His hand slid down her arm until he found her hand and laced his fingers through hers. “Then come with me.”
They slipped through the door to the study into an empty hallway. The quartet was playing a jig and the noise from the ball spilled out through the doors. But George seemed to care little for that, and led her toward the stairs.
“Will no one notice your absence?” she asked.
“From the ball?” He snorted. “Perhaps, but my reputation is such that no one will care, or think it surprising.”
Were there so many ladies that he might have taken away with him? He was a rake, to be sure, and she knew of his reputation—all young ladies in London knew of his reputation. He was not known for moderation in many things, and in love—or affairs of the body—she expected he had indulged.
If she had not found the stocking, she might have thought there was nothing special about her. She was one of many to be claimed by the Duke, and if he was not usually in the habit of teaching the innocent the art of pleasure, then he was certainly in the habit of engaging in the art of pleasure.
But he had kept the stocking. They had not seen each other for over a year, and all this time her stocking was in his study. When she had fled, leaving behind that single article of clothing, he had kept it.
She knew then that whatever he could offer her, his affection was as engaged as hers; he wanted and valued her as much as she did him; he had been thinking of her as often as she had been thinking of him.
A man unaffected did not keep a memento from such an occasion.
Once they reached the top of the stairs, he kissed her again, hungry and demanding, as though he could not bear to remain any longer without her lips on his.
“Have I mentioned how beautiful you look tonight?” he murmured.
Tell me what that night meant to you.
Everything.
“You have not.”
“Then I have been remiss as a host and as a man.” He kissed the side of her neck, making her gasp. “Allow me to tell you how very beautiful you look.”
“You are a flirt through and through.”
“Ah no, Sybil.” He paused just long enough he could lean back and look her in the eyes, his fingers dancing along her cheek as though tracing her every curve. “With you, it is not flirtation—it is honesty.”
Honesty. He believed she was beautiful and he told her not because he wanted to give her a worn compliment, but because he believed it.
“Take me to your bedchamber,” she said, half surprised at the command in her voice. “Lest we shock your guests.”
“Why, are you that eager?”
“George, I—”
“I have no objection to taking you to my bedchamber,” he said, his voice a low growl. “But first, let us make my ancestors weep.” One hand still on her face and the other clasped in hers, he pressed her against the wall directly beside a large, gilded painting.
“Who is that?” she panted.
“An old Duke. Born into the family.” His teeth grazed her collarbone, and she sucked in another gasp. Her head swam, and she wondered if she would survive this journey to his bedchamber. Perhaps she would combust before they ever reached there.
She ached for him. The sensitive flesh between her legs was hot and throbbing and he was talking about ancient Dukes and his ancestors.
She hadasked.
This was not, or so she believed, the best way to seduce a gentleman. However, the way the hand on her cheek descended to cup her breast suggested he was more than amenable to the situation they had found themselves in, and that discussion of men long dead had not cooled his ardor. A relief.
“We should find a bed,” she said, even as her traitorous body wiggled closer, pressing her hips against his. He ground against her with a satisfied noise at the back of her throat, and she felt anew how very much he wanted this.
But they’d been in this position before and while it had been pleasant—extremely pleasant—there was more she wanted. Specifically, she wanted to feel the length pressed against her in… other places.
“George,” she moaned, clutching his shoulders as he reached behind her to cup her bottom, pressing her more firmly against him. “George.”
