What You Desire (Anything for Love 1)

With that thought in mind, she moved around to the drawers, feeling a sudden rush of excitement as she trailed her fingers over the hard mahogany planes. The thrill of stepping into dangerous territory caused a nervous flutter in her stomach, and her hand shook as she touched the cool, metal handle.

In the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a shadow but had no time to react as a large hand closed firmly over her mouth.

“Why, Miss Beaufort. I had no idea you were such an early riser,” the Marquess of Danesfield whispered, his tone rich and languid. Sophie struggled to break free from his grasp and he pulled her back against his hard chest. He lowered his head, his cheek brushing against her hair. “Now, I am going to release you and then you are going to tell me what the hell you are doing in my desk.”

Sophie suddenly became aware of the state of her undress as the heat from his body seemed to penetrate the thin fabric, caressing and warming her skin until it burned.

When he released her, it took her a moment to remember how to breathe. But if he was expecting her to cower in fear, to offer an apology or explanation for her conduct, then he was sorely mistaken. Instead, she thrust her elbow into his ribs with all the force she could muster.

She heard him groan and she swung around to face him. He was hunched over, one hand cradling his chest the other braced against the wall for support. Sophie took the opportunity to take a few steps back, to place some distance between them.

“How dare you manhandle me in such a manner,” she cried brushing her hand down the front of her nightgown.

“Manhandle you! I fear I am the one with a cracked rib.”

He winced as he straightened and she braced herself for the verbal onslaught. But he just stood there, staring, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement.

He had altered somewhat during the last six years. He appeared taller, his shoulders stronger, more powerful. His hair was far too long, she decided, as she watched him push back an ebony lock from his brow. However, his character still posed the same contradiction: extreme arrogance infused with a playful, boyish charm. Those wicked brown eyes stared back at her and she noticed the faint shadows beneath.

The life of a rake had obviously taken its toll.

The thought caused a series of lascivious images to flood her senses, images that had no place in the mind of an innocent woman and her gaze fell to the opening of his shirt and the dusting of dark hair. She swallowed deeply and bit down on her bottom lip by way of a distraction.

A subtle smile played on his lips and he dragged the chair from the desk and dropped into it with casual grace. His gaze settled on her face before drifting down over the front of her nightgown, lingering in all places he should not dare to look.

“Were you in such a hurry to see me that you neglected to dress?” He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his arms behind his head. “Or do you consider this appropriate for the occasion?”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Sophie replied, trying to sound annoyed rather than embarrassed for she did not want him to think her prudish. “You know very well why I’m dressed like this — someone has stolen my clothes.”

“How utterly inconvenient,” he replied. “However, it appears the only person intent on stealing is you, Miss Beaufort.”

Now she truly was angry. “How dare you. I have never stolen a thing in my life,” she snapped, raising her chin in defiance. “And I certainly have no intention of doing so now.”

Well, it was not a lie, she thought. One could not steal something that already belonged to them.

He sat up and folded his arms across his chest. “No, you just sneak around in the middle of the night in a state of undress, for what, Miss Beaufort? Who or what were you hoping to find?”

His slow, seductive voice caressed her skin like a gentle breeze and she cursed inwardly. It didn’t matter what she said. Being so skilled in the art of playful flirtation, he was capable of twisting her words, capable of stirring strong emotion.

Taking a deep breath, Sophie placed her hands on her hips. “Let us stop these childish games. I believe you have something I need. Something upon which my life depends.”

Dane gave a lascivious grin as he stood and took a step towards her. “I’m not used to a lady being so forward, but I’m more than happy to give you everything you need, and more.”

Sophie stared at him, shocked at such barefaced arrogance and in a moment of frustration cried, “You … you debauched fool.”

Dane straightened and placed his hand over his heart. “Now I am offended. I have it on good authority that I’m one of most intelligent men in all of England.”

He stood there like a shrine to conceit and Sophie knew he was right about one thing — he was no fool. Why did he make her feel like a helpless animal ensnared in a trap? Why did she feel so intimidated, so useless, so pathetic?

If she could not deal with Dane, how on earth would she deal with the Comte de Dampierre?

Dane probably expected her to run back to her room in fear of her virtue or crumble into a weeping wreck. Well, if nothing else, she wo

uld wipe the smug grin off his face.

Gathering every ounce of courage she possessed, she stepped closer until she felt the warmth radiating from his body. He looked surprised when she stretched out her hands and placed them gently on his shirt, letting her palms glide over the hard planes.

His muscles flexed beneath her touch and it took every ounce of self-control she possessed to stop her fingers from exploring, to curb the sweet fire heating the blood in her veins.