“Was that your first time coming?”
“C-coming?” She seemed dazed.
“Climaxing,” he demanded, furious now, at her, at himself, at Eastleigh, at the world. He strode over. “Climaxing—le petit mort,the French call it. It means having an orgasm, if one wishes to be clinical.”
“You mean…what happened at the end?” Her gaze never left his.
He nodded. The urge was sudden and huge, to strike her not just physically, but to strike her out of his life. “When you began screaming like a whore,” he said coldly, hating himself for being so cruel and helplessly wishing to be even crueler.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
Relief overwhelmed him—and only increased the fury. “Remind me to never offer you a Scotch again,” he said.
She winced. “It had nothing to do with the Scotch,” she said unsteadily, but her head was high. “It had everything to do with you.”
He walked away. He did not intend to hear another word, oh no.
“I have never been kissed before, Devlin,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
VIRGINIA DECIDED THAT SHEhated her dark blue silk dress and the black pelisse that went with it almost as much as she hatedhim.She stared at her pale reflection inhismirror, her eyes impossibly huge, the pupils dilated, her mouth appearing oddly swollen, or at least, it seemed far larger, lusher and riper than before. It was the morning after. She trembled and wished himdead.
But what, exactly, would that solve? She would be free, oh yes, to go her unhappy way, but she would not be free of the memory of him.
She flushed.
Something was terribly wrong with her. That fact, at least, was clear. Because while no woman could be immune to a man like Devlin O’Neill, the combination of power, danger and impossibly virile good looks inescapable, only a fool would be held against her will and then think to entice him to kiss her. Therefore, she was a very foolish woman, because last night, alone with him in his cabin, her escape thoroughly thwarted, she had begun to think about his touch and his kisses, when she should have been scheming up another escape instead.
“Are you ready?” he demanded from outside the cabin door. Last night he had disappeared, sleeping God only knew where. And he had locked the cabin door behind him when he had left—Virginia had tested it to be certain.
The worst part was, Virginia decided, still staring at her reflection and wondering who the wanton woman staring back at her really was, she more than ached for his touch. She wanted to know if she had somehow imagined what had happened. Surely she had. Surely the excitement and thrill of being in his arms, his mouth and body on hers, had not been as huge and vast as she recalled. Surely, if he held and kissed her again, she would not be affected. This had to be a terrible mistake!
He walked in, clad in a pale gray coat that matched his eyes, riding britches and worn Hessian boots. His expression was filled with impatience. Instantly their gazes met in the looking glass.
Virginia simply could not breathe.
His gaze raked her. “We’ll have your clothes pressed at Askeaton. Come. The coach is waiting.”
Virginia bit her lip and turned, moving past him with the utmost caution, as if afraid he might reach out for her—or she would reach out for him. His gaze narrowed as he watched her, and finally exasperation sounded in his tone. “Forget about last night,” he snapped. “It was a mistake and it won’t happen again.”
She whirled. “Why not?”
“So now you are eager to warm my bed? One brief encounter—although a mutually satisfying one, I assure you—and you have changed your tune?”
“I wouldn’t mind if you shared my bed.” And that was the terrible truth.
His gaze widened.
Virginia wished she were a different woman, one not so amoral and not so outspoken. But the fool remained, oh yes.
“Have you no wish to be innocent and chaste on your wedding night?” he finally asked seriously.
“I hadn’t ever thought about it,” she said truthfully.
He started. “It’s what all women think about—dream of—live for.”
She became annoyed instantly. “Not this one! I have no intention of ever marrying, not unless I find the love my parents had.”
