Last Dance in London (Rakes on the Run #1) - Sydney Jane Baily Page 0,24
only the apron strings across her bare back, tied in a bow at her waist with the long ends draping down over her lush buttocks.
Swallowing the lump of desire in his throat, he rose to his feet. Moving swiftly around the end of the table, he drew out her chair, taking a moment to glance down her décolletage. Naturally! Wasn’t that why women wore the fashion they did?
With her amethyst-colored bodice stretched tightly across her breasts, it left a dark and dangerous valley he longed to explore.
“I think that’s a fine skill,” he said, his tone suddenly husky.
Drawing her to her feet, he thought her the most alluring female he’d ever known.
“Perhaps some time, you can show me what you can cook.”
Her lips parted questioningly, as her gaze sought his, trying to determine his shifting mood perhaps.
With a groan, he slid his fingers into her perfectly coiffed hair and held her lovely face still. Lowering his mouth to Miss Sudbury’s, he claimed her luscious lips, trying to remain gentle, but feeling voracious, wanting to taste her — all of her! — at once.
She didn’t protest. If she’d so much as gasped, he would have withdrawn immediately. But she touched his tongue with her own before leaning into him.
Releasing her sweet cheeks, Jasper swept his hands down her back and took hold of her other ones, her soft, rounded nether globes. With his palms, he tilted her hips against his strained breeches so she could feel his arousal.
Her frank innocence, which she yielded willingly to him, was his undoing. She would probably let him take her on the damn table exactly as he’d fantasized. Sucking her lower lip between his teeth, he heard her make the softest mewling sound and wanted to fall at her feet.
The feet of a vicar’s daughter.
Damn him for a shameless satyr, a hell-hound of the first order!
He lurched back as if she were the hottest flame.
“I apologize. That was not well done of me.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out which way his thoughts and his body were going next. He’d never felt so torn in his adult life. If she were any other woman, he would not have stopped. Moreover, he wasn’t at all sure why he had.
All he knew was he felt, perhaps for the first time, like a scoundrel. And he didn’t like it one bit. Worse, she seemed utterly willing to let herself be ruined by him. Her lack of self-preservation simply didn’t sit well. That was probably the true reason why he’d felt the need to stop.
If she’d been the least simpering or coy, he would have known her for a flirt. Then, the game would have been afoot for sure. Instead, she seemed like a lamb wobbling unknowingly to the slaughter.
“I must be on my way,” he said, surprising himself.
By the look upon her face, he’d baffled her, too.
“I intended to serve port in the drawing room, my lord, unless you’re in a hurry.”
If he stayed, he would continue to make further, bolder advances upon her, and apparently, she would let him.
What if Lady Worthington returned in the middle of it? Even if she was staying the night elsewhere, the notion of simply indulging himself by taking to Miss Sudbury’s bed until dawn, much as he would relish it, seemed beyond the pale even for him. She was not the caliber of his usual conquests.
No, she was far above it! She had the aura of decency clinging to her. Dammit!
“It has been a most enjoyable evening, but I really should be getting home. Parliamentary session starts early in the morning.”
Looking as if she could see right through his paltry excuse, the chit smiled at him.
“I know you take your duties seriously, so I will detain you no longer. You must need a good night’s rest in order to sit in the House of Lords and listen to men drone on.”
She turned from him, and he hoped she wasn’t offended after all. Surely, she must know how much he wanted her.
“I’ll get Mr. Dawson to retrieve your things.”
He nearly stopped her but didn’t. What kind of rake turned down a woman’s offer for port by the fireplace in the drawing room?
A bloody stupid one!
JULIA SAT ON THE END of her bed, in her nightgown and slippers, contemplating the evening and Marshfield’s strange behavior. He probably considered her own to be equally strange. Mayhap that had caused his hurried departure.