“My scar? What? No!”
“No?”
“It’s ugly.”
“We all have scars. For most people they’re hidden, hidden away from the world’s scrutiny.”
She stiffened as he slipped another button free and another but did not bat his hand away or offer further protest. Once all the buttons were undone, he pushed the red pelisse off her shoulders.
“I prefer you in blue,” he said, running his finger slowly across the neckline of her gown. She shivered as he eased the sleeve down a fraction to reveal the tip of the mark that began at her collarbone.
“You have made your point, Wycliff.” Her breathing quickened as he lowered his head.
He pressed his lips to the silvery line—knew no man had ever kissed her there. Her skin felt warm against his mouth, tasted sweet, surprisingly innocent. Desire burst through his body with the fierceness of a lit firework. He did have a heart, for the damn thing pounded hard against his ribs.
“And what point is that?”
“That you’re the only man with the power to unnerve me.”
He looked up and cast a sinful grin. “And perhaps the only man you want to bring you pleasure.”
His hand settled on her hip, snaked around her back to draw her into an embrace. When his mouth brushed hers, she did not pull away.
The brief kiss amounted to nothing more than the soft touch of his lips, yet the sensation tugged at the muscles in his abdomen, sent a rush of blood surging to his cock. He broke contact, stared at the plump bottom lip he wanted to suck and nip, wanted to feel gliding up and down the solid length of his shaft.
The second kiss might have been just as gentle had the widow not shocked him by tugging his cravat and dragging his mouth to hers.
Passion exploded—wild and fierce.
Nerves appeared to have abandoned her, replaced by uncontrollable need. She was the one who coaxed his lips apart. It was her tongue that delved deep into his mouth in a wanton frenzy. Desperate hands clawed at his waistcoat as if keen to strip him bare.
Their pleasurable moans filled the night air.
A hunger like nothing he’d felt before raged in his veins.
Damian clasped her buttocks, met every delicious stroke of her tongue.
God, he’d lost count of the times he’d imagined this. For once, the reality proved far more satisfying than the dream.
In the distance, the bell rang to announce the cascade. While everyone raced to witness the artificial waterfall scene, he was about to press the widow against a tree trunk, lift her skirts and bury himself to the hilt.
Only, the last strike of the bell sounded closer, more like a gunshot than a clang. The acrid smell of sulphur bombarded his nostrils just as the searing pain ripped through his arm.
“Hellfire!” he cried as he tore his mouth away.
“Wh-what is it?”
Shock made him drop to his knees. He pressed his hand to his arm, pulled it away to see naught but scarlet-red blood. “Some devil shot me.”
Chapter Ten
It took a few seconds for Wycliff’s words to penetrate Scarlett’s fevered brain. She had heard the shot but was so engrossed in the feel of his hot mouth, had cast it off as part of the night’s entertainment.
“Shot you?” Panic choked her throat. Anticipating another imminent attack, Scarlett’s head whipped left and right as she glanced the length of the avenue but saw no one. “Where?” The crimson blood covering his hand sent a bolt of fear straight to her heart. She dropped to her knees, too. With trembling fingers, she touched his coat and waistcoat but found no sign of an entry wound.
“The ball nicked my arm. The blackguard must have crept upon us, fired through the gap in the damn trees.”
Judging from the amount of blood on his hand, it was more than a nick. “I need to get you out of that coat, need to examine the wound.”