Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,70
into the darkest corner and took her face in his hands and kissed her.
She gasped and grabbed his shoulders. Her lips parted, and he kissed recklessly: one collision, then a tangle of tongues, enough to send heat pulsing through him and his hands racing over her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her waist, her bottom. He forgot where they were. Didn’t care.
The way she’d looked at him. He’d thought he’d died and come to life at the same time.
And now, the way she felt in his arms. Like homecoming and like the fight he’d been waiting for all his life.
It felt . . . right. Wild and right.
He needed to stop. He knew this. But not yet. He needed the feel of her, the heat and the wanting and the pressure of her body against his.
So much in the way. Clothes. Everything. The world. But this moment it was all he could have, and he went headlong, the way he did everything, not wanting to lose an instant.
Stop.
Yes, in a minute.
Stop.
The shape of her. The taste of her mouth. The fire and fearlessness.
Stop. Now.
But he had grasped her bottom and was trying to bring her more tightly against his groin. Clothes, infernal clothes. Her skirts tangled with his legs, and as he pressed against her, his foot struck a leg of the small table nearby, and glasses chinked.
Alarm bells.
He came back to the world and heard voices nearby. She made an odd, strangled sound and pushed him away.
He stumbled back and made his brain work. He guided her to her chair, and she sat, trembling, at the same moment the servant outside opened the door to Lady Charles and Miss Flower.
“Apologies for the hasty exit,” he said. “Miss Pomfret looked . . . faint. Needed to . . . sit down.”
She gulped. He looked at her and saw the silver glint in her eyes. He realized then what it was: the devil in her. She was trying not to laugh.
But she collected herself so swiftly and sat there so composedly, one would never guess she’d kissed him mindless a moment ago. Except for the slight flush of her cheeks and the quick rise and fall of her bosom.
Where he’d put his hands. Mostly on silk but also on a delicious swell of skin like warm velvet.
Only for an instant, the most beautiful instant.
Not enough, no, not by miles. But he’d live on that instant for as long as he had to. The scent of her skin filled his head, like some intoxicant.
“I never faint,” she said. “But I will admit I became light-headed at the sight of the Duke of Ashmont behaving in a sensible and useful manner. I’m amazed the saloon wasn’t awash in swooning ladies.”
She was a wonder. He caught only the faintest unsteadiness in her voice, the voice like a stream in springtime, the voice that had summoned him back to the world, back to life, on Putney Heath.
“Not quite that,” said Miss Flower. “But several gentlemen dropped their quizzing glasses, and any number of feet got stepped on, and a great many mouths fell open.” She grinned. “That part was vastly amusing.”
Lady Charles did not appear amused. She looked from him to Miss Pomfret. A lengthy silence followed.
At last she sat. “What preceded was rather too exciting. I vow, I had no proper idea of the deleterious effect Hyacinth has on young men.”
“Not all of them behave in that silly way, Aunt,” the girl said. “Mr. Morris started for the pair of troublemakers, but by the time he’d pushed through the crowd, the duke had them in hand. That seemed to quiet everybody else.”
“Mr. Morris was so good as to escort us back to your box,” Lady Charles said, “following your abrupt disappearance with my other niece.”
“He’s a steady fellow,” Ashmont said. He didn’t add more. The torrid embrace had mangled his brain. Wiser to say nothing rather than risk doing Morris more harm than good.
“So it would seem,” Lady Charles said. “Be so good as to pour us all a glass of wine, duke. Hyacinth does not realize how narrowly we escaped mayhem. She has never found herself caught in a riot in a crowded theater. I have. It is an exceedingly disagreeable experience—and I am finding it uphill work to fully absorb the fact that you were the one who saved us. Kindly fill my glass to the brim.”
Cassandra Pomfret, Prophet of Doom, prophesied grave danger to herself.