Well, that was direct. She pressed her lips together, drawing in a deep breath. How did she explain? “So was I, Your Grace.”

His brows drew up as his gaze travelled down her frame. “I’ll take a whiskey. Neat.”

Her eyes widened for just a moment before she pressed her lips together straightening her shoulders. “Mr. Harris, would you please tell the kitchen to prepare a tray for our guest? He must be hungry after his journey.” Then she crossed the room to prepare the drink.

“I didn’t say I was hungry.” Danesbury crossed to the fire, holding out his hands to the flame.

She poured the whisky, her hand trembling a bit as she attempted to hold the crystal decanter steady. “I won’t force feed you, then.” She returned to the fire, drink in hand while the other one coiled into a fist.

He notched his chin to the side as he assessed her, his scar on full display as he raised a brow. “I think I might like to see you try,” he said with a bit of a grin, as he watched her moving toward the fireplace.

That made her relax, her shoulders lowering and her breath coming out in a long slow exhale. They were jesting. Good. “I would never dare.”

He laughed then, a little chuckle that sounded far more melodious than his speaking voice. She unfurled her fingers from the fist at her side, glad this meeting had taken on a light mood.

She’d reached the fire and she held out the drink to him, her fingers steadier as they reached toward his very large outstretched hand. But he didn’t take the whisky. Instead, he reached for her wrist, his long tapered fingers wrapping about the bare skin exposed between her sleeve and her glove.

His hand was hot, firm, commanding, making her breath catch as he

slowly drew her closer. “I’m glad we understand each other already,” he said in a voice that was deceptively soft. Despite its low tone, it still carried a command that she felt powerless to disobey as he drew her closer. “I think you’ll do fine.”

Her brows drew together even as her lips parted. Understand each other? She didn’t understand anything as she tilted her chin up to look in his face for answers. What she saw was raw, dark power. The kind of power that stole her breath in a bit of fear and, if she were being honest, excitement. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

But her words were cut short as he lowered his mouth to hers.

Damian assessed the woman before him. Dark hair and large hazel green eyes were not to his usual taste. Neither was her slender build. He generally preferred more buxom blondes but something about her was fetching none-the-less. Perhaps it was her delicate features, or the plumpness of her lips.

Her shoulders were narrow, her slender frame the same, adding an air of vulnerability to her gentle curves.

Pulling her closer, he grasped her natural waist, his palm fitting in the indent snug and perfect. Her lips parted in what was a clear invitation even as her eyes widened. Swooping his head down, he captured her lips with his own. She tasted of tea, fruity and clean, refreshing, as her soft lips stilled under his. Then, after a few moments, her lush mouth softened, melding into his for just a moment.

Satisfaction and desire rolled through him. Something about the way her lips clung to his didn’t speak of a woman pretending at passion. Her yielding mouth was far more of a surrender and victory roared in his veins, making his ears thunder with the rush of blood.

He slanted her lips open and claimed the soft inside of her mouth with his tongue. She tasted even better as her smaller tongue gently probed back. Fire coursed through his veins as he gathered her closer. He knew he was barreling toward something and he should slow this kiss down but his body craved her already.

He’d gone a long time without a woman. As a duke, many of them would fall willingly into his bed, he knew that. But he tired of their barely concealed disgust at the mangled side of his face. They hid it, but there was always a tell in the second before they placed a mask over their repulsed reactions.

Which was why he’d gone so long without being with someone. How long had it been? Years…but when he finally decided he couldn’t stand celibacy any longer, he’d gone out to his club, intent upon drinking and perhaps gleaning a recommendation or two for a lady that might suit his needs when he’d overheard Lord Balstead’s invitation for debauchery.

Balstead’s reputation had preceded him. He was a man with an excellent palette for women and drink and Damian had used his weight as a duke to strong-arm an invitation to this party. He wasn’t disappointed. He’d received a lovely, private welcome from a beautiful woman, who, if she was disgusted by his scar, hadn’t let on, even for a moment. And her kiss. Her kiss was that of a woman who desired him. Which at this moment, was everything.

His hand ran up her slender back, feeling the gentle curve of her spine as her body melded to his. When he reached her shoulder, he traced her collarbone and then slid his down her chest to cup her bosom. It wasn’t overly large but it filled his palm, and she groaned into his mouth as he gave her flesh a gentle squeeze. He wanted more.

But he’d likely pushed too fast. Because that was the moment, she broke away, pulling back.

Damian slowly opened his eyes, his lids still hooded from the sheer passion in that single long drawn out kiss. He wanted more. With a determination he was known for, he began pulling her close again.

“Your Grace,” she cried her voice breathy and high in a way that only made his blood burn hotter. “You misunderstand.”

He raised a brow, still holding her wrist which he lightly stroked with his thumb. The skin underneath was silky soft and so tempting that he longed to bring the delicate underside to his lips, taste her flesh, lick it. “Really? What do I not understand, exactly?”

She trembled under his touch, even as she swallowed. “I am not what you think. I am--”

“What is it I think, exactly?” he asked, drawing her just a bit closer.

“That I am a lightskirt or a—” she didn’t finish, her hazel eyes growing wider still.

He frowned. Her gaze did not hold passion at this moment but a touch of fear. Not what he’d had in mind at all. “What are you then?”

Tags: Tammy Andresen Romancing the Rake Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net