warning all at once. Forbidden, yet concerned.
“Do not pretend you give a damn,” she whispered, more plea than demand.
“But I do.” His lips twisted in a wry grin. “I always have.”
Something was desperately amiss inside her, because shewantedhis hands on her again. Ached with the need. Her flesh hungered for the rasp of his upon hers. How could memory be so tactile, hidden in the simplicity of fingertips pressed to her madly pounding pulse? One touch, and she remembered.
Remembered those moon-drenched kisses in Oxfordshire.
Remembered being wrapped in his long, powerful arms. How perfect and how safe and how alive she had felt there.
The press of his hard, lean body against hers.
The velvet seduction of his lips, the carnal glide of his tongue in her mouth.
One of them moved. Or mayhap they both did. Because suddenly, they were crashing into each other, her breasts crushed to his chest, his lean hips pressing into the voluminous spill of her gown, his hands on her waist. Gentle yet insistent. Pulling her into him more tightly. Holding her there. Keeping her where he wanted her, keeping her where she wanted to be.
Her head fell back. His descended. He was going to kiss her. He was going to kiss her, and she was going to let him. Her emotions were a wild tangle. Like an overgrown forest, full of thorn bushes and dense undergrowth. His breath was hot and wine-scented, falling on her lips in the instant before their mouths met.
She should move. She should push him away and flee from the circle of his arms.
But her hands rested on his chest, her fingers curling into the lapels of his coat. Holding him to her instead. His lips smoothed over hers in a slow, tentative brush. Once. Twice. There was hesitance and reverence in his kiss, as if he feared he would send her running once more if he pressed too firmly, if he opened, if he used his tongue.
This was not the kiss she remembered. It was not passionate and wild and carnal and full of frenzied desire. Rather, it was almost passive. His lower lip fitted to the seam of hers. He held still, as if awaiting her response.
His mouth on hers should not feel so wonderful, and yet it did. Something within her cried out. More memories. But the anguish was there, prodding her like a pinprick. Never far. This was the man who had deceived her.
Not the only man.
Merely the first.
His lips nudged hers open. Gently, he coaxed her mouth to move. To return the kiss. And she did. With a cry in her throat, she kissed him harder. Deeper. Her hands slid over his chest, over his broad shoulders, to lock around his neck. She kissed him with all the confused ardor, the bitter memories, the longing, the yearning, the frustration, roiling within her.
Kissed him until the door to the morning room opened.
