That itching desire entered her bliss. The pleasure started pushing urges into her mind. The long, sweet kisses were no longer enough. She waited impatiently for the caresses her body craved. They did not come. His restraint held.
She couldn’t believe he was going to torture her like this. She impulsively lifted his hand from her side and placed it on her breast. His kiss paused an instant, but she sensed that an hour’s debate occurred in that moment.
“As you wish, darling.”
Better, then. Comforting and exciting and a wave of brief relief. He touched her breasts, finding the tips and teasing until wildness beckoned. Invasive kisses, hot now, determined and hard, bound them in heightened intimacy. Sensuality submerged her until darkness claimed her consciousness. Her essence sought more pleasure, more closeness, more everything.
She slipped her hand under his coat so she might feel him too. He looked down at what she was doing, then managed to shrug off his frock coat without missing more than two beats in their savage dance. She fumbled at the buttons on his waistcoat while he tore off his cravat. More buttons, on his shirt, until enough skin showed for her to press her lips against the skin of his chest.
He held her to that kiss, one hand on her head while his other worked the tapes of her dress. She frantically reached behind to help. Her body wanted to burst out of that dress.
He pushed the sleeves down her arms, then plucked at the lacing to her stays, all the while claiming her mouth with his in ways that sent shiver after shiver down her core. It seemed forever before her stays loosened enough for him to push them down. Her breasts pressed against the lawn of her chemise, wanting more yet.
He looked down while he slid the chemise down her arms, exposing her. The air on her breasts excited her even more. He skimmed his fingertips around one, then the other. “You are very lovely, Davina. Beautiful.”
She looked down at that fine masculine hand barely touching her but causing such anguish and anticipation. She stopped breathing.
That light touch grazed one hard nipple. She almost rose off the divan from the sensation. Then the other. She wanted more of that, of everything. He gave her more while he kissed her again. Her desire became unbearable.
She thought it could not get worse, but it did, when he lowered his head and used his mouth, flicking his tongue and gently nipping with his teeth, when he finally sucked until she cried out, when his caress lowered to her hip, then pushed her legs apart and pressed against her mound.
The dress interfered again. She hated that it kept her from what she wanted. She reached down her skirt and began lifting it. He helped, skimming it higher with long caresses, until his palm found the flesh of her thigh. Higher yet, until finally that warmth rested right near the center of her need.
He touched her there and she cried out, loud. So loud that she heard herself. The sound shattered the dark and fevered small world they had built. It seemed to echo through the entire house.
It stopped none of her hunger, but it stopped his touch. His whole presence stilled. Afraid of what that meant and desperate to continue, she took his face in her hands and kissed him hard.
He let her, and kissed her too, but not with the passion of before. Softer again, kinder. Careful. They were the kisses you might give before the very last one.
He turned his head. She did too. She gritted her teeth. She heard him mutter a curse.
Face set into hard planes of control, he smoothed down her skirt. “I am sorry. I should not—” He lifted the chemise so she was covered. “If you will turn, I will fix the rest.”
She closed her eyes, trying to contain the chaos that plagued her. She could not believe he had stopped. She raised her hand against his offer to help with her garments and shook her head. “I will do it,” she whispered.
One more kiss. The final one that was coming. He stood. “I am sorry. I was not myself.”
Weren’t you?“You were when you started this.”
“Perhaps so.” She heard him move. Walk away. She heard the door open, then close.
She collected herself, but it took some time. Then she managed her stays and tapes and made herself at least passingly presentable. With each minute, she grew angrier.
Did this man, this paragon of restraint, this person carved out of stone, expect her to believe he wasnot himself? He knew exactly what he was doing. What he was starting. To then become conscience-strickenagain, after he had her all but tearing off her clothes—It was inexcusable. Unforgivable. Churlish. Ignoble. Outrageous. It was a good thing he had left, because she wanted to give him the longest, sharpest scold he had ever received in his perfect, ducal, lordly life.
Fuming, her head close to exploding, she strode to the door, cast it open and stomped to the stairs. The footman sitting near the door snapped alert, then veered back when she stopped in front of him. “Where are Brentworth’s chambers?” she demanded.
* * *
The night air barely helped. He stood in front of the open window, breathing deeply, wondering just how he had allowed that to happen.
You ass. He could not claim any defense. He had not only hoped it would happen, he had planned much more. He had spent the day in anticipation. Oh, there had been a noble attempt to separate after dinner, but when she appeared on that terrace, the rest was a tale foretold.
You scoundrel. Wanting a woman did not excuse such behavior. He had insulted her in several ways, and no apology would do. He needed to accept that although he almost always got whatever he wanted, he would not get her. Unless—
Why not? It had been a solution from the start. One the king had proposed and wanted, and one that made more sense than he had admitted. He had to marry someone. Why not a woman he wanted, and also admired?
The reasons why not tried to line up in his head. He ignored all of them except one. She might not have him. He laughed to himself, not at that notion but at the likelihood of it being true. Davina MacCallum had been one of the few people who did not seem to give a damn that he was a duke, and the Duke of Brentworth no less. She might enjoy the luxury of this house and all the others he owned, but he did not think she could be bought by any of it.
