Page 31 of To Woo a Wicked Widow

“I came to meet him, as I said. But he is not my lover.”

His eyebrow rose. “Surprising.”

She gasped, and anger made her bold. “Why? Because I’m the ‘Wicked Widow’?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “No. Because I have tasted a depth of passion such as yours only once or twice. If he is unwilling to take you to his bed, he is a fool.”

The last he spoke with such vehemence she jerked her face up to his.

His eyes gleamed with dark desire.

Her stomach plunged to her toes.

Wrotham stalked toward her, and she fled backward until she pressed against the wall of the library, the chair rail digging into her back.

He towered over her, the expanse of his chest filling her field of vision with the black superfine of his jacket and the starched white of his cravat. He grasped her head and lifted it until his dark eyes bored into hers.

“No one has ever called me a fool.” Then his mouth seized hers again and she melted once more, damn him! The heat of his lips burned like the red-hot embers of a well-banked fire. She struggled to pull in enough air, as if he had sucked it all from the room. When his tongue thrust into her mouth she welcomed it, cherished it as it ravaged whatever it touched. An ache she had only felt once before began to pulse between her thighs, one that magnified as his tongue plundered where it would. Her knees buckled and she would have slid down the wall except he grasped her arms, steadying her. Time ceased to be as he caressed her shoulders, her arms, her breasts.

The throbbing below intensified when his thumbs circled her nipples, making them peak and strain against the thin fabric of her gown. She moaned low in her throat, a sound full of longing, full of need. Lord, would he never stop? Never let him stop. Heat flushed her entire body until she burned like a furnace. He lifted his head.

“Marry me, Lady Cavendish.”

“What?” She couldn’t have heard that correctly.

“Marry me and let us continue this evening’s activities to their inevitable and glorious conclusion.” His voice, ragged with need, rumbled from his chest. He seized her lips again, pressing his big body against her until she could feel his shaft, hard, hot, insistent.

Desire for what he offered welled up and her resolve slipped. It would be glorious to give in to these feelings that made her doubt her sanity. But once married, she would have no recourse against him, as she’d had none over Sir Archibald.

He slid his hands behind her derriere, pushing her against his hips and grinding them together until she broke the kiss, gasping at the need he inspired in her.

“Why bring marriage into it, my lord?” she whispered, pulling his ear to her mouth. With one slow stroke, she licked the outer rim and thrilled when he shuddered in her arms. “Surely we can reach that ‘glorious conclusion’ without benefit of clergy?”

Then he was gone.

Charlotte blinked, coming back to her senses as if being pulled out of a well.

Wrotham stood before her, breathing heavily, hovering as though he might pounce on her again. “I need a wife, Lady Cavendish.”

“I am sorry for that, my lord, but I don’t need a husband.” She licked her lips and hoped she looked seductive. “Can we not find a way to compromise?”

He wavered. Charlotte would have sworn he started toward her and the throbbing between her legs became agony. Then he leaned back and crossed his arms. “No. I’m afraid where you are concerned, Lady Cavendish, I cannot.”

Damn him! She raised her chin. “Then I fear we are at an impossible impasse.”

“It would seem so, my lady. And I for one am truly sorry.” He shrugged and sighed, then headed for the door. At the last moment he turned, his black eyes burning into her. “If you are ever in need, I am close at hand.” With that outrageous statement, he disappeared through the doorway.

Charlotte slid down the wall until she bumped into the floor, her strength spent. That annoying ache still hounded her body, though it had eased once his hands no longer claimed her. She leaned her head on her knees and tried to slow her heart from its frantic pace.

What a beginning to her house party. Garrett gone to Essex, over fifty miles away. Wrotham fled home, scarcely a mile from her. Rakes, both of them, and good riddance. Something in the recesses of her practical mind, however, whispered that she had not seen the last of either one. And something else, with a naughty gleam in its eyes, rejoiced.

Chapter 10

Charlotte passed a wretched night, tossing and beating her pillow, pretending she had the Earl of Wrotham under her fist. How dare he insult her, propose to her, then flee with that disgraceful suggestion that she contact him if needed. The fact that he had excited her as no other man ever had just made the whole episode worse.

At some point she dozed off and woke late into the morning, still weary but determined to be the perfect hostess. Her hopes for a dalliance with Wrotham might have crumbled, but she, nevertheless, had to carry on for her guests as if nothing was amiss. The house party had, however, lost some of its luster.

With her maid’s assistance, she managed to present a decent appearance. The freshness of her rose sprigged muslin—her favorite of the new post-mourning day gowns—helped boost her spirits. Her face told another story when she gazed in the mirror. She sighed.