“A man you abhor?” She simpered, lips curled in disgust. “Edmund is sweet and harmless... whatever cause you have to hate him is no doubt baseless.”
Sneering, Mr. Harrow crossed the distance between them. “Is that how you tolerate him so easily? You foolishly believe he is harmless?”
Every trace of her disgust came through. “Why should you hate him yet make love to his sister?”
Deep, rich laughter came in reply. His tongue wet the fullness of his lower lip, Mr. Harrow knowing just what would disarm her. With her bound curls a tumble over her breast he pinched a tress between his fingers and gave it a little tug. “Why should I care for Miss Jenkins’s happiness?”
Standing on her toes in an attempt to equal his great height, Arabella’s finger came to his chest. She poked him as she spat, “Whatever you are doing is wrong! Husbands are meant to love their wives, not torment them!”
The mockery of his smirk twisted into an angry sneer. With a vicious hiss he demanded an explanation, “As Baron Iliffe tormented you?”
Feeling as if she had been struck, Arabella looked away so the devil would not see the pain his words had caused. When her voice came, it was forcibly calm, falsely steady. “Is it their land you seek? Her dowry? Revenge? Why encourage a woman you barely tolerate?”
The man continued to look at her, to stare down, ringing that bit of caught hair between his fingers. “It is a means to an end. You will find, Arabella...” He watched her stiffen at the sound of her given name and raised a finger to her chin, admonishing in a lowly growled command, “Do not look away when we speak.”
She did not want to give him the pleasure of her obedience, and yanked her chin out of his hand and pushed back. He countered, his gaze turning predatory. They moved as if in a dance, their bodies in symmetry until the heat of the fire warned her not to take another step back.
A scorching finger trailed along her jaw, harsh words spoken as Harrow’s thumb and forefinger came to hold her chin and forcibly regain her attention. “You would champion a woman who clearly dislikes you, who mocked you at every turn of phrase and will work to discredit you if given the chance?”
Of course she would. “Lilly is young and naïve. It would be nothing for you to consume a thing with such shallow feelings. Why be the catalyst of her destruction and misery? What purpose would it serve?”
From the way his eyes darted over her face, Arabella had the distinct impression he had not heard a word she’d said. There was a tugging at her hair, the ribbon that held the curls pulled free. The sensation made her eyes flash down to find the large hand of her persecutor tangling in the red mass.
Instantly panicked, her voice fell lower than a breath. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve wanted to touch your hair, Imp.” The declaration was not assertive or aggressive, it was smoothly alluring. “So I am.”
Stupidly, she watched him continue to finger the strands, and could not understand what was so spellbinding in the act. “Stop it at once.”
A low chuckle sounded, his beautiful face smiling as if the woman had said something absurd. “No.”
“No?” her attention darted up from his curving lips to those fathomless eyes.
Arabella knew every trace of her expression was one of confusion, that her lower lip was trembling.
He soaked it in, absolutely unconcerned. “Breathe, Arabella.”
A sharp intake of air passed her lips, the feeling of much needed oxygen coupled with the odd tingling sensation at her scalp. The man, his closeness, gave off the heat of brimstone compared to the coolness of the fire behind her. “Mr. Harrow, please. I am too hot.”
His reply was to lean forward, to smooth his cheek along hers, and whisper at the shell of her ear, “Would you not rather call me Gregory?”
His fingers grew bolder, tangling, pulling just enough to make her whimper and tilt her head back. With the soft curve of her throat exposed, Gregory ran his nose up the smooth flesh, folding his body around her.
The feeling of lips at her throat, the sounds he made, and an animal noise came from the woman. Her eyes were locked on the high ceiling where she tried to count the beams, but Arabella could not focus... because she felt him. She felt hands that were warm, that cupped the base of her skull, that traced the line of her spine.
The richness of Harrow’s voice moved straight through her when he chided, “You are frightened.”
Blinking in her stupor, two matching trails of tears fell down her cheeks. Frightened? She was terrified.
Releasing his hold on her hair, Gregory pulled her attention back to his face, hushed her, and delicately used his thumb to wipe the salty drips away. “Shhhhh.”
The very second he stepped back, she thought it was over. But the sensation of relief vanished when Arabella realized he had drawn her body along with his. The devil’s eyes never broke from hers, even as he settled back in the soft comfort of the large leather chair.
Holding her gaze steady, he guided her legs astride his lap.
At once the languorous slow moving hands were back. Warm, full lips almost brushed hers as Gregory caressed the nape of her neck, her shoulders, kneaded the swell of a hip, leaving her mind nothing but a mad fervor that mirrored the sound of the screaming wind against the house. His exploration went on for ages and over time coaxed the tension from her muscles, removed the frightened wideness of her eyes and replaced it with lowered lashes and softly parted lips.
She did not know what to do, unable to make herself move.