She’d never kissed a man like this.
Never a man like this…
His mouth was hot and skilled, with a taste still new, but remembered from the morning and already delicious. It stirred fires in her she’d never imagined. Soon her whole body burned for him, rubbed against him as if layers of clothing could melt away and bring them, as she scandalously longed to be, skin to searing skin….
It was he who broke the kiss, he who put space between them.
For pride’s sake, Genova stopped herself from pursuing.At least he looked as wild as she felt, eyes dark, breaths deep. His disordered coat, hair, and cravat were, she knew, entirely her work.
She had to say something, something that would cover the way she felt. “I think that’s more than a guinea’s worth, my lord.”
“What’s the price for a night, then?”
After a devastated moment, she slapped him.
She surged to her feet to run, but he caught her to him. “I apologize. I apologize! I didn’t mean it like that.” Then he laughed. “Yes, I did, but I meant no slur. Lord,” he groaned, “I can’t even make sense.”
She pushed and he let her go. She gathered herself as best she could. “I accept the apology, my lord. I think we were both a little carried away.”
“A little…”
She had to conceal how strongly she’d been affected. If he knew, he’d pursue and she’d drown in the flames. Could one drown in flames…?
“There must be no more of this,” she said, proud of her flat voice.
“Must,” he repeated softly.
She put out a hand to hold him off, though he hadn’t made a move.
“Yet we must act the lovers for a day or two, Genova.”
“Not like that!”
“No, alas. Not like that.”
She was braced for attack and afraid she would succumb, but he turned and picked up something from the window seat. It was the pins and combs that had held her hair in place. She put up a hand and found it in wild disorder. It was thick and heavy and must look a tawdry mess.
She gathered it with shaking hands into a tight knot and took a proffered pin to skewer it in place. Then another, and another, reassembling Genova Smith, woman of sense. The combs were decorative, and she thrust them in last. Her hair could look nothing likeRegeanne’s skillful arrangement, but it would look vaguely as she was used to wearing it.
He was watching her, his face shadowed, for his back was to the light Could he hear her pounding heart? Could he smell her perfume as she smelled a spicy, subtle scent from him?
She tried to hold him off with words. “Remember, my lord, if you seduce me, I will hold you to the betrothal.”
After a moment, he nodded. “Then be strong for both of us, Genova Smith, for we will be dancing very close to the flames.”
He picked up her shawl, clearly intending to wrap it around her, but she grabbed it and backed toward the arch. “There’s no need to escort me, my lord.”
He stayed where he was, all cool, disordered, desirable elegance in the moonlight. “Perhaps I was hoping you knew the way back.”
“Back to where?”
“Ah, an interesting question. For we’re not where we were when you entered this room, are we?”
Breath caught by that, Genova turned and walked out of the gallery.
Ash watched the place where he’d last glimpsed Genova Smith, his body still hot with desire for her, with dangerous, irrational physical need.
The woman was magnificent, but terrifying. She seemed to accept no boundaries, and he did not want her hurt by whatever happened here. He wanted her, but that way would lead to a disastrous marriage. She was not the bride he needed.
