His.
Fuck, this new possessiveness was going to be the death of him.
Her tongue met his, and the kiss dragged on until they were both out of breath.
“What’s wrong?” she panted against his mouth. “Not that I’m opposed to kissing, but something seems amiss.”
“I hated to see you leave with him,” he rasped, plastering his body against hers. They were both damp and sticky from the heat. Pressing against her only made it worse, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
Who cared what his clothes were doing when he finally had her in his arms again?
“I wish I hadn’t had to go.”
“I almost got up and challenged him. But I couldn’t because no one can know about our betrothal yet, and you have no damn idea how much I wanted to let them all know that you’re mine.” He buried his face in the crook of her neck. “I’ve never been like this. I’ve never cared so much about claiming someone, but now that I have you, I want the world to know it.”
She cupped the back of his head, silently encouraging him to kiss and nip at her collarbone. “How do you think I feel when Lady Somerset continually flirts with you? I want to ask Betsy to sneak into her room in the middle of the night and cut off her hair.”
He chuckled and ran his lips across her soft skin. “I’m not interested in Lady Somerset.”
“Not now,” she amended, reminding him that that wasn’t always the case. “Just like I’m no longer interested in the baron.”
He raised his head, and she gazed up at him, her well-kissed lips parted and her eyes shining like liquid sapphires.
“At least we don’t have to wait much longer. What did Baron Sylvestor want?”
She stretched onto her toes and kissed him, then pushed him back, allowing air to circulate between them, cooling them slightly. “He asked why I’ve been avoiding him. I told him that my affection lies elsewhere.”
Satisfaction curled in Nicholas’s gut. “You really told him that?”
“I did.” Her smile turned mischievous. “Don’t worry, Nicholas. The baron knows that I’m yours.”
“He’d better.”
In a way, Nicholas pitied Baron Sylvestor. He knew what it was like to want Sophie, and he’d won her over, while the baron would leave empty-handed. However, he also wanted the man as far from her as possible.
She tilted her head to the side. “He thinks you won’t marry me.”
Fury scorched through him and stole his air, making it difficult to breathe.
“He’s wrong.”
“Yes, he is.”
Thank God she knew that. If Sylvestor had made her doubt him, he’d have discovered that Nicholas wasn’t always the easygoing Blackwell brother.
“Thank you for trusting me.”
She deserved a reward for that. He glanced around the room, noting the large desk in the center of the space. This was Lord Wembley’s office. It was empty, since the man in question was engaged in a game of whist outdoors, and, when Nicholas had last seen him, he hadn’t looked like he was prepared to move anytime soon.
Placing his hands on her hips, he spun her around and guided her back to the desk. She propped her bottom on the edge, and he grabbed handfuls of her skirt, prepared to lift it and show her how much he appreciated her faith in him.
The click of a latch ricocheted through the otherwise quiet room.
Nicholas froze.
Hell. Was that…?
He released Sophie’s skirt and pivoted toward the door just as it opened, and Lady Wembley glided through.
