A Duchess a Day (Awakened by a Kiss #1) - Charis Michaels Page 0,74

her hair from shoulder to back, and men stared openly at her exposed décolletage and startlingly beautiful face.

Declan’s own mouth went dry, watching. He wanted her. Now. Later tonight. Tomorrow. Forever. He wanted to scoop her up and carry her away.

He wanted—

Helena looked up and their eyes locked. She went very still. She blinked. She cocked her head. She mouthed his name.

Declan.

Not a question. She knew.

He began to walk; he didn’t look away.

Helena took a deep breath and excused herself from Cleopatra.

A large easel had been arranged in a corner to display the painting of a dog. Helena stepped up, examining the art, and Declan stepped behind it.

“You’ve come,” she said to the dog.

“Yes,” he said. He kept well behind the easel, his face averted from the ballroom. He felt like he hadn’t seen her in a year. He felt as if they’d never parted. He felt as if his whole purpose in the world was to find her at this party and carry her away.

“You look . . . remarkable,” she said flatly, speaking to the dog. “You were always handsome, but I was not prepared for how you would look outside of the—” She glanced at him, hungry eyes raking him from hood to boot. Declan’s body tightened.

She finished, “—how you would look outside.”

“Ah,” he said, not prepared for her praise.

“Clearly the yellow livery is more like a costume, and this black leather is your usual attire?” She couldn’t help laughing. “Please tell me this is your usual attire.”

“Ah,” he repeated dumbly, looking down.

“Can I . . . touch you?”

He opened his mouth to make another wordless sound, but she added, “Surely here, among this . . .” she looked around, “. . . frivolity and excess and the obscured vision of so many masks, no one would—”

She stopped and swallowed hard. “My God, I have to touch you.”

Declan’s reason and caution shattered. His hand lashed out, snatched her by the wrist, and pulled them from the painting.

Without thinking, he led her around the dancing, past two anterooms, stopping at the last room in the row. It was set up for an impromptu musicale, with pianoforte, harp, and several lutes. Chairs formed a half circle around the instruments. The room was empty except for a man gently plucking strings on the harp.

“Get out,” Declan said.

“I b-beg your—” the man stammered.

“Get out,” Declan repeated, and the man fled.

When they were alone, Declan swiftly, silently, pulled the double doors shut and locked them.

When he turned to face Helena, she leapt into his arms.

He caught her up, his chest exploding with the luminating delight of holding her. She was like coming home and stumbling upon the best, most unexpected paradise ever, all in the same embrace.

He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the familiar, sweet apple smell. He squeezed her until she cried out, a shrill, breathy giggle.

He spun. Pressing her back against the closed doors. “Can you touch me?” he growled, repeating her words.

She laughed. “It was my only thought.” She gave him the tiniest, softest kiss. She reached up and slid his flimsy mask away. He blinked, looking at her with no obstruction.

“You are magnificent,” she whispered. “I . . . I can’t believe you’re mine.” She made a noise of distress and bit her bottom lip. “That is, I can’t believe you are my groom.”

With every word, his heart expanded, and that said nothing of his body. He was as hard as stone. He spun again, turning her in one deft movement, collapsing his own back against the door and pulling her against him. Helena made a noise of surprise and delight. They never broke the kiss.

While he devoured her mouth, his hands massaged their way down her body. Her gown was fitted and restrictive; he tried to grab her hip through the silk, but the fabric had no give. He fumbled, tracing the outline of her hip, and then he dipped low, catching the hem and sliding up the skirt. When he rose, he grazed his hands over long, silk-stocking-covered legs until he bunched the skirt at her thighs. Now he could scoop beneath the fabric and grab her bottom. He pressed her against him and Helena groaned.

He pulled away, panting. “You are magnificent. Why do you ever tie your hair back?”

“So I don’t look like a child,” she laughed, cocking one knee on his hip.

He grabbed the underside of her thigh and hitched her closer. “You look nothing like a child,” he said. “You