He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. Her reaction—her past—was none of his concern.
Graham would do his best to comfort her until the weather changed. After that, he would see her home. Nothing more—nothing less.
Unfortunately, the storm showed no sign of waning soon. In fact, he would wager it was strengthening. The lightning flashed with more frequency as the thunder continued to roll and wind lashed the cottage.
They may well find themselves trapped here for the next several hours. He lowered his head to hers, inhaling her fragrance of jasmine and honey. Then allowed his eyes to drift shut. He could think of far worse places to be stranded.
Though none more dangerous. The thought sent a wave of trepidation through him.
Every moment he spent with her tested his strength, his ability to resist temptation, and he well knew his own limits. He would not make it long with the siren pressed against him. His muscles were tight, his breeches already straining, and he had not even kissed her—yet.
The devil with it.
He turned slightly, then captured her lips with his. She did not jump or scream at the next rumble of thunder. Neither did she tremble when the lightning flashed. He deepened the kiss, sweeping his tongue into her sweet mouth.
She gave herself over to the sensations, meeting him swirl for swirl, nip for nip, glide for glide. Just as she had the night of the masquerade, she turned wanton and willing in his arms. He felt the very moment she surrendered to the pleasure, and it drove him wild with desire.
He slipped his hand under the blanket and trailed his fingers along her skin. His hand found its way to her breast, where he gently teased and rubbed until her nipple stood firmly against his palm. Phoebe responded with a soft moan and arched her back, pressing her body closer to him.
He should stop—he knew he should—and yet, he did not. Just a few more minutes. A couple more kisses, another moment to explore her curves, Graham told himself as he trailed kisses across her cheek down to the hollow of her throat.
Her fingers sank into the soft strands of his hair, pulling him closer to her as she let out a low, raspy moan.
He traveled lower, pushing the blanket down to her waist. Her damp chemise clung to her firm breast, and he nipped and licked the flesh above the hem, then pushed it lower to reveal the treasures beneath. Creamy peaks with straining rose-colored nipples greeted him.
Graham groaned with desire as he took one firm nipple into his mouth. He suckled and licked, teasing her flesh as she clung to him, squirming and moaning beneath him.
Moving to her other breast, he gave it the same attention before making his way back to her lips. He had the unsettling notion that he would never get enough of her. That nothing short of bedding her would satisfy his lust.
But even in his most despicable moments, he still had a hint of honor, of chivalry and respectability. Phoebe was an innocent. She was Camden’s sister-in-law. He could not, would not, ruin her.
He pulled back, removing his hand from her breast, only two have her pull him back, her lips crashing against his. In that moment, he was powerless to deny her the release she sought.
Graham would bring her pleasure, but he would not take her maidenhead, no matter how badly he wanted to. With the decision made, he reached for the blanket and pulled it away, then slid his hand between her thighs.
She spread her legs wider, inviting him closer as their kiss grew more passionate. He trailed his fingers along her inner thigh, eliciting a shiver of anticipation. She pressed herself against his touch as he found her soft curls, slipping a finger inside her heat. His mouth muffled her moans as he deepened the kiss, savoring the taste of her sweet pleasure.
Thunk.
The cottage door swung open, banging against the wall, startling them both. Phoebe jumped, a small scream ripping from her throat. “Father!”
Graham released a breath as he met Lord Chesterfield’s blazing eyes. Bloody hell.
“You bastard,” Lord Chesterfield yelled. He stormed across the room, his wide stride eating up the floor until he had reached them.
“Papa—”
“Do not Papa me, young lady! See yourself to the carriage this instant.” He pointed to the door, his gaze narrowed.
She gave Graham a wide-eyed glance, then scrambled to her feet, holding the blanket around her shoulders.
Lord Chesterfield grabbed Graham by his jacket and tugged him to his feet.
Graham could have fought. He could have thrown a punch, perhaps knocked the lord out, but he did not bother to defend himself. Whatever Lord Chesterfield did to him was well deserved. After all, Graham had taken liberties with the man’s daughter.
“Wait,” Camden’s familiar voice called out from the door. “Violence will not solve anything.”
“The devil it won’t.” Chesterfield’s grip tightened. His knuckles turned white as he shook Graham, seething with rage. “You dare lay a hand on my daughter? You will pay for your despicable actions,” he snarled through gritted teeth.
