Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

He knew her name!

If she had been in any doubt before, then she was no longer. Lord Appleby was behind this. Strangely, with cold, hard certainty came a reduction in her fear. Antoinette knew she could not allow him to take the letter, not willingly anyway, and whatever he did to her, she would have to bear in brave silence.

Antoinette shook her head, her refusal in her expression and the stubborn jut of her chin.

He didn’t try to talk her out of her stance; perhaps he knew it would do no good. Instead he lurched across the space toward her, grasping her arms, his big body heavy as he pressed upon her smaller form. She struggled with him frantically. Her straw bonnet, still dangling around her neck by its ribbons, was crushed between them.

He gripped at the cloth of her bodice.

She felt him tense and tug. Violently. There was a ripping sound. Shocked, she stared down. The tan taffeta with green velvet trimmings was hanging open. Her peach silk chemise, also torn, gaped open, too, disclosing the crisp lace of her corset, while over the top spilled a great deal of her bosom.

“There,” he said breathlessly. “I warned you.”

The letter! Where was it? Antoinette dared not look. Perhaps it had fallen down into the folds of her skirt, or behind the cushions of the seat. He must not find it. Nothing else mattered…nothing…“Do your worst,” she heard herself say. “Search every inch of me, if you must. I will never give up the letter.”

He gritted his jaw and she tensed, preparing herself for what he’d do next. Then he reached out both hands and planted them full on her breasts.

She gave a little scream.

Hastily he withdrew. “Tell me and I’ll leave you be.”

She said in a shaky voice, “I’m not afraid of you.”

His mouth curled. “Liar.”

He lifted his hands, watching her, and moved forward. She held her breath, every sense alert, every nerve tingling with what was about to come. As his hands closed over her tender flesh once more, she made a sound in her throat. He groaned, softly.

Cautiously she flicked him a look from beneath her lashes. He looked disconcerted, as if he’d surprised himself. Then his broad chest rose and fell heavily, and his pale gaze lifted to hers from behind the black mask. He looked younger than she’d imagined him to be, only a couple of years above her twenty. She saw something that caught and held her; he seemed familiar in a way that she knew was impossible and yet was undeniable.

And in that moment a dangerous spark began to burn between them.

Color tinted her skin. Warmth curled in her belly and climbed higher, suffusing her breasts where his palms rested, making her flesh tingle. There was a delicious sense of delight about his touch, a wicked wantonnes

s, that was entirely new to Antoinette. The fact that no respectable young lady would allow such a thing to happen, and certainly not enjoy it, didn’t matter at all—she had long ago decided she was out of step with the rest of society. Somewhere within the turmoil of sensations a cool voice—the voice of her wicked ancestress—said: So this is what it feels like.

“Tell me.” His voice was strained, deeper than ever. “Don’t push me, sparrow. I really am capable of anything.”

She shook her head.

He cursed. “Where is it?” he said, his jaw bunched tight. His hands tightened on her breasts, as if he couldn’t help it, and then slid down over her ribs to the narrow band of her waist, feeling for anything hidden beneath her clothing. For a moment he was distracted by the remains of her chemise, the silken peach cloth and fine French lace. He flicked at it with a fingertip.

“A plain brown sparrow on the outside, and a bird of paradise underneath,” he murmured. “No lady wears undergarments like this, Miss Dupre. You give yourself away.” He leaned closer. “Do you wear perfume, too?” His nose was all but buried in her bosom; Antoinette felt his warm breath on her skin. “The scent of woman,” he mumbled. “I wonder what else I will find?”

Antoinette felt as if she should say something courageous but she’d run out of words. Instead she turned her face away, refusing to answer him or look at him. She heard that breathy laughter. And then his hands lifting her skirts.

Such intimacy from a stranger was unthinkable in a world where no woman even dared to show her bare arms in public during the day. As Antoinette held herself tense, waiting for what would come next, she felt his hand brush lightly over her uncovered knee.

“Silk stockings,” he murmured. “Very fine. Now these were made to be seen.”

“You are insolent,” she managed with a dry throat. Her gloved fingers clenched.

He cupped her thigh, ran his hand along it, as if searching for the letter hidden in her drawers. He did the same with her other leg. “Very nice,” he said. “Does Lord Appleby buy you these pretty things to wear? Does it give him pleasure to unwrap you, slowly, like a bonbon, and find your soft center?”

Antoinette swallowed. His large hands were at her hips, and she noticed they made her troublesome curves appear less dumpy, while at the same time his touch was sending a maelstrom of conflicting sensations through her. One of them was certainly pleasure, but heightened beyond anything she’d felt before. It worried her…frightened her. She had to force herself to be still when she wanted to jump up and run. But was she running from him, or herself?

He made a sound of approval, as if her shape pleased him. Those pale eyes were glittering. He drew his hands downward and his fingers accidentally brushed her most intimate place; or was it on purpose? Antoinette squeaked and jammed her legs together, trapping his hand like a vise. He looked surprised, and then he stared down at his hand, hidden in the folds of cloth, cozy between her thighs, and grinned.

“Go away,” she gasped, self-preservation finally tipping the balance on her need to be courageous. Reaching to pull the rags of her bodice about her, she said, “You’ve searched me and found nothing, now leave me alone.”