He didn’t think anymore then, but caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the fingertips that had rested on her lips only moments before. Then he cupped her cheek in his palm, and teased his mouth against hers again, pausing to suckle lightly on her plump lower lip.
She made a low, needy sound, her warm breath drifting over his lips, and God, that sound, the hunger in it—a rush of desire flooded through him, heat settling low in his belly, and there was nothing he could do then but sweep his tongue against the seam of her lips, seeking entry.
Did she know that was what he wanted? Had she ever kissed a man before? Her lips remained closed, but she rose to her tiptoes and wound her arms around his neck, her slender body pressing against his, and all at once he was drowning in heat, his head swimming with desire for her.
This was the moment to stop—to set her gently away from him and bid her good night before his desire overwhelmed his reason, but that wasn’t what he did. Instead, he teased her lips open, desperate to surge into her welcoming heat and tangle his tongue with hers.
“Open for me,” he murmured against her mouth, licking gently at the seam of her lips, coaxing her to let him inside. He nibbled at her, pressing soft kisses on one corner of her mouth, then the other, the spark of his desire swelling hotter in his belly until it flared into a conflagration.
A low groan tore from his chest as he dragged his tongue over her luscious bottom lip, so tender and plump. His hands fell to her hips, cupping her slender curves as he traced his tongue over the perfect, tiny bow of her upper lip. “I want to taste you,” he whispered against her trembling mouth.
She let out a breathless little moan. “Yes.”
It was the softest whisper against his mouth, and then, so slowly he thought he might go mad, she parted her lips for him. He froze for an instant, afraid the slightest twitch on his part would frighten her away, but she let out a breath, and melted against him.
“Yes.” He locked his arms around her, pressing his palm into the arch of her back. She tasted like cinnamon and ginger, sweet, dark treacle, and seductive heat. He stroked her tongue with his, urging her to open wider for him, a low growl rising from his chest as she obeyed, her lips parting further, her tongue seeking his.
There was no going back, then.
He was mad for her, drowning in the taste of her, catching her breathy sighs and moans on his lips, the scent of sugar and spices whirling in his head, dizzying him.
She kissed him back hesitantly at first, her tongue grazing his shyly, but she was holding him tightly, her fingers curled into fists against his chest, gripping handfuls of his waistcoat, and a low, pained groan tore from his throat.
God, what was happening to him? He’d kissed women before—dozens of women—but it had never been like this, with the blood roaring through him like a raging current, sweeping everything before it.
Logic, reason, cautiousness—they all fled with the sweet stroke of her tongue against his, and for one breathless instant he was in danger of crushing her against him and taking her mouth roughly, all the pent-up desire from . . . when? The first moment he’d seen her, pistol in hand, ordering him from her house?
Or had it been after that? Had it been today, when he’d watched her spinning on the ice, her arms out and the sun illuminating her, turning her into a blur of light and motion?
He didn’t know—God, he didn’tknow—he knew only that he wanted to kiss her forever, to crush his lips to hers and swallow her soft whimpers, but he held himself back, letting just the tip of his tongue tease hers before sucking her bottom lip into his mouth.
He slid his fingers under her chin, keeping her face tilted up to his as his tongue twined once again with hers, deepening the kiss, the pads of his fingers stroking the soft skin of her jaw as he took her mouth deeply, searching every secret corner for the taste of her.
She met him, every slide and stroke and thrust, her breathless pants matching his, their lips clinging together, and God, how was it so good? It was just a kiss, yet he was on fire for her. He cupped her cheek to urge her closer and dragged his lips down the front of her neck, his fingers tracing the smooth, warm skin of her throat, lingering over her pulse point, a dangerous surge of desire swelling in his belly when he felt it racing against his fingertips.
Did she want him? Was that what the wild beating of her heart meant?
The thought that she might desire him maddened him, and before he knew what he was about he’d grasped her hips, and was lifting her onto the table, his hand fisting her skirts, desperate to . . .
Towhat?
To take her? She was innocent and under his protection.
He wasn’t a good man, and hadn’t been, not for years—no, decades. He ruined men as easily as snapping his fingers and rarely felt an instant’s regret over it.
Butthis. . .
Would he steal the virtue of a young lady grieving the only father she’d ever known? A young lady who had nothing, and not a single soul aside from her elderly nursemaid to protect her?
Would heruinher?
No. That was too heartless, even for the Duke of Ice.
He released his grip on her skirts and smoothed them down over her legs before backing away from her. “I . . . this is . . . I beg your pardon, Miss St. Claire. This wasn’t well done of me.”
“Your Grace, I . . .” She trailed off, biting her lip.
“Go up to your bedchamber, Rose.” He dragged a hand through his hair, his gaze averted, because if he looked at her, he’d take her into his arms again, and God help them both then. “Go.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen door, his voice harsher than it needed to be. “Now.”
