“You must be careful, Your Grace.”
So long had it been since anyone had cared, so long since anyone had touched him with such utter gentleness. Because all he did was scare them away with harshness.
But there was no scaring away Aideen Quinlan and so with a groan and all reasoning forgotten, he pulled her close, threaded his eager fingers through her hair and kissed her with irresponsible carnal possession.
Aideen surrendered.
Determined lips smothered her own as a hand swept down her back, hauling her near.
She shouldn’t be surrendering: she should be biting that marauding tongue, pulling the finger back painfully on his seeking hand or bringing her knee up as his hips pressed.
But she couldn’t. Because this kiss was so all-consuming, so intoxicating.
When he’d brushed lips over her hand, he’d appeared sorrowful.
Lonely.
Father always said she had no tender feelings, that she wasn’t even a proper girl, let alone the boy he’d wished for, but her heart had wept at the duke’s bruised eye.
“Touch me again.”
The deep words growled against her mouth and she realised her hands had fallen quiet against his chest – confused and unknowing.
As his lips nuzzled her cheek, so she cradled the side of his face anew, brushing his puffy eye with sensitive fingers.
“More,” he groaned.
For once, she did as she was told, dragging her hand around and finding his nape, the hair ruthlessly short, no poetic curls for the Duke of Rakecombe. She liked it. The roughness against her fingers, and she dragged her nails along the edge.
“Aideen, you don’t–”
Never did she find out exactly what she didn’t, because his large hands cupped her bottom and drew her tight to his body – so tight she could feel his waistcoat buttons pressing, a light stubble grazing her neck and strong thighs pushing against her skirts.
His mouth returned, hard and seeking, tongue invading. No longer the Duke of Restraint but Recklessness. Rawness.
A hand now swept up her side, so she slipped an arm within his tailcoat, smoothing his spine as much as his fitted clothing would allow. It spurred him on and he nipped at her lip, thrust those slender hips, and heaven help her, she did the same.
Fingers scrabbled at her satin-clad shoulder but then suddenly stilled, utterly motionless. He panted harshly, and she glanced down.
The flawless white of her bared shoulder contrasted against his raw-red knuckles; one had bled a little, smearing her skin.
Returning her eyes to his, she could see disgust and horror, but was unsure of the cause. Her? The blood?
A female cultured voice rent the air. “Alexander!” A voice that demanded attention.
“Oh, Aideen…” A sigh of disappointment. Familiar.
“Ohhhh!” A squealy gasp. Not a clue.
Biliousness arose in Aideen’s stomach, and she wanted to bury her head in his waistcoat andnevercome out.
But Quinlans were cut from staunch cloth, and Uncle Seamus had forever said one should tell the truth and shame the devil, so as the duke drew back, she straightened her spine and faced their audience.
It was less numerous than she’d anticipated.
Three women: a saddened Mrs Beckford, a disgruntled-looking young debutante and the Duchess of Rakecombe. Aideen had a time discerning the latter’s expression – disapproving or amused, she couldn’t tell.
Expecting the duke to stand away, to deny his involvement…somehow, he instead clasped a hand around her wrist.
