“Ashbrook, unhand her!”
Mrs. St. Maur leaned back. “No, his hands are in the right place. Leave, Mr. Willingham.”
She laughed and kissed Daniel again. Her fingers sought the tight waves of his hair, forcing a part where there was none. The touch didn’t seem like curiosity, but maybe it was. Yet, it was hard to ignore her nails, the hunger in them, each of her languid strokes.
Huzzah.
This time, he caressed her fully, savoring the hints of vanilla and chocolate in her breath.
He’d admired her spunk. Hell—
Willingham pounded closer. “Ashbrook, I said let her go.”
Daniel broke from their kiss but nuzzled her ear, the lobe, such supple skin. “Mrs. St. Maur, whose orders do I follow?”
Even as he asked, his hand slipped to her side, beneath her shawl . . .
Her eyes went wider, the darkness of her irises sparkled, reflecting on his slipping lenses. “I require another kiss before we talk about the papers.”
“As you wish. Sorry, old boy. Duty calls.”
This time Daniel went for it, earning moans, deep sighs, the reward of inspecting her backside. It wasn’t so flat. It was surprisingly firm. Climbing buildings does a body good.
Willingham was certain to strike him, so this needed to be worth it.
And it was.
And . . . it . . . was.
The world would explode if he moved from this moment.
Warm. Passionate. Chocolaty. Jemina St. Maur was a force of nature. Whipping a storm of desire, a full-blown cyclone about him.
Not right.
Not in her best interest.
Not—Hell, did she just moan his name?
A fist slammed into his back. “You, bounder, I told you to leave her alone.”
Daniel took another blow and protected Jemina. He eased her to his side, so the jealous buffoon didn’t accidentally strike her.
“Mr. Willingham,” she said, “I chose him. You need to leave, leave for good.”
Willingham took off his coat. “You’re confused. Time to teach the fancy earl a lesson.”
Daniel caught Willingham’s fist and powered him backward. A regular at Gentleman Jackson’s 13 Bond Street classes and trained in pugilism by his friend Richmond, Daniel had technique and used the strength he built living on the streets, surviving for months, all alone.
“You don’t want to do this, Willingham,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you. You must go.”
“No, half-breed, you should and leave this woman to a real man, a pure one.”
“Pure? A glorious widow, a man of the world, a buffoon in shipping. Not sure of your definition. Maybe Mrs. St. Maur is pure, not remembering how men roughhouse. Let’s take this outside.”
“Gentlemen,tan tedy, please. I meanstand still, please. I asked you to leave, Mr. Willingham. You’re not welcome.”
“He’s confused you, the slick-tongued devil. That’s what they do.” Willingham balled up his fists. “I’m going to enjoy knocking you down, a lot.”
