Even as his future duchess waited for him two floors below.
All at once, she was furious, both at him for tempting her, and at herself for longing for something she could never have. “You may think what you like, Your Grace. It’s nothing to me what you believe. Now, please let me pass. I have a headache, and I’d like to go to my bed now.”
“No, I don’t think so.” His gaze held hers, something she couldn’t define shimmering in the silver depths. “Not just yet.”
She forced herself to hold his gaze, but her body was trembling, her heart pounding. She might have ducked away—for all that he didn’t seem to want to let her go, he wasn’t preventing her from marching past him—and been safely tucked into her bedchamber in an instant, a locked door between the two of them.
But that wasn’t what she did.
No, she remained where she was, her blood racing through her veins, some ancient feminine instinct that had been slumbering inside her—slumbering while it waited, apparently forhim—urging her to stay, to wait, to see what would become of his hot, silver eyes roving over her, heating every inch of skin they touched. “What do you want from me, Your Grace?”
He let out a soft laugh. “Ah, but you see, that’s the problem, Rose. Ever since the first day we met, when you threatened to put a pistol ball between my eyes, I don’t know what I want anymore.”
Something unfurled inside her then—an ache onlyheseemed able to call forth, sweet and dark and insistent, tugging low in her belly, and setting off a cascade of hot sparks down her spine. “How unfortunate. I’m sorry for you, Your Grace, but I don’t see that it has anything to do with me.”
“But itdoeshave to do with you, Rose.” He reached for her, dragging his knuckles down her cheek. “It has everything to do with you, and those damnable green eyes.”
She sucked in a breath. “Me? You can’t be blamingmefor—”
“Oh, but I do blame you, Rose.” He leaned closer, his breath warm against her neck. “This whole debacle is entirely your fault.”
Debacle? What debacle? “How is itmyfault? Because I have green eyes? Why, how dare you insinuate—”
“It has nothing to do with their color.” He reached for a loose lock of her hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “As lovely as you are, it’s not your beauty I’m referring to. I can assure you, there is no shortage of young ladies with fair hair and green eyes in London, but not a single one of them drives me as mad as you do.”
Shewas driving him mad? “I don’t understand. Why—”
“Why?Damned if I can explain it.” He drew her closer, wrapping her in the warmth of his body. “Perhaps whoever said the eyes are the windows to the soul had the right of it. Romantic nonsense, if you ask me.” His gaze held hers as he pressed the lock of her hair to his lips. “Or I used to think so, until I met you.”
“M-me?” But why? There was nothing special abouther. There wasn’t one man in a hundred who’d even spare her a glance while a ravishing creature like Lady Emily was in the room.
“Yes, you, Rose. My God, how can you have no idea?” He touched the pad of his thumb to her lower lip. “Did it escape your attention that I couldn’t take my eyes off you tonight?”
“B-but you spent the entire evening glowering at me!” Such a glower he had, too. She was no coward, but even she’d fled that penetrating gray gaze tonight because it made her feel . . . well, things she’d much better not.
“I did, indeed. As I said, you’re driving me mad.” His eyes softened, the hard gray melting to a cloudy silver. “No man wishes to be driven mad by a lady, Rose, especially such a termagant as you.”
“Well, I . . .” What was she meant to say to that? Was it a compliment, or an insult? “I beg your pardon, then. It wasn’t as if I’ve beentryingto drive you mad.”
“No?” He laughed, low and seductive, and nuzzled his face against her neck. “You must have a natural talent for it, then.”
He traced the tip of his tongue over the shell of her ear, pausing to nip at her earlobe. Heat flared in her belly, but instead of pulling away, as a proper lady should do, she swayed toward him, her fingers curling into his evening coat. “For driving gentlemen mad?”
Surely, that wasn’t a good thing?
“Notgentlemen, Rose.” He slid his palm down her throat, caressing the hollow at the base with light, teasing fingers. “Justme.”
“Oh.” Her eyes dropped closed, a helpless moan falling from her lips. “That’s . . . that feels . . .” But she didn’t have a single word that did it justice. How could anything feel so delightful?
“Maddening?” he asked, dropping a kiss in the arch between her neck and shoulder.
Maddening, delicious, intoxicating.
But there was no time for her to answer him—no time for her to do anything at all, because Max took her mouth then, his wicked tongue slipping between her lips, stealing her breath, her words, and her reason.
This. Ever since that first heated kiss between them in the kitchen,thiswas what she’d been waiting for.
He gave it to her. He gave her everything. Hot, slick, sweet . . . a raw moan rose in her throat at his taste, his heat. He kissed her and kissed her, and she took every slide of his tongue, every stroke, lick, and nip, all while straining toward his lips, greedy for more.
