Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,55

ought to have lifted his head and stopped then, but her mouth, so very apt at sharp words, was so soft and yielding, and he was hopeless, and so he went back for more: a slow, searching kiss, discovering the feel of her lips and the way she responded, the gentleness and willingness and the surrender that wasn’t altogether surrender.

She held on to his arms and searched, too, making her own discoveries and learning from him, and inflaming him, because it was the same way she’d fought him, the way she’d picked up clues so quickly, allowing her to read him and respond to his every move.

More. And more. And more. The tip of his tongue touched the seam of her lips, which parted with a sharp intake of breath. But shocked or not, she let him in, and she tasted and felt like nothing and nobody else. Cool and sweet and clear, like her voice—while he wasn’t cool or clear and never sweet. No, he was very far from cool, in a state of yearning beyond all his vast experience.

But he’d always flung himself headlong into everything, the riskier the better, and she did nothing to bring him to his senses. She answered his deepening kiss the way she’d fought, her tongue following his lead and using his own moves against him. She didn’t—wouldn’t—retreat or hesitate. She gathered knowledge as she went, learning quickly, and he was learning, too, lessons he didn’t understand and didn’t try to. His world was changing, whirling this way and that, and he was in a place he didn’t recognize.

He didn’t care.

He slid his hands from her face and wrapped his arms about her and pulled her tight against him. Her breasts pressed against his chest. Her long-legged body promised to fit his as though she’d been made for him.

A promise only.

He couldn’t bring her close enough. So much between them. Bodice and stays and chemise and the rest of the feminine armor. He slid his hand down the curve of her spine, bringing her against his groin, but it wasn’t close enough. Skirts and petticoats and other womanly whatnot barred the way.

Something thudded, loud enough to penetrate the haze of lust. A door slammed. Footsteps.

“It is perfectly absurd,” came a strident voice. “I refuse to have anything further— Who is there?”

Thud, thud, thud. Footsteps drawing nearer.

Ashmont broke the kiss in the same instant Miss Pomfret put a hand on his chest and pushed, not hard, but enough. He released his death grip on her bottom—or as much of it as he’d been able to get to.

The curtain was flung open.

“Miss Pomfret!” the Countess of Bartham cried. Triumphantly.

Chapter 9

What did Keeffe always say?

You’re in charge, miss. It’s not up to the horses. It’s up to you. They need you to be calm and to know what to do. You don’t let nothing surprise you. You stay calm because you’re ready for anything.

When Lady Bartham pulled open the curtain, Keeffe’s training program took over: Remain calm in a crisis. Behave as though nothing out of the way has happened, even if your horses are running straight into the ruts and mudholes of a heath, a cattle pound on one side and trees on the other.

Metaphorically speaking, Cassandra took the situation’s reins, though she placed no confidence whatsoever in this pair of horses.

“Lady Bartham.” She nodded politely.

The duke bowed gracefully, the beau ideal of the English gentleman. She had no idea what he was thinking or what he’d do. She could only hope he’d follow her lead.

A short, taut silence followed while Lady Bartham put up her glass and surveyed Cassandra’s ensemble.

“Calisthenics?” the countess said sweetly. “I understand the classes are vigorous.”

“No,” Cassandra said. “Not calisthenics.”

“It’s deuced hot in here,” the duke said. “Ready for some air, Miss Pomfret?”

“Yes.”

She watched him pick up the umbrella she hadn’t realized she’d dropped. One end must have stuck out from under the curtain. That was what had attracted the gossip vulture’s attention.

He gave Cassandra the umbrella. She briefly considered knocking the countess unconscious. But no. That would never qualify as self-defense.

“Will you join us, Lady Bartham?” he said. His voice was mild and he wore a faint smile.

Cassandra felt herself tense, while the countess took a step back.

“Oh, no, thank you. My club is meeting. I only stepped out for a moment.”

She’d stalked out of the meeting in one of her temper fits, probably vowing never to have anything to do with those women again. But now she’d hurry