“May I kiss you, Miss Brooke?”
* * *
Miss Brooke needed coaxing.
That much was apparent.
But it had occurred to Torrie, at some point during their stilted conversation, that Miss Brooke did not harbor a high opinion of herself. Further, that she was quite wrong. She was, by the light of day, far more attractive than the evening’s shadows had allowed him to realize. An odd dichotomy, to be sure.
Her mouth was lush and pink and made for kisses, her breasts full and straining against her bodice. Although she was dressed with prim adherence to propriety, the rest of her gown hung oddly from her frame like a sack. She was wearing a dress that had clearly been made for another woman. A much older, much larger woman in everywhere save one. Her hair was covered by an unbecoming cap, and she was shorter than most ladies of his acquaintance.
Equal parts seductress and stern governess. Torrie was desperately intrigued. Suddenly, the thought of sending her away to the country felt like a terrible mistake. There was something about her that drew him.
He wanted to pull off her cap, seduce the starch from her bearing, the severity from her demeanor. He wanted to kiss her and carry her away and peel that dreadful gown off her to see the figure hiding beneath. In the Bedlam of the night, he hadn’t allowed himself to fully take note of her. Not truly. But from the moment she had crossed the threshold of his sister’s salon, he had been struck by a sudden, forceful attraction. It was palpable, crackling through the air like lightning.
He had won their little battle over the valise. However, he had asked her consent to kiss her, and she was gaping at him as if he had declared his intention to leap out the nearest window. Disbelief crossed her features.
“You haven’t answered me,” he prompted, taking another step so that there was no distance between them remaining.
Her ugly gown rustled against his trousers, her hems gracing the tops of his boots. She smelled of florals and spring, and his cock twitched to attention.
Her eyes went wide, the rich, brown irises ringed with a fetching circle of gold. Hidden depths, just as he sensed there was far more to Miss Brooke than most others presumed.
“Y-yes,” she said, blinking owlishly before hastily continuing. “No. I…I don’t know.”
She was stammering, a sure sign she wasn’t unaffected.
Excellent.
“Yes?” he pressed gently, his hands finding her waist through the shapeless sack, pleased by her hidden curves. She was surprisingly voluptuous beneath the trappings of civility. He found himself deeply attracted to her womanliness, drawn to her in a way he hadn’t known with Eugenia. All this time after his accident, and he was still getting acquainted with himself. With his new self, for the old Torrie would never be the same.
From the moment he had regained consciousness after the phaeton accident, waking in his bed in agony, he had been beset by a terrible disinterest. Nothing had intrigued him. No one had moved him. Not even his family, not his friends, not women, although Eugenia and others before her had been pleasant enough bed partners. He’d been seeking distraction every way he could to no avail.
But this stranger in his arms, she felt very intriguing. He thought he could like her. Certainly, he admired her stubbornness, her bravery, her pride in the face of her own ruination and destitution. She was not at all plain, Miss Brooke. He wondered who had ever erroneously told her she was, and then he imagined blackening that stupid clod’s eye.
Her tongue flicked over her lips, taunting him. “Yes.”
He didn’t waste another second in speech. Slowly, lest she change her mind, he angled his head, lowering his mouth to hers. A gentle brush at first. God, her lips were soft and smooth, closed firmly at first. It was the most innocent of kisses, as if she’d never known a man’s mouth on hers before.
Torrie found the notion oddly endearing and alluring. Was she truly that inexperienced? She made a breathy sound of need, her lips parting to emit a small puff of air that stirred his already thickening cock. He cupped her cheek, wishing he weren’t wearing gloves so that he might enjoy the smoothness of her creamy skin against his palm.
But when he had dressed formally for his call, it hadn’t occurred to him that he would be kissing the woman in his arms, let alone that he would wish to. With his lips, he parted hers more fully, his tongue gently teasing until she opened to him. He slid inside, unable to help himself, and tasted the richness of tea she must have taken with her breakfast, along with the sweetness of jam.
Her hands settled on his shoulders at first, and then moved with increasing urgency, exploring his nape above his coat and cravat, her fingers dipping into his hair as she clutched him to her. Such unexpected passion from a woman who appeared to cling to decorum.
Yes, Torrie, thought, they would suit quite well. He hadn’t intended to take a wife yet. Not now, not in his present state. However, he knew that after what had happened the night before, and with Eugenia’s threats looming, he hadn’t a choice. At least they were well matched. She kissed him as if she could devour him, stunning him with her response.
Her lips moved with his and the kiss deepened. It was no longer a chaste brush of one mouth over another. Instead, it was a thorough, steady claiming. But as he held her in his arms, he couldn’t say which of them was emerging the victor. Her hands had shifted to his shoulders now, grasping his coat. They fit together almost perfectly, her breasts crushed against him, her hips soft and welcoming.
How right she felt in his arms, how wondrous. Torrie felt as if he were recognizing some new part of himself that had been previously buried. A need he hadn’t even been aware had been going unfulfilled. He caressed her jaw, then followed the sleek column of her throat. His other hand glided from her waist to the hollow at the small of her back, pressing her more firmly against him. His hardness burrowed into her softness.
Another sound tore from her, and he swallowed it triumphantly, not ceasing in the sensual onslaught he visited upon her mouth. He would kiss her so thoroughly that she would have no choice but to accept his suit. Nothing less than her agreement would do.
“God’s fichu, Torrie.”
The Duke of Montrose’s voice intruded on their idyll, chasing his ardor.
He tore his mouth from Miss Brooke’s and reluctantly stepped away, finding his sister’s husband standing at the threshold of the salon, looking equal parts bemused and grim. “Monty,” he greeted, finding his voice. “You’re intruding.”
