Had his sister truly told Virtue that he was a rake? That he seduced a different woman every day? If so, she had a rather exaggerated opinion of his prowess.
Virtue’s countenance was a mask of indecision and hurt. The hurt was what hit him in the gut like a punch.He’dcaused it. He hadn’t intended to, but he had, nonetheless. And he hated himself for producing even a second of her pain.
“I’ve been keeping my distance for your sake,” he explained gently.
“How like a rake to make his inconstancy sound heroic,” she said, her tone smart.
He deserved her scorn. He was older, infinitely more experienced, her guardian, for Christ’s sake. He should have known better than to touch her, to kiss her.
To lie with her on a library sofa.
And yet, he could not resist. Not any more than he could keep himself from reaching out with his free hand to tuck a stray wisp of mahogany hair behind her ear just now. Nor keep his fingers from lingering there at the silken patch of skin, the warmth of her burning him like fire.
“It is not inconstancy that keeps me away,” he admitted, his voice rough with emotion he couldn’t begin to understand. “It is the need to protect you from myself.”
She was still, her gaze searing his, her expression inscrutable. “I don’t need your protection, Ridgely. I am capable of looking after myself.”
He wanted her to understand who he was. To chase her away, for her own good.
“Yes, you do,” he countered firmly. “My sister was correct in one matter. Iama conscienceless rakehell. I could devour you right now. I could take you on the window seat of this music room, and I wouldn’t regret it for a moment.”
He’d hoped she would recognize the danger of lingering here, within his reach, alone in the music room with the door firmly closed and no one else about. He’d hoped she would gather up her skirts like most virginal chits would and flee the clutches of the dastardly rogue. He was what mamas warned their debutantes about. His own sister thought him capable of seducing an innocent for sport.
And the sad truth of it was that he most definitelywascapable of seducing Virtue. Not for sport. Because he wanted her more than he wanted anyone or anything he could ever recall desiring in his thirty years of life.
But she was Virtue, and Virtue was fearless and reckless and, as he’d pointed out to her that day in the library, a bit wild.
So she tipped her chin up in defiance. “I wouldn’t regret it either if you did.”
Her words were like a bolt of lust being shot directly into the heart of him. His reaction was instant and uncontrollable. His hand, the one near her throat, trembled beneath the force of it, and then he cupped her nape and pulled her nearer, into him, whilst his other hand released her elbow and settled on the small of her back. He could not shake the feeling that here was where Lady Virtue Walcot belonged.
In his arms.
“You shouldn’t feel that way,” he murmured, still trying not to kiss her, even if her mouth beneath his was all he desired—more than for the sun to rise on another day.
“Don’t tell me how to feel, Trevor,” she said boldly.
And that was it. She’d called him by his given name. Hadscoldedhim. God, he loved it. Loved every wicked, wrong, forbidden second of being alone with her, of her lush curves pressing into his hardness in the most delicious of ways, her sweetly floral scent invading his senses.
“I’m your guardian,” he reminded her.
Reminded them both.
But the warning faded as he caressed the soft skin of her nape. His thumb found its home in the inviting dip where her hairline began, and without conscious effort, he was cradling her head, lost in the glittering depths of her gold-flecked eyes. She was, he thought in the wildness of that moment, a goddess meant for him.Madefor him.
“I don’t want you to kiss Mowbray.”
The admission was torn from him. He hadn’t meant to say it. Who was this man he’d become? What had she done to him, the minx?
“Ever,” he added for good measure.
“Why not?” she asked, pushing him as she always did.
He liked her boldness. Liked her daring. Liked the beauty mark he knew hid at the crux of her neck and shoulder. Liked the color of her lips, stained with his kisses. Liked the avid working of her mind, her cleverness, her indomitable spirit. Here was a woman unlike any he’d ever known, her determination to be herself and live life by her own rules something to be not just admired, but savored, too. Savored in the same way he savored her loveliness, her curves, her sensual response.
“Because I want to be the only man who kisses you,” Trevor said.
They stared at each other in the wake of those words, words which had fled him of their own volition. Words which were reckless and bloody stupid. What was he saying, that he wanted to be the only man who kissed her? Did he even mean it?
