The Secret Wallflower Society - Jillian Eaton Page 0,90

arms was none of those things. She frightened easily as a rabbit, and didn’t have a brazen bone in her entire body. But she wasn’t fragile like a glass vase; she was fragile like a wild rose. A rose that had found a way to keep blooming despite all of the adversity it had been forced to endure.

There was fear in Persephone. Fear that had been put there by the hands of her husband. But there was strength as well. And that was all her own doing.

When her lips hesitantly parted beneath his, Lucas was careful to keep the kiss tender. Soft. Gentle. He wanted to take. God, did he want to take. But more than that, he wanted to give.

He cupped her face, tracing her high arching cheekbones with his thumbs as he ran his tongue across her bottom lip before drawing it between his teeth. He sucked lightly, small little pulses that summoned a moan from the depths of her throat.

That tiny whimper was nearly his undoing.

He wanted to go further. Faster. But with great reluctance–and a hard bulge in his trousers that wasn’t soon to quit–Lucas made himself step away.

Persephone touched her mouth, following the curved outline with the tip of her nail as her sooty lashes swept up, revealing violet eyes heavy with confusion…and desire. Morning sun spilled in through the window, surrounding her in a halo of glimmering light. She looked like a fairy queen with her dewy skin all aglow, ebony curls falling around her shoulders, and lips still plump from his kiss. A fairy queen that had been sent from the wilds and the woodlands to torment him.

“I’ve never kissed anyone but my husband,” she shared in the wondrous tone of someone who had endured a life of black and white, only to have finally been shown all the colors that existed within a morning sunrise.

It was humbling.

And, if Lucas were completely truthful (which he strived to be from time to time), more than a tad gratifying. To know he was the man who had put that dazed look in her eye. It made him want to take her into his arms and kiss her again immediately.

And again.

And again.

He saw no reason to stop, really. Except Persephone wasn’t the sort to be rushed. He shouldn’t have kissed her to begin with. He probably wouldn’t have, if he weren’t the rakish sort. But he was, and he had, and there would be no apology for it. Even though he knew better than to mix business with pleasure. But when the pleasure was this delicious…how could he possibly resist?

Skimming a hand through his hair, Lucas walked across the room and opened the box he’d set on the dresser. Pulling out a sweet muffin, he removed the wax paper wrapping, split it in half, and offered the larger piece to Persephone.

“Tell me about him.” Leaning against a bedpost, he took a generous bite of muffin.

“Who?” she said warily as she retreated to the windowsill.

“Your husband.” Two simple words, and Lucas could see the moment Persephone’s walls dropped into place.

Her gaze shuttered, and crumbs fell onto her skirt as her fingers tightened around the muffin he’d given her.

“I have nothing to say about him.”

Nothing good, Lucas would wager.

If he’d had any lingering doubts as to Glastonbury’s treatment of his runaway wife, they were dispelled with a single glance at Persephone’s ashen countenance.

Women, talented creatures that they were, could feign any manner of emotions when it suited their purposes.

Happiness.

Distress.

Anger.

Hell, a wench could fake an orgasm if she had half a mind to. Not that he had any personal experience with that particular trick. Lucas understood how to please a woman, and please her well. He knew his past lovers had a litany of complaints against him. His inability to commit to a serious relationship lasting longer than a few weeks seemed to be the most popular. But not a single bit of fluff had ever complained that he’d left her unsatisfied.

Yes, females (at least the ones in his association, which was to say mostly criminals and whores) were intrinsically talented at portraying exactly what they wanted others to see.

But the one emotion that could not be contrived?

Terror.

And it was written across every inch of Persephone’s beautiful face.

“Why did you run from him?” he asked quietly. “Why were you in hiding?”

“I didn’t run from anyone.” Twin splashes of pink painted her cheeks. “I was thrown out of a moving carriage in the pouring rain. I then chose not to