The Theft (Thornton 2)

A pulse that went wild as Ashford's hand crept around, slid inside her mantle to find her breast, caress it through the fine silk of her gown.

"Ashford." She uttered his name on a moan, skyrockets of sensation shooting through her, and instinctively she arched closer, seeking more of his touch. His thumb circled her nipple, stroking it again and again, and Noelle stopped breathing entirely, wondering if she were going to die.

"God, I want you," Ashford rasped, his hand shaking as he continued to tease the hardening peak that was budding beneath his touch. "I want to lay you down in the grass, right here, right now, and make love to you. Ah, Noelle…" His hips shifted forward of their own volition, seeking the warm haven between her thighs, and Noelle wanted nothing more than to comply, to lie with him precisely as he'd just described and give in to these staggering sensations.

Again

, it was Ashford who pulled away, sagging against a tree, Noelle clasped against him, as he desperately tried to bring himself under control.

It took long minutes to accomplish that, and when he spoke, his breathing was still labored, uneven. "What the hell is happening to me? Am I losing my mind? My senses? My reason? I'm seducing you outside my parents' house. With your parents happily visiting within. After promising them I'd be the model escort."

Noelle couldn't speak. She had yet to stop trembling, much less regain her balance or quiet her senses. She was weak with yearning, with unquenched desire, with physical awakening. Her breasts ached, her body tingled, and an unknown pulse between her thighs throbbed with liquid longing.

Dear God, was this passion? Was this what drove couples into each other's arms, made them loathe to separate?

If so, who could blame them?

"Noelle?" Ashford touched her hot cheek, raised her chin so he could make out her expression. "Are you all right?"

"Never again," she breathed in wonder. "I'll never be all right again."

Warring emotions darted across his face. "You should be slapping me."

"I'd prefer to keep doing all the glorious things we were just doing."

"So would I." Ashford feathered soft kisses across her brow, down the bridge of her nose. "But we can't. Not now. As it is, we'd better start walking back. Thankfully, the wind has picked up. It will explain your unusually rosy complexion, tousled hair, and breathless state."

"And yours?"

"Yes, tempête—and mine." He combed his fingers through her sable tresses, trying to rearrange them in some acceptable manner.

"You felt it, too, didn't you?" Noelle asked him quietly, her gaze wide with discovery.

His magnificent eyes delved into hers. "Yes, Noelle. I felt it. More than you can imagine. More than I ever believed possible." A muscle worked in his jaw. "So much for those bloody boundaries of mine. I crossed them about ten minutes ago."

"Never to return. I hope," Noelle murmured, her fingertips tracing the solemn line of his mouth.

Ashford caught her wrist, tugged her hand away. "Enough, little seductress. Before your father storms out here and challenges me to a duel."

That sobered her quickly. "Oh, Ashford, you don't really think—"

"What I think is that we'd better get back to the party before we find out." He steered her away from the darkened section of path, back toward the manor.

Abruptly, Noelle remembered something else she'd intended to tell Ashford; an additional tidbit their discussion of Baricci had prompted her to relay—one she was fairly sure he'd find most intriguing.

"Ashford?" She tugged at his arm, slowing his step and compelling him to pay attention.

"No, tempête." His tone was husky, the look he gave her intimate. "No more boundaries tonight."

Noelle shook her head, although her heart skipped a beat. "That's not what I intended to ask." A mischievous grin. "At least not this time. What I intended to ask was, what do you know of André Sardo?"

"Sardo—the artist?" Ashford sobered instantly. "He's talented as hell. He's also relatively unknown, except at the Franco Gallery. Why do you ask?"

"So Baricci does display his works?"

A nod. "Baricci is Sardo's main source of revenue at this time. He's also his greatest hope. With any luck, the right patron will walk into Baricci's gallery someday and recognize Sardo's genius. Then his days of poverty will be over." Ashford's gaze narrowed intently. "Now tell me why you're asking about Sardo."

"Because he appeared at Farrington last week, announcing that Baricci had commissioned him to paint my portrait—as a gift to me, an olive branch of sorts. I convinced Papa to let him do so, if only to provide the poor artist with some income."