“Oh,” was all she could manage.
Hardly coherent. Scarcely a response. But his hardness was pressed against her, and she could feel every inch of his muscled, masculine body warming and tempting hers. Her breaths were falling heavily, and desire burned to life. Her every defense against Viscount Torrington, tormentor of her failed Seasons, handsome, perfect rakehell, sinner, and scoundrel, was disintegrating in helpless fashion.
His lips found the curve of her ear. “Bess?”
“Yes?” she managed, half sigh, half whisper.
“I want you. If you aren’t ready, tell me now, and I’ll return to my chamber and we both can forget this conversation ever happened. I’ll wait if I must.”
She inhaled swiftly, then exhaled slowly. He wanted her. Torrie wanted her.
Did she dare to believe him? Was he being honest with her?
Apparently, Torrie sensed her concern, for his lips glided over her ear first, then her temple, kissing her softly. “Trust me, Bess. This is just as new for me as it is for you.”
Trust him? Trust the man who had once disparaged her with such ease? Trust the scoundrel who had kidnapped her, mistaking her for his mistress? Trust the handsome devil for whom life had been so irritatingly easy, aside from his phaeton accident and loss of memory?
She should resent him. She should deny him. By no means should Elizabeth surrender to her longstanding desire for him, regardless of how tempting he was, no matter how kind and caring and melting his words were. He had called her plump and plain. A partridge.
She tried to remind herself, but her body was woefully traitorous at the moment, and the man she had married was not the same man of that long-ago day.
He caressed her hips as if he were committing the lines of her figure to memory. “Bess? Do you trust me?”
No, she didn’t. Yes, she did. It was complicated and horrible, and she wanted him and loathed him at the same time.
“Yes,” she whispered, the concession leaving her before she could rethink it. “I do.”
“Good.” His lips were on her nape, soothing, kissing. “Because I’ve been thinking about making you mine from the moment you agreed to marry me.”
At his possessive words, her knees went weak. They trembled, and she would have sprawled to the floor in an undignified heap had he not caught her, holding her to him, his face buried in her hair, his mouth on her throat. He kissed her neck, his lips demanding and smooth as they worked over her greedy flesh, the heat of his breath sending a shiver through her that had nothing to do with a chill.
She angled her head, giving him more access to her throat. His mouth trailed a path of fire to the edge of her night rail, then he rubbed his face against her, the prickle of his whiskers making her nipples hard.
“You have?” she asked, breathless and yet doubting.
His hands smoothed over her waist. “Of course. I’ve scarcely been able to think of anything else. Why do you think I went to Winter’s Boxing Academy this morning?”
So that was where he had been.
“For sport?”
“For distraction.” He spun her slowly so that she faced him.
Her hands settled on his broad chest, and she couldn’t help but to notice how well-muscled and firm it was. “Oh.” She thought suddenly of the Countess of Worthing. Was he continuing to see her? Was she still his mistress, or had he taken another?
“You’re thinking,” he guessed. “What is amiss? Have I pressed you too soon?”
“I was thinking of Lady Worthing,” she blurted. “Is she still your mistress?”
“I gave her the congé the day after that night,” he said solemnly.
Relief washed over her. More questions clamored inside her. Would he take another mistress? Did he intend to be a faithful husband? Somehow, these worries had not weighed on her before. But now they were like a waterfall, raining down on her.
Still, she didn’t know how to ask them. Wasn’t sure she could bear the answers.
“Thank you,” she said instead.
He cupped her face, his thumb brushing reverently over her jaw. “You needn’t thank me, Bess.”
