“Nonsense, child. Lord Crossisour host, you know, and in any case, I’m certain he only wishes to thank you for suggesting such a clever game to entertain his guests this afternoon. Isn’t that right, Lord Cross?” Lady Fosberry raised an eyebrow at him.
“Yes, of course, my lady.”
“He can thank me right—”
He whisked her away before she could protest further, hurrying her from the drawing room, through the entryway and down the adjacent hallway toward his study.
“For pity’s sake, Lord Cross, there’s no need to drag me!”
She snatched at her hand, and he released her, but he closed the study door behind them, and leaned his back against it.
“If you’ve quite finished manhandling me, Lord Cross, then—”
“Show me your sketch.”
“What? I certainly will not!”
“Oh, but you will, Juliet.” He gathered a lock of her hair in his hand, stifling a groan at the dark, silky drag of it, as if he’d caught a ribbon of midnight on his fingertips. “I’m afraid I must insist.”
“You’re mad.” Her eyes widened as he wrapped the lock of her hair around his fingers and gently drew her closer, then closer still. Her gaze darted toward the door behind him, but unless she wanted to climb him like a tree, there was no escape that way.
He released his hold on her hair when she began to back away, but he followed her, and soon enough she came up against the long length of his desk behind her. “Lord Cross—”
“Show me your sketch.” He advanced on her slowly, his footsteps thudding in time with his thundering heartbeat. God, he’d gone mad, prowling after her like this. But he kept going, his gaze trapped by the frantic fluttering of her pulse in the pale hollow of her throat. “Show me your sketch, Juliet.”
“No! How dare you? I don’t have to show you anything.”
He was upon her now, close enough he drew her scent inside himself with every breath, vanilla warmed by her skin, a delicate flush of color across her cheeks, and that pulse point at her neck fluttering wildly…
“Shall I show you mine, then?” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled the folded paper out. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, Juliet?”
“No, I…” She pressed her hand over her throat. “No.”
“Liar.” She did want to see it, was leaning closer to him even now, perhaps without realizing it, her throat working, her eyes as blue as the last moments of twilight, just before the sun sinks below the horizon, and the sky turns its darkest, deepest shade before it fades to black.
Except they weren’t just blue, were they? They were flecked with gold, like tiny stars scattered in a midnight sky, so tiny one wouldn’t notice them unless they were as close to her as he was now.
Had he ever been this close to her? So unbearably, intoxicatingly close…
“Such blue, blue eyes.” He touched her chin, raising her face to his. “I’ve never seen eyes as blue as yours.”
A furrow appeared on that smooth, white brow. “Well, you needn’t sound so put out about it.”
“But Iamput out, Juliet.” He couldn’t stop staring at her mouth. He reached out to trace his thumb over her pouting lower lip, and every part of his body went tight, every inch of him clenched and aching from the glide of the red, petal-soft flesh under his fingertip.
“Are you… going to k-kiss me, Lord Cross?”
Was he? It was madness for him to kiss a lady who addressed him so formally, as if they’d never sat beside each other in a carriage, their thighs pressed together, or walked down a narrow pathway in a lush rose garden, side by side, the backs of her gloved fingers brushing his.
Had he really believed he could forget her? Every touch, every word, every smile they’d shared, he remembered it all, and he was selfish—so selfish, because hewantedher, even knowing he didn’t deserve her.
But he no longer cared, because she was gazing up at him with those sleepy, dark blue eyes, and he was sliding his fingers under her chin, her skin softer than a whisper, and raising her face to his so he could take her mouth.
Deeply. Wet. The way he’d wanted to since he’d first heard that sultry voice, the edge of impudence that made him want to nip at her, taste the pertness of her tongue.
She didn’t pull away, but urged him closer, the soft curves of her breasts pressing against his chest. “If you do intend to kiss me, Lord Cross, then I suggest you get on with it.”
It was a tease, yes—she was the only woman who’d ever dared tease him—but it was an invitation, too, and he could refuse her nothing.
