Gabriel watched her, considering. “In Hallworth’s case, his reputation is cause enough. He seduced the Countess of Loughridge out of her own wedding breakfast. He challenged Viscount Braxton to pistols at dawn because Braxton wore a similar waistcoat to the Almack’s assembly. Last season, he absconded with an Italian opera singer for a fortnight, returned her to her husband with a thank-you note, and was found in the company of the Archbishop’s niece the same evening. And that,” he concluded, “is only a sample of the scandals one can say aloud.”
Eden bit her lip, eyes dancing. “He sounds rather like you, in your youth.”
Gabriel feigned wounded pride. “I was never so reckless. Nor so thoroughly bored.”
“I remember a story about you and Lady Telford’s cousin at the Christmas ball,” Eden countered.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes bright with memory and desire. “You see through me, as always. I confess, I was a scoundrel once. But even then, I never sought to wound. Hallworth delights in it.”
She turned the thought over. “Still. There was something in Clara’s face. I do wonder what happened.”
Gabriel’s gaze darkened, his voice dropping an octave. “Does your curiosity extend only to other people’s secrets, Lady Blackstone? Or do you ever wonder what secrets I might be keeping?”
She arched a brow, teasing. “You are an open book, my lord.”
“Oh? Then read me.” He crooked a finger, beckoning her to cross the small expanse between them.
She did, sliding closer until their knees touched. The carriage swayed. The light painting Gabriel’s features with a burnished gold that made her heart stumble.
His hand settled at her waist, fingers splayed over the firm wool of her traveling gown. “You are clever, Eden, and gentle, and so good it hurts to look at you sometimes.”
“I am not gentle,” she said, voice barely a whisper. “Not with you.”
He laughed, a rough, wicked sound that made heat pool in her belly. “I should hope not. If you were, I might die of boredom.”
She pressed her hand to his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart through his shirt and waistcoat. “What would you rather die of?”
He caught her hand, brought it to his lips, kissed her wrist where her pulse leaped and fluttered, just as he had once done in the garden at midsummer, when everything between them had first begun to bloom. “Desire. Or, failing that, by your hand, in a fit of marital passion.”
She shivered with desire. “You are incorrigible.”
“And you,” he said, pulling her fully into his lap, “are everything I ever wanted, but never dared to wish for.” He nuzzled the line of her jaw, his stubble rough against her skin. “Do you know how beautiful you are when you look at me as though I were the only man in the world?”
“You are,” she said, voice fierce.
He claimed her mouth then, the kiss urgent, hungry, the sort that made her forget the slow roll of the carriage or that they were even in a carriage at all. His tongue swept hers, coaxing and taunting, until her head spun and her hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, always closer. He palmed her breast through her dress, thumb circling until her nipple peaked hard beneath the fabric. She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, devouring her.
She broke the kiss only when the need for air became unbearable, eyes gone heavy-lidded and wild. “If you keep this up, we will arrive at Blackstone with me in a state of utter disarray.”
He nipped at her lower lip, tracing the plumpness with his tongue. “That is rather the point, my dear.”
“You are shameless,” she breathed, but her hips rolled against him, seeking friction, and she moaned when she found it.
“Only for you,” he rasped.
She fumbled at his cravat, tearing it loose with less grace than she would like to admit, then reached for his falls. He let her, his hands not idle—one tracing slow, burning circles at the small of her back, the other delving beneath the layers of her skirts. His fingers were cold against her heated skin, but the sensation only heightened the urgency.
He found the bare flesh of her thigh, stroked upward, and when his knuckles brushed the dampness of her center, he groaned. “No stockings?”
She shook her head, pride glittering in her gaze.
His breath hitched. “If you wish to teach me a lesson, this is a good start.” His fingers dipped between her legs, and he slid one finger into her, then a second, curling them to stroke that hidden place that always made her lose herself.
Eden arched against him, biting back a cry as pleasure arrowed through her. She clung to his shoulders. The world narrowing to the heat of his breath, the relentless drive of his hand.
He worked her mercilessly, never looking away from her face, delighting in every gasp, every whispered plea. “You are close,” he murmured, voice dark and coaxing. “I can feel it.”
“Gabriel—”
