All About Passion (Cynster 7)

His expression was that of a groom thoroughly pleased with his bride, but there was an arrogant air, even there, in his mask, that she longed to shake. As for the coldness behind the mask, like steel doors shutting her out…

She shook her head on an airy laugh. “My disappointment stems from the discrepancy between what I believed-had reason to believe-I would in reality receive from the man, and what I am now being offered”-boldly she surveyed him, as much as she could see while held in his arms-“by the earl. Had I known of it, I would never have signed those wretched settlements, and we wouldn’t now be condemned to living a lie.”

Just the thought of the tangle he’d landed them in sent her temper into orbit. His hand tightened about hers; he drew her closer-she sucked in a breath and felt her breasts brush his chest. Raising her head, she met his gaze, defiance and a warning in hers. “I suggest, my lord, that we leave any discussion of such matters until we are private, unless you wish to risk our afternoon’s hard work.”

His reserve broke-just for an instant-and she saw the prowling predator in his eyes. And wondered if they were about to indulge in their first argument, in public, in the middle of the ballroom in the middle of their wedding. The same thought occurred to him-she saw it in his eyes. The fact he hesitated, considered, before drawing back amazed her, intrigued her-and shook her confidence.

The musicians came to her aid and ended the waltz with a flourish. With a laugh and a smile, she stepped out of his arms and swept him an elaborate curtsy. He was forced to bow, then he raised her. All smiling delight, she turned from him, expecting to slip her fingers from his and part, each to talk to the many guests eager to have a word.

His fingers locked about her hand.

He stepped close, beside and behind her.

“Oh, no, my dear-our dance has just begun.”

The murmured words brushed her ear; sensation streaked down her spine.

Lifting her chin, she smiled at Lord and Lady Charteris, and gave his lordship her other hand.

Beside her, Gyles suavely acknowledged Lady Charteris’s greeting and exchanged nods with his lordship. He was operating wholly on long-ingrained habit, his mind, his senses focused on the woman by his side.

When it came to her, he was ruled by instinct, no matter how he wished it otherwise. She was who she was, invoked all he was, and he was powerless to rein that part of himself in, not with her beside him.

Disappointed, was she? Already? So soon?

They hadn’t got to their marriage bed yet. Then they-she-would see. He might refuse to love her-he would refuse to love her. But he’d never said anything about not desiring her. Never denied he lusted after her. The fact that theirs was an arranged marriage changed that not at all.

He was looking forward to correcting her mistake.

They left Lord and Lady Charteris; Francesca turned to him. His hold on her hand kept her close; he bent his head so they were closer still. Her gaze touched his lips, paused, then she blinked and looked into his eyes. “I must speak with your aunt.”

He smiled. Wolfishly. “She’s across the room.” Between them, he raised her hand. Holding her gaze, he lifted her wrist to his lips and pressed a kiss to the sensitive inner face.

Her eyes flared. He felt the tremor she fought to suppress.

His smile widened; he let his lids veil his eyes. “Come. I’ll take you to her.”

For the next twenty minutes, all went as he dictated. Under cover of their new relationship, he touched her cheek, her throat, trailed a finger up the inside of her bare arm. He felt her start, quiver, soften. Felt her nerves tighten, sensed her expectation swell. He played to it, letting his palm brush her bare shoulder, skate possessively over her back, down over her hips and the curves of her bottom.

Closed his hands about her tiny waist as he steered her through the crowd.

His touch was light, his actions that of a possessive man to his new bride. Any seeing them would have smiled indulgently. Only she knew his intention. Only she knew because he wanted her to know that, with him, the sensual game was one she couldn’t win. Wouldn’t win. Yet it was a game they were going to play.

No one, not Henni, not even his mother, saw through his mask, but Francesca, his beautiful, sensual bride, definitely did.

When, from behind her, he closed his hand about her upper arm, briefly guiding her through the throng, simultaneously letting his thumb caress the side of her breast, Francesca wondered just how far he would go. She decided she no longer cared. Raising her head, she glanced over her shoulder, deliberately tentative.

A light blush had risen to her cheeks; her breathing was no longer steady. She had a very good idea how delicately, quiveringly hesitant she appeared.

He bent his head; his grip tightened, slowing her. His wayward thumb stroked deliberately, again.

She halted, tilted her head up, and turned toward him. Leaned back against him.

Her lips were suddenly just beneath his. Her hip rode against him. His eyes flared, grey turning stormy. They locked on hers. She sensed the catch in his breath. Holding his gaze, she shifted against him, against the ridge of his erection.

“My lord?” She breathed the words against his lips, and made them an outright challenge.

His eyes, stormy dark, hardened. She shifted back, tilting her head playfully, smiling-reminding him to smile, too.