The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell (Scandalous House of Calydon 2)

He sat on the other end of the bench, and she desperately wanted to see his face. She could feel the heat of his regard, as it seared through her. Yet, she trusted him.

She bit her lips hard until they stung. She’d trusted Orwell, as well, and look where that had gotten her. They were both lords, belonging to the same set of social values and perceptions.

“What adventure is there to be found with me tied to a trellis?” She could not disguise the tremor in her voice. What was she doing?

Anthony leaned over her, his body almost blanketing hers. His eyes glittered with something she could not identify. “I will not take your maidenhead. I swear to you,” he whispered against her lips, then claimed them in a brief but alarmingly pleasurable kiss.

She froze. Her muscles locked. My maidenhead?

“Isn’t this what you wanted? Adventure?” He gave her a lazy, roguish smile. He kissed her again, sharp and brief.

Oh, God. Was this what she wanted? Adventure, yes. To be free, yes. But could she trust his word?

She believed with all her heart he was nothing like Orwell, or even Lord Hoyt. But what if she was wrong?

“If you are uncomfortable, I will release you,” Anthony said, “and I will ensure you arrive back inside without being seen.”

His promise and lack of pressure reassured her as nothing else could. She prayed she wouldn’t regret her impulsiveness…but she wanted to experience this with him. Whatever he had planned for her.

Her voice was husky when she spoke. “Take me on your adventure, Anthony.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, searching her face. When it appeared he found what he probed for, a smile touched his lips, and he eased back into the darkness. She waited in an agony of anticipation and need for his touch. It came on her ankles. She groaned, melting with desire. The soft, satiny feel of her gown slid sensually against her skin accompanied by the crackle of petticoats as he pushed them to her waist.

His rough chuckle rolled over her. “It seems you have already started on your adventure. No bloomers, Miss Peppiwell?”

She laughed shakily. “Not wearing any is my way of thumbing my nose at the haughty ladies of Society.”

The quirk of his lips was pure, heated sensuality. She gazed at him, enthralled by her own nakedness. And by the way he looked at her. The cool night air kissed her skin, but it did little to calm the fire that burned inside her. She was painfully aroused and gripped by emotions she had never felt before. Her skin was fevered. She pulsed with wetness, though he had not touched her intimately as yet.

He parted her legs, and she felt suddenly vulnerable as she lay before him, completely exposed. Her heart thundered, and she shivered as the breeze cooled her burning skin.

She admitted she wanted him. There was an ache, deep and unrelenting, inside her that she wanted to be filled and banished, and only by him. Yet, a knot of doubt held her from releasing the passion that bumped so insistently at her resistance.

Confusion marred her brows. What was he doing? He anchored her splayed thighs to his shoulders and dipped his head, kissing her deeply in the sensitive place between her legs. Her back bowed and an unfettered shriek ripped from her lips. A pleased rumble escaped him at the sound of her choked gasp.

Shock and arousal vied for equal attention. Her hips moved rhythmically as his lips ignited her most intimate nerve endings, the pleasure sharp and searing. She tugged at the silken restraints but her actions merely tightened the cravat. She was desperate to do something, to hold the head that was tormenting her so erotically between her legs.

His mouth pressed deeper between her thighs, doing the most sinfully delicious act, one she could never have imagined. Fire scalded her body as she met his eyes over the length of her body. His tongue rimmed her entrance, and she whimpered. The green of his eyes glittered, and he intensified the erotic kiss, stabbing his tongue deep within her.

Her mind hazed from the undiluted heat his tongue generated. The desire he roused felt dark and needy, and it scared her. She had never felt anything like the inferno that raged through her whole body under his skillful ministrations. Yet she felt as if this was only the beginning.

The sensuality that stamped his face as he rose above her had her arching her hips in needy welcome. “You are so wonderfully responsive, Phillipa.” He crooned against her lips before claiming them.

She moaned, tasting herself on his lips. Her hips rolled in hunger, and she desperately wanted to be filled. She’d felt pleasure before, but had never encountered anything quite like this—this was fire.

She frantically tugged at the restraints, wanting to grip his head and feast on his mouth. She growled in frustration as they wouldn’t yield. Shivers racked her frame, and she became painfully aware of the hands that rested so casually against her quivering stomach.

He pulled his lips slowly from her.

A fiery blush heated her face. “You are diabolical, my lord.”

The seriousness of his gaze forced her to focus. “If you do not desire marriage, then what do you need?” His voice was rough with arousal.

She hesitated. “To do what I wish, where I want, when I want, without condemnation.” She could not disguise the raw ache in her voice for more, for him. “Please,” she urged.

He snaked his hands down and cupped her mons possessively. “What do you wish to do?”

Excitement thundered through her. “I will not be your mistress. I will never be anyone’s mistress,” she said.

“What will you be to me, then?”

“Your lover,” she rushed out, shocked at her own declaration. “I do not desire marriage, nor wealth, nor your protection. But, I want you, Anthony. I want to explore what is between us without fear or recriminations.”

“And when your husband discovers your lack of maidenhead?”

She willed her body to relax under the tension that gripped her. Words begged to tumble from her lips, but instead she said, “I will never marry. I could not bear to be so confined.” She let the honest desire bleed from her gaze, lowering her barriers so he could see truth.

A frown chased his features but quickly disappeared.

Her breathing stilled when his fingers combed through her saturated curls to find the core of her pleasure. His thumb flicked against her nub and pressed. Her hips surged, and her body wept for him.

He took her lips and drank in her cries, his finger teasing the rim of her entrance without delving in, his thumb circling her knot of pleasure. Her hips strained against his hands, and she mewled into his mouth in edgy desire, desperate to feel fulfillment.

His kiss deepened as he worked two fingers into her swollen core. She yelped against his lips, tugging at the silken bonds, twisting as pain pinched her, mingling deep with the pleasure.

“I am not an easy lover. I want to sink my cock into the tightness of your body until you beg me to stop because of the burn. But I won’t stop, and then you will be begging for me to take you hard, as the pleasure ignites within you.” He twisted his fingers, working them inside her deeper, his thumb still circling her knot of pleasure.

Waves of delight swamped her senses and when she exploded in ecstasy, she did so soundlessly, stunned by the way he brought her to the pinnacle of ecstasy.

After long moments of endless pleasure, she floated back, and he deftly untied his cravat. He pulled down her dress and eased her into a sitting position. Sensuality was etched in his features, but there was an aloofness there that unsettled her.

Without giving much thought to her actions, she rose from the bench and pressed her lips against his. He stilled, and then his arms slowly banded around her, deepening the press of their lips. Her soft sigh was swallowed by his lips. She needed it, the gentleness after the storm he had just carried her body through. His tongue twined with hers in deep, languorous strokes. Her shivers subsided and lethargy invaded her limbs. His retreat was slow, as if he was unwilling to release her.

“I do not share,” he said a

gainst her lips.

She smiled, her heart surging with a sort of gladness. “Neither do I,” she responded, tipping to nip at his ear. “I want adventures. I want to tour the teeming life that is London. I want to visit the famed Decadence gaming hall and watch the women dance the cancan.”

“I do not think it is adventure you seek.”

She arched a brow, admiring the way the moonlight threw his patrician features into sharp masculine beauty.

“You desire complete ruination, Miss Peppiwell.”

“Is this disapproval I hear from the man who just lifted my skirts and kissed me between my thighs on a stone bench at Lady Blade’s soiree?”

“Never,” he assured her. “I heartily approve of your wicked behavior, my sweet.”

She loved how easily he laughed. “How will we meet? My aunt chaperones me almost all the time. She may be searching for me, even now.”

“You won’t be missed in this crush.”

He spun her around, and she held still as he artfully rearranged her hair. He did so with an expertise that flummoxed her. “It is unusual for a gentleman to know how to coif a lady’s tresses.” She wondered if he’d done these sorts of things with his mistresses.

He grunted. “I have a sister.”

She twisted around, trying to make out his features in the moonlight. “You arranged your sister’s hair?”

“Constance has an inquiring spirit. She was the youngest, and as secluded as we were at Sherring Cross, it fell to me and my brother to entertain her, which included a lot of designing her hair to befit a princess.”

He nudged Phillipa to indicate he was finished, and she turned to him, captivated. “So you played tea parties?”

He gave a lazy smile. “We did everything with Constance. We dressed her hair, played with dollies, and had tea parties with the Queen and her ladies in waiting. Believe me, it was a blessing when it evolved into swimming and fencing.”

“She sounds very accomplished.” Phillipa inhaled, then plowed ahead. “Anthony, why do you want me?”