“It’s my best dress,” Miss Forsythe said huffily.
He subjected the limp frill at her décolletage to a derisive flick. “Perhaps when you were fifteen.” His gaze sharpened. “Just how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” she muttered. “How old are you?”
“Too old for you.” At thirty-two, perhaps he wasn’t too old in years but he was a million years too old in experience. And he hadn’t spent those million years wisely.
Sudden hope lit her expression. “Does that mean you’ll let me go?” This time he laughed openly. “Not on your life.”
Her spiking fear might send her scarpering. He curled one hand around her shoulder, bare under her flimsy bodice. At the contact, something inexplicable arced between them. When startled pansy eyes shot up to meet his, he tumbled headlong into soft brown. She trembled as his hold gentled to shape the graceful curve of bone and sinew.
“What are you waiting for?” she forced through stiff lips.
He should be horsewhipped for tormenting her, but still curiosity was paramount. He raised his other hand to her jaw, angling her face. This close, he could make out each individual eyelash and the gold striations in her rich irises. Her nostrils flared as though she took in his scent just as he took in hers.
Or perhaps she was so frightened, she struggled to breathe.
“The question is whether debauching my enemy’s sister-in-law has quite the same cachet as debauching my enemy’s wife,” he murmured.
“You bastard,” she hissed, her breath warm across his face. He smiled as dread lit her eyes. “Precisely, belladonna.”
Slowly he bent to place his mouth on hers. Her rain-fresh scent
flooded his senses, made him giddy with anticipation. She didn’t move away and her lips remained sealed, but the satiny warmth intoxicated him.
He slid his lips against hers in what was more the hint of a kiss than an actual kiss. Even as arousal pounded through him, insisting that he take her, that she was here to be taken, he k
ept the contact light, teasing. Nor did he tighten his grip on her shoulder to keep her under his mouth. The agony of suspense bordered on the delicious as
he waited for her to wrench free, to curse him for a scoundrel. But she remained still as a china figurine. Except the subtle heat under his lips belonged to a woman, not unresponsive porcelain.
Before more than a second passed, he raised his head. Astounding how reluctant he was to end the unsatisfying kiss. He dragged in an unsteady breath and struggled against the powerful urge to kiss her properly. There mightn’t be much cachet in fucking Lord Hillbrook’s sister-in-law, but he had a grim feeling that wouldn’t stop him.
Her eyes were wide and dark with shock. Because he’d kissed her?
Or because for a fleeting instant, she might have enjoyed it?
“Why the hesitation?” Her tone was raw. “Get it over with.”
He tapped her cheek with a chiding index finger. “I haven’t had my
dinner yet,” he said mildly and released her.
She staggered but found her balance with impressive speed. Breath escaped her parted lips in unsteady gasps. He preferred her outrage
to her vulnerability. Against his will, her vulnerability ate at his ruthlessness like rust on iron. “Won’t you join me?”
She regarded him with well-deserved hatred. “I’m not hungry.” “Pity. You’ll need your strength later.”
He let that sink in while he sat and rang the bell. Mrs. Bevan appeared with astonishing speed. She’d probably been listening at the door. Entertainment at Castle Craven was so lacking, he hardly blamed her.
“You may serve dinner, Mrs. Bevan,” he said with a cheerfulness that earned him a puzzled glance from his housekeeper.
“Aye, maister. And for yon lady?”
Miss Forsythe remained standing where she had when he’d kissed her. She was back to looking like a marble statue, but now that he’d
touched her, he knew she was flesh and blood, all right.