"It wasn't about the scene." His free hand came up to cup her face, tilting it so she was forced to meet his blazing gaze. "That man went after what ismine. My wife. And I needed to establish very clearly what happens when people dare to mistreat what belongs to me."
The possessiveness in his voice should have alarmed her. Should have triggered all her fears about being controlled, about being seen as property rather than person.
Instead, it sent heat curling through her belly.
"What is yours," she repeated softly.
"Yes." His thumb brushed across her cheekbone. "Mine to protect. Mine to cherish. Mine to defend against anyone foolish enough to threaten you. Is that a problem?"
She stared at him; this complicated man who'd somehow become essential to her existence. Who looked at her like she was precious. Who'd been willing to duel for her honor even knowing how much it would distress her.
There was possession in his words, yes. But there was also devotion. Protection.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s not a problem.”
Relief and something more, raw and urgent, flashed in his eyes. “Good.”
He kissed her then, pressing his mouth to hers with force, lips and tongue claiming her. One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, while the other gripped her waist, holding her tight. She gasped, part surprise, part need, and he answered with pressure, moving his lips, exploring, tasting.
Her hands dug into his coat, trying to anchor herself, while his fingers dug into her waist, keeping her from pulling away. Every brush of his tongue against hers sent shivers down her spine. Her knees threatened to buckle, and he shifted, pressing her against him, deepening the kiss until her breath came in ragged bursts.
He drew back only briefly to look at her, lips swollen, chest heaving, before claiming her again. She moaned, her hands roaming over him, pulling him impossibly closer, and he groaned into the kiss, letting the world outside disappear.
When he finally pulled back, both were gasping for air, flushed and trembling.
“We should go inside,” he said, voice rough. “Before I forget we’re in a carriage on a public street and scandalize the neighbors.”
"Yes," Isobel agreed, though she made no move to pull away from him. "We should."
They didn't move.
Andrew laughed, the sound strained. "You're making this very difficult, Duchess."
"Am I?" She smiled, feeling bold and reckless and utterly alive. "Perhaps I'm tired of being proper."
His eyes darkened. "Don't say things like that unless you mean them."
"What if I do mean them?"
"Then," he said, his hand sliding up her thigh in a way that made her breath catch, "we should definitely go inside. Right now. Before I lose what little control I have left."
This time, they moved.
Andrew practically dragged her from the carriage and up the front steps, his hand at her back burning through the fabric of her dress. They made it through the front door, into the entrance hall?—
And stopped.
Mrs. Brendan stood there with Chance at her heels, her expression apologetic. "Your Grace, forgive the interruption, but you have a visitor. He says it's urgent."
"Who?" Andrew bit out, his frustration evident.
"A Mr. Bartholomew Greene, Your Grace. He claims to be from the magistrate's office." Mrs. Brendan's voice dropped. "He's asking questions about the Mayfair Fox."
All the heat drained from the moment. Andrew's hand fell away from Isobel's back, his expression shifting to something cold and controlled.
"Where is he?"
"The drawing room, Your Grace."
