“No,” he breathed. “A poor choice of words. I mean that—”
She pushed against his chest, fingers releasing his coat. Swatted at his arm, because she was too short to reach his cheeks effectively to slap him. Outrage suffused her pretty features.
Do not ever again compare her to drippings.
“Get away from me.”Slap. Slap. “Atrocious libertine. How dare you.”
“How dareI?” Fletcher glared back at her with as much outrage as he could muster, which was the only thing to keep him from laughing out loud.
So bloody fierce.
“You kissed me back, Miss Cosgrove.”
A flush started at the nape of her neck and flew all the way up to her forehead. All that lovely pink color had Fletcher’s fingers twitching, because he wanted to see if she was the same shade under the muslin of her dress.
“I did not.”
“You did,” he stated smugly. “Whimpered a bit.” He caged her against the tree.
She placed a finger on her swollen bottom lip, looking so distraught Fletcher wasn’t sure what to do, other than he wanted to…no, needed to kiss her again.
“Stop,” she whispered, before grabbing at his coat once more, drawing him closer. “I beg you, stop.” Standing on tiptoe, she nipped at his bottom lip.
Fletcher took hold of her backside, kneading the plump flesh before lifting her up so that their hips were flush together. Pressing his cock between her thighs, he swiveled, teasing at her quim until a low, throaty sound came from Miss Cosgrove. The most erotic thing he’d ever heard.
Which was saying quite a bit since Fletcher lived in a brothel.
He pulled her closer into him, unable to think of anything other than how badly he wanted to be buried in Miss Cosgrove. He’d never felt such an intense need for another human being, as if she’d taken up residence inside his skin. “Come away with me,” Fletcher blurted out. “Now.”
She went still once more, but there was no swatting at him. No begging to be kissed once more. Turning her head so that hismouth landed on her cheek, she said, “Will we be taking your future duchess with us as well?”
Fletcher pushed his forehead to hers, inhaling in her scent. Christ, he could smell her arousal through the muslin of her skirts. He felt her pull away from him, desire melting away in an instant.
Because…he wasRoxboro.
Fletcher’s nose fell into her neck, nuzzling gently, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to her skin. He’d forgotten, for a brief speck of time, that Miss Cosgrove only knew him as a philandering duke who lacked character.
But the truth of Fletcher was far, far worse.
A killer, though usually only in cases of self-defense, he didn’t slit a throat without reason. The grandson of a brothel owner in one of the worst rookeries in London. A thief. An imposter. A liar. Bitterness filled his mouth. Miss Cosgrove might be disgusted by the Duke of Roxboro, but she would flee in horror from Fletcher Bean.
Gently, he lowered her to the ground, fingers brushing the muslin of her skirts before reluctantly releasing her. This was a foolish, dangerous game. One there was no chance of winning. He could not, under any circumstances, have Miss Cosgrove, whether he was Roxboro or Fletcher Bean.
A shaky breath left her. “Your marriage is not a mere inconvenience, Your Grace,” she said tartly. “Such as falling off a horse. Or your valet failing to tie your cravat properly.”
The horse matter again. Roxboro must be a clumsy oaf. Even Fletcher could ride somewhat decently.
“Your circumstances—” she started in a chilly tone.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Cosgrove,” Fletcher interrupted her little speech which was sure to be full of disparagements directed at Roxboro’s character. None of which he cared to hear. Not with her taste lingering on his lips and body aching with frustrateddesire. “But you’ve no bloody idea of my circumstances.” He leaned forward, allowing his lips to brush her ear. “And it is best you don’t.”
Chapter Seven
Helen regarded theDuke of Roxboro, the brutal cast of his beautiful, chiseled features and the icy glint of his eyes. There was nothing ducal there, only a predatory cast to his face and form, one that sent a trickle of fear down her spine. This was not the man who’d so passionately kissed her only moments ago. Or charmed Cerise at the Stout ball.
She took a step back, sliding around the curve of the tree trunk.
A shout, then a roar came from the crowd by the pond. Applause filled the air. Some idiot had won the tiny boat race.
