The sound of it ate into her self-control, reminding her of what had happened the last time they had been beside running water. He seemed to remember as well, if the way his hand came to cup hers was any indication.
“You should not have run,” he said, roughly this time. “You should not be here.Weshould not be here.”
She curled her hand into a fist, not pulling it away, the warmth from his skin sinking into hers. Every touch lit a fire inside her that she didn’t know how to deny. “You shouldn’t have followed me.”
“No,” he agreed, his hand tightening on hers. “I shouldn’t.”
Sybil didn’t have time to react before she was in his arms and his mouth was on his. Her mouth opened in a gasp, and his tongue swept in.
She melted. Her brain gave her body all sorts of instructions, like push him away, flee again, escape. This was, in the eyes of theton, wrong. He had no intentions of marriage.
Her body, however, clearly had no intention of listening to her brain. Her arms wound around his neck and her hips aligned with his, and when he nipped her bottom lip, she let out a sound that was positively depraved.
The Duke swore under his breath and his hands traveled down her body to her backside, which he cupped, grinding her against him. “You taste so sweet,” he said against her mouth.
Considering where she knew that mouth had been, Sybil hardly knew how to take it, but before she could contemplate her response, he had backed her into a statue, one hand still on her bottom and the other tangling in her hair, angling her head.
“Your Grace,” she gasped, breaking away for breath.
“George.”
Sybil closed her eyes as he turned his attention to her neck. The sensible part of her, which most of the time was given free rein, urged her to push him away, but the rather less sensible part of her—the one indulging in all the new sensations he offered—demanded that she take everything she could from him. No one else had made her body erupt at the mere touch of his hand, never mind the press of his lips against hers.
“Sybil,” he murmured against her mouth. “The Lord help me.”
“There are people nearby.”
“No one is looking and no one cares what couples do in the shadows.”
They weren’t a couple—the word suggested romantic involvement, and if there was one thing Sybil was certain of, it was that there was nothing romantic about the way the Duke pressed her body against hers.
At this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to care.
Mama would be so proud, she thought wryly, then shook her head, pushing her mother from her head. There would be plenty of time to analyze every moment and contemplate the ways in which she could behave that better befitted a modest young lady.
Sybil was fast coming to the conclusion she was not modest.
She ran her hands along his shoulders, explored the tiny hairs at the back of his neck, and trailed her fingers lightly down his chest. When she reached the tops of his breeches, he made a little noise in her mouth. She wanted him to make that sound again. She wanted him to make that sound because ofher.
“Do you want this?” he asked as he took her breast in his hand. His breath was short and fast, as though this moment meant as much to him as it did to her—which made little sense given the experience he no doubt had.
“What is this?”
He groaned and kissed her again; and the sound made the ache in her belly intensify, pulling her closer to him, whispering a private prayer that this never had to end. “I want to touch you,” he said, his thumb brushing across her other nipple through her dress, and even without looking, she knew they had beaded, pushing through the fabric. “I want to feel every inch of you.”
Finally, Sybil pulled away. “Not here,” she said, before the significance of what he said penetrated. “And not—we should not.”
He stared at her through the darkness, not moving back. She felt something shift by her stomach as though he wanted to push that hardened length inside her again. Perhaps he did.
The thought made her want to hitch up her skirts, but the cool air on her face prevented her from doing anything rash. They were in the middle ofnowhere. But not the same way they had been last time; last time, there had been no one present there to see them. This time, anyone could discover the harlot’s daughter with the rakish Duke.
“We should return,” she said, fighting to get her breath under control. “Please.”
“Of course.” He stepped back, and she felt almost bereft.Come back. Kiss me. Make me feel sweet and beautiful and seen.
But she didn’t say that. All she did was watch as he ran a hand through his hair, then another. Eventually, he cast a glance at her and gave a low laugh. “Lord, Sybil, don’t look at me like that, or vague notions of propriety won’t stop from pinning you to that statue.”
She would very much like to be pinned to the statue if he was doing the pinning. But even more than that, she wanted a future gentleman to marry her and provide her with a home that didn’t belong to her mother, so she blew out a long, frustrated breath. The aching heat in her body wouldn’t dissipate for a while, she knew.
