The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London 1)

The comment proved intriguing. Was it possible to believe in fidelity but not love? She imagined lust and fidelity were on opposing sides when it came to battles in the bedchamber.

“Regardless of what you say, Rose is not that naive.”

Nicole wanted to have faith in her friend, she really did. But Lord Cunningham had already spun the lady a yarn, and Rose had seemed so convinced of her feelings.

“Naivety has nothing to do with it.” Oliver dragged his hand down his face. “After your experience with Lord Mosgrove, you know how persistent men can be.”

The mere mention of the lord’s name made her skin crawl over her bones. Persistent was most definitely the appropriate word to describe his wandering hands.

“Must we speak of Mosgrove?” Nicole had spent the last six months trying to banish the man from her mind. In one respect, she supposed she should be thankful to the old earl for hiding her away in the manor, out of reach. “The fellow is a leech who sucks the life from all those he meets, who feeds on a woman’s weakness.”

Oliver’s expression darkened. “When I see him again, I pray we will be alone in a dark alley. I pray he finds the courage to throw the first punch as I will certainly throw the last.”

“And I pray I shall be there to watch.”

A smile touched his lips.

“We are alike in many ways.” His rich tone drifted over her like a warm breeze. “Without a doubt, you are the most courageous woman I have ever met.”

The compliment touched her. In light of Jeremy’s appalling behaviour, she’d had no choice but to fend for herself. “And I never expected to see a man knock Stokes off his feet.”

He leant back and folded his arms across his chest. “The size of the man matters not. It has to do with knowing where to punch.”

Nicole’s gaze traced the line of his muscular arms. A lady would have nothing to fear with Oliver Darby at her side. She wondered if the rest of his body was equally impressive — if he did everything with the same level of skill and mastery.

“In what other ways do you find us similar?”

She had to say something to draw her thoughts away from all things sinful. But the need to touch him grew. She craved his kisses, wanted nothing more than to lie in his arms and forget the rest of the world existed.

His lips parted, and his eyes softened. “You mean other than the fact we share a fondness for kissing?” She wished he would have stopped there, but then he added, “And trust is important to both of us. After suffering at the hands of our family, we value honesty in all things.”

Oh, why had he said trust?

Every muscle in her body twitched, chastising her for her foolishness. She’d been honest with her thoughts and feelings, so why could she not tell him her name was not Miss Flint?

There was only one logical answer that sprang to mind.

Regardless of who had warmed his bed in the past, Oliver was a man of integrity. Once he discovered she was the granddaughter of a viscount, he would insist on marriage? Their relationship would be forever based on lies and deceit. To see anything but desire and admiration in his eyes would wear her down until she was a bitter old woman with hate in her heart.

“Of course, we have opposing views when it comes to love,” he continued, pulling down the blinds before crossing the carriage to sit at her side. He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “And yet I sense you have a newly awakened comprehension of the power of passion.”

With a slow, languid grace, he removed her glove and circled her palm with the tip of his finger.

Every fibre of her being sprang to life. All thoughts of deceit dispersed. The heavy ache between her legs stamped down her fears and concerns.

With her other hand, Nicole cupped his cheek. “You were right,” she said. “My need for you is like a physical thing growing inside me.” Love blossomed too, but she could not risk him withdrawing should she be foolish enough to make the declaration. “Every part of my body aches for you.”

His breathing grew ragged, and he captured her lips in a kiss that was wild, reckless, a mating of tongues. For her, it was a mating of hearts and minds, too.

He placed urgent kisses along her jaw, on her cheek, over her eyelids.

“God, I'm like a man starved of air, of water, of everything one needs to exist. You are the only one who brings me comfort.”

A coolness breezed across her legs as his hand moved up under her skirt to caress her thigh. The pads of his fingers edged past the ribbon securing her stocking, up to the sensitive place pulsing with need. Her skin tingled in anticipation of his touch.

The first glide of his fingers sent her head spinning. He was right. Lust was all-consuming, utterly addictive. She fell back against the squab.

“You’re already wet,” he whispered as he claimed her mouth again.