Pen’s first impression was that everything was scarlet.
The walls of the narrow hallway where they found themselves. The carpet on the floor. The air was heavy with the smell of wax, roses and champagne.
“You know what this is, don’t you?” Alworth’s voice sounded again in her ear. He was whispering.
“I neither know nor care,” she also whispered. She wanted to go ahead, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. His hand was warm on her skin.
“It is anid d’amour.” A love nest.
The air between them grew thick. It was the scent of roses that befuddled her mind, Pen told herself.
But suddenly her mind turned to jelly, and there was thick, hot honey oozing through her veins. She’d forgotten why she was here and what she wanted. She looked up at him.
The world receded, and there was only Alworth.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. His hand gently brushed her chin.
Entirely without thinking, she stood on tiptoe and touched her lips to his.
Warm and sweet, it rushed through her mind and sang through her veins. Surprisingly gentle. Full of yearning. Then he crushed her to him, and his kiss deepened, kissing her as if there was no tomorrow.
Pen felt drunk.
Drunk on a kiss.
His lips left hers to nibble on her earlobe. “I think,” Alworth murmured into her ear, “I think we’re not alone.”
She looked up at him, blinking. “What?”
He took her arm and led her down the short, narrow hallway, which ended in a scarlet room. A small fountain with a marble statue of Cupid and his arrow graced one corner. In front of it was a scarlet velvet sofa.
On it, in semi-deshabille, was a lady—and the Duke of Rochford, passionately kissing.
Pen gasped.
“Of course,” Alworth said in a resigned tone. “The Duke of Rochford and Lady Carrington.” She was Lady Whittlesborough’s daughter and a widow.
The duke lifted his head. He blinked in drunken confusion when he saw Pen.
“Is that you, Princess?”
