A Rakes Guide to Pleasure (Somerhart 2)

"You know why." He touched his tongue to her . . . Fire.

Hating herself for doing it, Emma arched her neck.

"But on the drive over. . ." He drew a fiery path up to her earlobe. "I realized. . ." Every word whispered a cool secret against wet skin. "I'd promised to be charming."

She would have shaken her head, but he caught her ear-lobe between his teeth, trapping her.

"Oh," Emma sighed, then mo

aned something less intel­ligible when he began to suck.

Several parts of her body came to strict attention at the sensation. Nibbling, sucking . . . His tongue worked against the sensitive flesh, and Emma thought she could swoon given a few more minutes to enjoy.

She dug her fingers into the shoulders of his coat just before he let her ear go with a tiny, wet pop. "Am I?" he asked.

"Mm?"

"Am I being charming, Lady Denmore?"

"No." The word betrayed itself, all dusk and softness.

His chuckle was so close she could feel it marching through her bones. "Little liar," he whispered and nipped her ear again.

Her brain muttered a protest, but Emma's body glowed with joy and triumph. She wanted this, wanted more than this, because she knew. She knew what he meant by these kisses, knew that he could use these delicate skills on more important places. More needful places.

Yes! Her body sang as he licked lower, down the column of her throat to the high collar of her gown where he gave one final, lingering kiss.

"Now we will have something besides your ride with Lan­caster to think about."

Emma was still blinking when he rose and tugged his coat into place.

"I've used up all my charm for the morning. I'll see you in two days." His words thrummed with hot warning and seemed to echo through the room long after the man closed the door behind him.

Hart didn't know what to think of himself anymore. Had no idea, in fact. He felt young again. Young and hot and reckless. And the feelings were memories, aching with plea­sure, but straining all over with a sense of doom.

Heartache had followed these feelings last time. Heartache and humiliation and fury and shame. He'd thought he'd learned his lesson, but apparently his libertine's soul had only retreated. It had regrouped, reformed, and now loomed over him, too heavy and insistent to resist.

Lady Denmore was a woman to be thoroughly enjoyed, and Hart meant to have her in every way she'd allow. He wanted to indulge again, live again.

When he came to himself, he was standing at the bottom of her front steps, blinking. He found his driver very care­fully staring at a spot beyond his ducal head. Attentive, but not aware. Seeing, but not noticing. The perfect servant.

"I'll walk a moment," Hart said, thinking of the thief he'd spotted. "Wait here." Her neighborhood was attractive by day, even a cloudy, cold day like this one, but the facades were simple, and the windows more likely to be curtained in bright, flowered fabrics than stately silk. The area felt solidly prosperous, but not genuinely rich. Still, Hart wasn't sure that Lady Denmore fell into either of these categories.

Her entry and parlor had been shabby at best, and rather bare. After seeing them, Hart couldn't quite fathom why she wasn't trolling for a rich husband. Or perhaps she was. Perhaps she'd challenged him more purposefully than she'd let on.

Scowling at the thought, Hart turned the corner the thief had snuck past. There was nothing and no one there, of course.

The possibility of Lady Denmore being a scheming, decep­tive jezebel presented a problem, because Hart had suspected her of being scheming and deceptive from the moment he'd heard about her young marriage and unusual arrival in London. It hadn't affected his attraction in the least. In fact, he suspected it was part of the appeal.

He knew from experience that scandalous women were just as daring in private as they were in public. Lady Den­more took risks, she thrived on danger, she enjoyed con­frontation. And the woman could turn a controlled duke into a sensualist with nothing more than a sigh. This was her gift. And Hart's weakness.

But he dreamed of being transformed. Just for a few nights. Just enough decadent pleasure to see him through another ten years of responsibility. It would be worth it. . . if he could avoid a trap. God, it would be worth it.

His role as duke was stifling, but he had taken it on with only a small amount of resentment. He'd had no choice after all, and he wasn't a child to whine and stomp his feet. As to any misgivings or rebellion . . . well, his father had shown him the value of discretion and respectability before he'd died, a lesson he'd imparted with his usual brutal efficiency. Easier to mold a man if you pounded him into mush first.

And after his father had died, Hart had been left with duties to master, a sister to raise, social obligations to finesse, not to mention his commitments in the House of Lords and the constant, exhausting watch against mamas on the lucra­tive husband hunt.

So his vague sense of misery had been easy to ignore, but something had changed. He'd grown older, or more miser­able, or maybe it was simple solitude. His sister was no longer a joyful child, waiting for his return from London. She wasn't even a worrisome adolescent, sure to cause him trouble. She was a woman, married now, and far away.