Tempting the Bride - By Sherry Thomas Page 0,5
of saying that I am empty-headed and incapable of thinking of the future, would it?”
She didn’t bother with an answer to that question. “It is getting late—not too long now before someone comes to lay a new fire. I don’t want you to be seen in my room.”
“At least I can marry you to salvage your reputation should that happen. Mr. Martin is in no position to do so.”
“That is quite beside the point. Tell me what you want and begone.”
He smiled, a crooked smile full of suggestions. “You know what I want.”
“Please don’t tell me you are still trying to kiss me. Have I not made my lack of interest abundantly clear on this matter?”
“I don’t want to kiss you. However, you will need to kiss me.”
She, kiss him?
“Ah, I see you were hoping to stand quiescent and think of Christian martyrs mauled by the lions of the Colosseum. But as you always tell me, I am a man of unseemly tastes. So you must be the lion, and I the martyr. I shall expect exceptional aggression, Miss Fitzhugh.”
“If I were a lion, I’d find you a piece of rotten fish, not at all to my taste and hardly edible, whereas I’ve just dined on the finest gazelle in the entire savanna. You will excuse me if I fail to summon any enthusiasm to fall upon you.”
“Quite the contrary. I cannot excuse such failure. Not in the least. You will somehow summon the enthusiasm or I shall be on the earliest train headed south.”
“And if I do manufacture enough false zeal to satisfy you?”
“Then I shall say nothing to anyone of Mr. Martin.”
“Your word?”
“Your word that the kiss will be more debauched than any you’ve pressed upon Mr. Martin.”
“You are a pervert, Hastings.”
He smiled again. “And you are just the sort of woman to appreciate one, Miss Fitzhugh, whether you realize it or not. Now, here is what I want you to do. You will seize me by the shoulders, push me against the wall, reach your hand under my jacket—”
“I feel my bile rising.”
“Then you are ready. Onward. I await your assault.”
She grimaced. “How I hate to spoil a perfect record of repelling you.”
“Nothing lasts forever, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. And remember, kiss me passionately. Or you’ll have to do it again.”
She might as well get it over with.
She closed the space that separated them in two big strides and gripped him by the sleeves of his dressing gown. Instead of pushing him backward as he’d instructed—as if she’d allow him to dictate the specifics of her ordeal—she yanked him toward her, fastened her mouth to his, and imagined herself a shark with hundreds of razor-sharp teeth.
Or perhaps she was a minion of the underworld, her mouth a welter of burning acid and sulfur fumes, devouring his soul, savoring all the idle immoralities he’d committed in his lifetime as a palate cleanser between courses of more substantial sins.
Or a Venus flytrap, full of delicious nectar, but woe was he who thought he could dip a proboscis inside and sample her charms. Instead, she would digest him in place, stupid sod.
Vaguely she sensed something hard and smooth against her shoulder blades. They’d been in the middle of her room; why was she being pressed into a wall? And why, all of a sudden, was she the one being devoured?
The muscles of his arms were tight and hard beneath her hands. His person was as tall and solid as a castle gate. His mouth, instead of tasting like a furnace of greedy lust, was cool and delicious, as if he’d just downed a long draft of well water.
She shoved him away and wiped her lips. She was panting. She didn’t know why she ought to be.
“My,” he murmured. “As ferocious as anything I’ve ever imagined. I was right. You do want me.”
She ignored him. “Your word.”
“I will say nothing of Andrew Martin to anyone. You may depend on that.”
“Leave.”
“Gladly, now that I have what I came for.” He smirked. “Good night, my dear. You were well worth the wait.”
CHAPTER 1
Six months later
A traffic logjam had convened on Fleet Street, and Hastings’s brougham was caught in the midst. The assembly of vehicles advanced at a ponderous pace that would not have won races against his daughter’s pet tortoise. Enterprising men and boys went from carriage to carriage, hawking ginger beer and hot buns to a captive crowd.
Had the logjam happened on a different street, Hastings would have alighted and walked. But