‘Just don’t choose a man like me,’ he added, trying to make his voice jovial, and annoyed that it held a strained quality.
She said nothing, just continued to gaze at him, her eyes shining, those full red lips still temptingly parted.
‘Choose a man you can love and who can love you in the manner you so rightly deserve.’
His words were hardly out when, as if he was being granted a wish he knew he should not ask for, those beautiful, soft lips were lightly kissing his.
Margaret’s hand snaked around the back of the Duke’s neck and she cursed her evening gloves for keeping the touch of his skin from her fingers.
She should not have kissed him, should not still be kissing him. Margaret knew that, but his gentle words had stripped away the last of her resistance until she no longer knew what was right and what was wrong. All she knew was what she wanted.
And this was what she wanted.
She’d wanted his kisses so desperately that every inch of her body burned for that forbidden intoxicant. And now that she’d had one taste, like any drug, she wanted more—so much more.
Oh, yes, this was what she had to have.
She kissed him harder, loving the smell of his expensive sandalwood cologne, that underlying masculine scent, the feel of his rough cheek against her smooth one, but mostly loving the taste of him. A taste she could not get enough of.
Her hand ran through his hair, weaving possessively into the curls as her lips continued to taste his.
She’d fought hard enough to deny the effect he had on her. When jealousy had consumed her on meeting his ex-lover, she’d tried to be appalled by him. When she’d imagined him taking one or more of those high-kicking show girls as his lover she’d tried to tell herself she was not envious but outraged. When the truth was that she longed to feel what those women had felt when he took them in his arms.
Now she did and it was glorious.
If he’d tried to seduce her, she knew she would never have kissed him. Her guard would have come up immediately. Her notorious sharp tongue would have lashed out at him. Instead, he made her feel beautiful, desirable, a woman who was sure to find a man who would love her, but right now that was not what she wanted.
She wanted no other man. Just him.
‘We shouldn’t,’ he said, his voice a husky growl, before his lips trailed a line of kisses down her neck, each kiss sending waves of warm pleasure cascading through her body.
He was right. They shouldn’t. But each touch of his lips on her sensitive skin further stoked the fire burning inside her and she knew she would not be stopping until he quenched it.
‘Yes, we should,’ she murmured, and angled her head, exposing more of her neck to his nuzzling lips.
Oh, yes, we most certainly should. But she wanted more than just his kisses, as glorious as they were. She wanted to feel his caressing hands on her body, wanted to explore the skin and muscles under his shirt. She wanted to lose herself to every pleasure this magnificent man could give her.
To that end, she wrapped her arms around his back and sank down onto the carriage bench, taking him with her.
His body covered hers, the delicious weight and warmth seeping into her, and his kisses once again found her lips. Both hands encircled his head and she kissed him with a fervour which she could not control.
His tongue moved tantalisingly over her bottom lip, and she parted her lips wider in response. When his tongue entered her mouth she released a sudden gasp of surprise, then gave herself over to the exquisite sensual pleasure as he kissed her harder, deeper, with more insistence.
Writhing beneath him, she returned his kisses and rubbed her soft breasts with their tight sensitive peaks against his firm chest, each stroke sending ever increasing heat pounding through her body.
Margaret knew she was lost. Lost to him. Completely.
‘Unhand my daughter, you scoundrel,’ an angry male voice burst into her dazed mind. The Duke sat up immediately, taking her with him.
Unsure what was happening, she looked towards the open door and her enraged father glowering at them. Behind him, peeking over his shoulder, her mother was beaming like a child on Christmas Day who had received every present she had ever wished for.
Margaret’s hand shot to her mouth to cover the gasp trying to escape, and her body, which seconds before was tingling with pleasure, now burned with embarrassment.
‘Winifred,’ her father said, ‘take your daughter inside while I have words with the Duke.’
‘No, Father. You don’t understand…’ Margaret said, finally finding her voice and fully taking in the seriousness of what her parents had just witnessed. Feeling mortified at being caught by her parents in a passionate embrace was really the least of her problems.
‘I understand perfectly,’ her father snapped. ‘Get inside, Margaret. Now. I will deal with this situation.’
