Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,28
felt boneless and her mouth was open against his and she felt . . .
This was lust, presumably.
That thing she’d told herself that she would never, ever succumb to.
She jerked backward.
Thank goodness she did, because through the open door she heard approaching footsteps. “Carper . . . the tea!” she whispered.
Jeremy moved to the side just as Carper appeared. The footman was toting a heavy silver tray laden with a steaming pot of tea.
“Apologies from myself and Cook, Lady Boadicea,” he said, looking around for a place to set down the tea tray. “A number of guests decided they’d like a tea tray before bed, and the boiling water had run out.”
“Our game is finished,” Jeremy said. “Lady Boadicea, would you like the tea tray brought to your chamber?”
“No, thank you,” Betsy said, giving Carper an apologetic smile.
“I shall be glad of a cup before bed,” Jeremy said. “Tell my man I’ll be there directly.” Carper trotted away, the sound of his footsteps fading into the castle’s silence.
Jeremy moved back between her legs and bent his head, his lips brushing hers with leisurely pleasure.
Words and thoughts jostled in Betsy’s head, but her body claimed the lion’s share of her attention. Somehow her arms wound around his neck. A tendon flexed under her fingertips and she was glad that billiards required she remove her gloves.
It wouldn’t be proper to run her hands down his back.
His hands didn’t move, clamped onto the table.
His lips drifted over hers, his tongue dragging over her bottom lip. It felt fuller and her tongue hovered in front of her teeth, waiting for his.
Every time his lips caressed hers, she felt a kind of greed rising up inside her for more, more of his touch, more of his taste.
More.
The thought made her recoil so hard that she actually reeled backward and would have fallen onto the table except his hands flashed forward and caught her.
“No more,” Betsy said shakily as he brought her back upright.
“No more kisses?” Jeremy cocked an eyebrow at her. She’d never realized how winglike his eyebrows were. They went up like curved blades, suiting the sharp planes of his face.
“I don’t kiss like that,” she said, her voice rasping in an embarrassing fashion. “In fact, I don’t kiss at all.”
Because he’d had to catch her, he was leaning over her, which was somehow even more sensual than when they were mouth to mouth.
“That was certainly an awkward first kiss,” Jeremy said, straightening and backing away. “I’m sure that your hordes of suitors have offered you far more graceful busses.”
She didn’t reply to that.
A wicked little smile was playing on his lips. “I didn’t even know that I wanted a kiss,” he said, all friendly as if what happened was nothing. “But I do believe you’ve healed me, Bess.”
“Healed you?” She felt as if her brain were drowning in a river of sweet honey. She could see why lust was addictive. An anxious voice had popped up in the back of her mind, reminding her that lust had to be addictive.
Otherwise, her mother never would have abandoned her babies, would she? It wasn’t as if Betsy’s father was abusive, or even intrusive. The way Aunt Knowe told her, the duke had remained in the castle at the same time her mother was in London, conducting an affaire.
Her younger sister Joan was conceived that year: born at the castle, but conceived in London.
“Cured you of what?” she clarified.
“Disinterest,” he said. His smile widened. “War knocked it out of me, but by God, one kiss from you . . . no wonder all those suitors are lined up to ask for your hand in marriage!”
“I don’t suppose you’ll be joining them,” she said, a shrewish note leaking into her voice because . . . honestly? She felt shaken to the bone by that kiss. It did something to her. She had loved it.
Jeremy was ranging about the room, grinning with the sort of cheer that she pulled over herself like a coverlet when she was in society.
On him, it was real.
She put a hand to her lips and they pulsed at her touch. She wanted to slide from the table and leap into his arms. Paste her lips to his and welcome whatever kiss he’d give her. The only thing stopping her was the certain knowledge that lust was irrational. Wicked.
“I must go to bed,” she said, sliding off the edge of the table and coming to her feet. Her knees felt weak.