He placed his mouth near the sensitive place upon her neck that drove all women wild. “That is what you want then,” he purred, bringing his lips in a deliberately accidental kiss. “The wallflower wants to be tupped by London’s most notorious rake.”
The natural uptilt of her snub nose wrinkled. “I’ve already told you what I want.”
Her reply contained a frown.
At last, some emotion from her.
Not, however, the anticipated, desired one—lust.
“And it is not to be…tupped by you.”
Argyll stiffened.
“Or any man,” she murmured, patting his arm gently.
Thunderation, the bizarre chit sought to soothe his pride?
Let us see how far she could carry on this way.“Ah,” he breathed against the hollow of her throat. “How could I forget? Miss Kearsley yearns to be my bride.” He lightly sucked at the dark vein along the deliciously long curve of her neck. Alternating between his tongue and his lips, Argyll traced that surprisingly tantalizing blade of blue.
Lust stirred. For the first time and what would certainly be the last, in his mind, he stripped the lady bare. She’d be just as oddly white all over, with more of those veins on vivid display, he’d follow to what delightful places.
He bit her harder than intended.
His breathing came slightly faster.
It’d be folly to mark the lady. Why, with what she’d revealed, he likely had more than a foot into a marriage trap. He’d never had one like her before.
“I need you, Gregory.”
Masculine victory over this woman who’d, until now, revealed nothing sent his lust climbing. He’d cracked her unfaltering defenses. Argyll buried his smile against her throat. “Yes, you do.” He filled his hands with her small, perky breasts. “You need me. Let me help you.” Through the lacy fabric of her lace and silk bodice, he teased her nipples. They sprung to tight, sizeable peaks. How interesting. Such big tips for breasts so small they didn’t even fill his palm.
Argyll dragged his thumbs along her nipples, playing with them. Teasing them. Teasing her. And surprisingly enjoying his diversionverymuch.
A fresh wave of lust hit his randy cock.
Argyll didn’t dally with innocents. They were too much work, too prone to tenderness and weeping and all manner of inconvenient expectations. He’d never taken a virgin and had little appetite for breaking a woman in. But Miss Kearsley, a known wallflower and a woman who knew her mind, deserved a measure of fun in her depressingly dull, grim life.
His breathing slowed, a touch ragged with wanting. “You needed only to say what you yearn for, Miss Kearsley.”
“Daria.”
He brushed a kiss at the angle of her jaw. “Daria.” Fine. Whatever pleased the wallflower.
“I believe you misunderstand. I do not want to have relations with you, Gregory. I need to marry you.”
Argyll stilled, lips paused at her chin. He lifted his gaze.
The lady’s decidedly un-heaving bosom shifted beneath a careless, almost apologetic shrug.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
By God, she was…she was…unmoved?
With a low curse, he tore his hands from her and retreated several steps, as though distance might restore sense. “Your attics to let, madam,” he whispered, appalled.
She tilted her neck—the very neck he had worshipped with deliberate, well-honed attentions—bloody mystified over what he was on about.
Shaking his head, Argyll proceeded to leave.
