His hand stilled. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then tell me.” She caught his hand, holding it against her cheek. “Stop hiding behind warnings and threats and tell me something real.”
For a moment, she thought he’d pull away. Then, so quietly she had to strain to hear: “I killed men in India. Many men. Some deserved it. Some were simply in the way.”
“Soldiers?”
“Some. Others were...” He pulled his hand free, turning away. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, your father’s right. You should be afraid of me.”
“But I’m not.”
He spun back, eyes blazing. “Then you’re a fool.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps I see what you refuse to.” She took a slow step closer, drawn by some force she couldn’t name. “You’re not the beast they paint you as, Adrian. A true beast wouldn’t wrestle with its own conscience. Wouldn’t care enough to push me away for my sake.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I?” She was close enough to see the rapid pulse at his throat, to feel the tension radiating from him. “Then prove me wrong. Be the beast they say you are.”
His control snapped. She saw it happen—the careful walls crumbling, replaced by raw hunger. He grabbed her waist, pulling her against him hard enough to steal her breath.
“You want the beast?” His voice was rough, dangerous. “Fine.”
His mouth crashed down on hers, and Marianne’s world exploded.
This was nothing like the careful, chaste kisses she’d imagined. This was fire and demand, his tongue claiming her mouth with devastating thoroughness. She should have beenshocked, should have pushed him away. Instead, she melted against him, her hands fisting in his jacket as she kissed him back with equal fervour.
He groaned against her mouth, the sound sending heat straight to her core. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her back, tangling in her carefully arranged hair. He walked her backwards until she hit the glass wall, the cool surface a shock against her heated skin.
“This is what you’ve awakened,” he said against her lips, his breathing ragged. “This hunger. This madness. I want to devour you, Marianne. Want to have you right here—against the glass, heedless of who might see.”
“Adrian—”
“Say it again.” His mouth moved to her throat, teeth grazing her pulse. “Say my name.”
“Adrian,” she breathed, her head falling back as he found a spot below her ear that made her entire body shiver.
“You will be ruined,” he warned, even as his grip on her waist tightened. “Your reputation destroyed. Society will tear you apart.”
“Let them.” She pulled his head up, meeting his wild gaze. “I don’t care.”
“You should.” But he was kissing her again, deep and desperate, like a drowning man seeking air. His hand slid up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through hercorset, and she made a sound she’d never made before—needy and wanton.
“Your Grace? Miss Whitcombe?”
They broke apart at Jenkins’s voice, both breathing hard. Adrian’s hair was dishevelled where her fingers had tangled in it, his eyes still wild with want. Marianne knew she must look equally undone.
“Your parents request your return to the drawing room, miss,” Jenkins called, carefully refraining from stepping into the conservatory proper.
“Tell them we shall be there directly,” Marianne managed, her voice steadier than she felt.
They waited until his footsteps receded. Adrian stepped back, dragging a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to restore order.
“This was a mistake,” he said.
“Was it?”
“Your father trusted me alone with you.”
