Midnight's Wild Passion

“I want to go back to the house,” she said in a flinty voice, meeting his determined glare with a determined glare of her own.

“No, you don’t.”

The grip on her shoulder became a caress. Even through layers of clothing, the warmth reached her skin. Damn her weakness, she couldn’t gather will to struggle, although he no longer constrained her.

“You think you know me better than I know myself,” she snapped.

“In some things, I believe I do.” He trailed one long finger down her cheek. She read tenderness in the gesture. But of course they both knew he was a liar.

“Stop it.” She jerked stumbling from his grip. “I’m not some silly chit ripe for cheap seduction.”

His smile held more than a hint of ruthlessness. “Yet here you are and not trying too hard to escape. Cheap seduction seems to be working.”

“You deceive yourself, my lord,” she said sharply, and without a backward glance, dashed for her horse.

Again he was too quick. For a man of such lazy charm, he moved faster than a striking adder when he wanted.

With a steely efficiency that made her heart pound with fright and more of that insidious excitement, he grabbed her waist and backed her against an oak. He braced his arms on either side, trapping her.

He panted, not with exertion but with arousal. His body radiated heat, and this close, the clean, musky fragrance of his skin intoxicated her.

Frantically Antonia cast around for a weapon. Nothing was within reach. He slid his hands closer, hemming her in. She told herself she dreaded the prospect of those hands on her. The truth was nowhere near so simple. Nor so flattering to her rectitude.

“No poker. No riding crop. Not even a fallen branch to beat me with.” She struggled not to respond to the laughter in his deep voice. He took none of this seriously, whereas it was vitally important to her. “You’re not going anywhere, my enchanting Miss Smith.”

She angled her chin up to meet his eyes. Far up. He carried himself so easily, she only remembered how tall he was at moments like this when he was breathtakingly close. He studied her with a fixed attention that shivered sensual awareness across her skin.

He leaned in and breathed deeply as though taking her scent into his lungs. The action was astonishingly stirring.

For ten barren years, she’d trodden virtue’s path. Lord Ranelaw awoke her wildness. She was as incapable of resisting him as her virginal seventeen-year-old self had been of resisting lying, charming Johnny Benton.

If she fell again, she deserved everything she got.

“I won’t cooperate,” she said coldly, even as her pulse drummed erratically in her ears and her skin tightened with arousal.

“Of course you won’t,” Ranelaw murmured, in the same tone he’d used to calm her horse. However much she resented the fact, the low, velvety voice soothed her just as it had soothed the restless animal.

She strove for another sharp retort. As long as the battle of words continued, she held out hope of safety. But his nearness, his heat, his unabashed hunger banished her ability to summon something witty and cutting. Instead a low, almost keening sound emerged from her throat.

A triumphant smile kicked up the corners of his lips and he bent his head. Last time he’d kissed her, he’d demanded surrender. At least at first. She braced for another assault, but the kiss was as fresh as the spring morning around them.

Antonia shut her eyes, neither encouraging nor impeding him. His mouth’s soft, satiny exploration demanded no more than she wanted to give. The moment was piercingly sweet, suspended in a golden prism, separate from anything before or after, untainted by wickedness.

In a great wave, her tension ebbed and she sagged against the tree, her knees trembling. She grabbed his shoulders, feeling the leashed power under the fine linen of his shirt.

Although she shouldn’t, she’d loved his kisses in London. Those kisses had been marvelous, heady, intoxicating.

This kiss was unlike anything she’d ever experienced.

A rake’s kiss as pure and innocent as the brush of an angel’s wing.

Too soon, it was over. He raised his head slowly and studied her. His black eyes were unguarded and held an expression she’d never seen. A shock echoing hers. Appreciation. Something that could almost be tenderness.

“Ranelaw . . .” His name emerged as a husky whisper.

What could she say after that kiss? Words seemed blasphemy compared to what he’d communicated without speech in those magical seconds.

She swallowed and battled to return to reality. A grim, perilous reality where the Marquess of Ranelaw was the personification of sin, not a man who kissed her as if afraid he’d bruise her if he pressed too hard. A man whose lips touched hers as softly as the stroke of a flower petal.