Could…love?
The idea, novel and not unappealing, stunned him.
A thought for later, perhaps.
She needed to understand something, now. “I like to be liked in the general sense.” He shrugged. “It’s rather nice that I elicit that response in people. But I don’t particularly give a toss whether or not the people in that mansion”—he pointed toward Tristan and Amelia’s impressive residence—“like all of me, or even half of me.” He pushed off the wall. “I care about the opinion of only one person.”
She swallowed. “And who is that?” she asked, a telling rasp in her voice.
“Do you like me?”
“Yes…sometimes.”
He spread his hands wide. “See? Even you prefer one Archie over the other.”
She shook her head, her eyes burning, and closed the distance between them. He just caught a hint of her familiar lemon and rose scent. “I like the Archie who expresses himself fromhere.” Her forefinger dug into his chest. “From the heart.”
Before he could think about what he was doing, he caught her hand and peeled the glove away. He brought her hand to his mouth. Her skin against his, even this small patch, the dose that only enhanced need. For it was a fact he’d become addicted to her. On instinct, his mouth trailed to her wrist. “And do you like the Archiewho kisses youhere?”
“Yes,” she said, a bit breathless, her luminous amber eyes gone cloudy with tell-tale desire.
He inched closer, trailing up the sensitive skin of her inner arm, leaving goose bumps in his wake. She steadied herself with her other hand on his shoulder.
He’d made her knees go weak.
He liked that.
What he was doing at this moment… What he was contemplating doing in the next few moments… It was madness.
That was the long and short of it.
He was absolutely mad for this woman.
So mad he would take her in a duke’s secret garden, if she would have him.
He reached the delicate sleeve of her coral silk gown, whose color sat perfectly against her olive complexion. He wanted to taste the delicate line of her clavicle, but there was something he must do first. “Can I please toss this horrid fichu into the bushes?”
She breathed out a laugh. “Yes.”
“Who thought it was a good idea to conceal these curves?” he asked, untucking the offending garment and flinging it away. “They must be celebrated and worshipped.” He ran his tongue along her collarbone before dipping to kiss one creamy mound, then the other, appreciating that this dress was barely up to the task of containing them.
A voice of reason cut through the fog of desire.
He should retrieve her fichu and stop here.
Digging deep inside himself and summoning every last ounce of will, he straightened, thereby removing his mouth from her body.
Valentina’s eyes flew open. “What are you doing?”
“What I should have done last night.” A beat. “And this afternoon.” Another beat. “And thirty seconds ago.” He swallowed againsthis dry throat. “I’m being a gentleman and stopping,” he said, hoarse.
“Stopping?” she asked, incredulous. She reached out and grabbed his cravat. “And what if I have no interest in being a lady?”
The thing was, he’d never possessed strength of will when it came to resisting pleasures of the flesh.
And resisting the pleasure that was Miss Valentina Hart?
Impossible.
