Midnight's Wild Passion

He looked puzzled. “For what?”

Emotion pinched her throat. By admitting how his understanding comforted her poor bruised heart, she made her vulnerability too clear. “For . . . for listening to me. For not saying I deserved what I got. For . . . for standing up for me.”

“Damned lot of good it does,” he said grimly, snatching her hand and pressing a quick kiss to her palm.

“It’s too late to change what happened,” she said sadly, even as the flick of his tongue on her skin heated her blood. “My father died without setting eyes on me again.”

“Can’t you go back now?”

She shook her head. “I promised I wouldn’t. I disgraced them, whether the world knows or not. My mother died not long after I eloped. My brother inherited. I’m sure he’d rather preserve the family name than welcome a wayward sister. Where could he say I’d been all this time? Too many questions would arise.”

“Questions can be answered,” Nicholas said sharply. “Your brother may not even know you’re alive.”

“Do you think I haven’t told myself that? That I haven’t longed to see my brother again? But my actions place me beyond forgiveness. I must make my way alone.” She blinked away stinging tears and raised her chin. Her voice steadied. “I have a home with the Demarests. Luckily Mr. Demarest recognized me on the packet from Calais and immediately came to my assistance. I owe him my life.”

It was pure chance that she’d shared the vessel with her second cousin, who returned from one of his regular forays into the Paris demimonde. Although they’d met only occasionally, he recognized her immediately. The Hilliard coloring made her noticeable, she supposed.

She’d never deceived herself that Demarest’s kindness was anything less than a careless act of the moment, and in return she’d devoted years of service to his daughter and his estate. But the prodigal thoughtlessness that so often drove her to distraction meant also that he paid no heed to her disgrace. It had cost him little to offer her shelter, and in return, he’d enjoyed playing the gallant rescuer.

Nonetheless he had rescued her, and from a dangerous and hopeless situation. She’d never forget that as long as she lived.

Nicholas stared down at the hand he held, his lashes shadowing his cheekbones. His thumb brushed her skin in a casual caress that set awareness swirling. She couldn’t read his expression.

Was she wrong to sense tension in his stillness? He was angry on her behalf. Perhaps that was all it was.

She braced for him to rain down curses on Johnny and her father, although she’d long ago accepted responsibility for her downfall. She’d been fittingly punished, was fortunate her punishment hadn’t been worse. To fend off destitution, she might have ended up selling herself. She suppressed a shudder. After Italy, her prospects had been bleak indeed. She’d grown up over those weeks of rough travel. Grown up and recognized her fatal weakness.

Which hadn’t deterred her from falling into Nicholas’s bed. A handsome face still incinerated her common sense. Despair knotted her belly even as she clung to Nicholas’s hand like a lifeline in a stormy sea.

When he raised his head, his voice was gentle and his black eyes were impossibly deep. “Drink, Antonia.”

“I don’t want . . .”

“Just a little wine.” He extended his own glass to her lips. She took a couple of sips and was surprised when the claret’s warmth soothed her tight throat.

He placed his wine on the bedside cabinet and reached forward to stroke his thumb across her cheek. Only then did she realize her face was wet. She’d tried so hard not to cry. Painful memories and, even more, Nicholas’s unquestioning partisanship had defeated her.

Leaning forward, he softly pressed his mouth to hers in a kiss more of comfort than passion, although the promise of passion flickered behind the care. He cradled her head in one hand and ran his tongue along the seam until she opened. He tasted of claret and Nicholas. With an unhurried gesture, he took her wine and set the glass near his.

“I’ve never told anyone else about Johnny,” she admitted. Surprisingly she felt lighter after her confession, although nothing could absolve her sins. “Not everything.”

“Thank you for telling me.” He kissed her again, the warmth balm to her wounded soul.

As she closed her eyes, traitorous tears surged once more. What right had this dissipated roué to rip at her emotions? He didn’t pretend to love her. At least Johnny had convinced himself he cared.

Yet when Nicholas kissed her, he cracked her heart wide open.

After tonight, his magical kisses would become a memory. She could hardly bear to think she’d never lie in his arms again. She’d miss much more than his kisses. His touch. His voice. His intelligence. His laughter. And the powerful thrust of his body.

She had a dismal premonition that after leaving him, she’d feel empty until the day she died.

In that moment, she realized there was no similarity between shallow, self-involved Johnny and this man. Nicholas was the lover she’d dreamed of as a young girl, and still dreamed of as a mature woman.

He was the lover she’d waited for all her life.

She kissed him back with all the fervor in her heart. Her hands crept up to encircle his neck.

When he raised his head, they both breathed unsteadily. Her breasts swelled for his touch. She ached for him to take her again, so quickly he’d stirred her desire.