To Desire a Wicked Duke (Courtship Wars)

Tess felt slightly stunned by what she glimpsed in his hooded eyes. Desire shimmered there, she was certain of it. Unwilling desire.

Rotham stared down at her, as if trying to come to terms with the passion that had exploded between them. His gray eyes had darkened to smoke, and she could see the struggle on his face. His fierce resistance matched her own, she knew.

Yet he must have been affected by the same weakness, for he abruptly gave in with a curse.

His wonderful mouth possessed hers again. To her delight, his kiss turned even more fiery, seizing, claiming, demanding, making her very blood sizzle.

Tess whimpered when she felt him start to pull away again, but thankfully his lips never left hers as he swept her up in his arms and carried her across the stage to the chaise longue.

Still holding her, he turned and sank down so that she was cradled in his lap, one strong arm supporting her back, the other hand keeping her face immobile for the attentions of his marvelous mouth. Her mind reeling, Tess was utterly powerless to protest, nor did she even wish to. Instead, she wrapped both her arms around his neck and returned his kiss measure for measure.

Her nerves drank in sensations while exhilaration sang in her blood. She was pressed against a body that was rock hard and lean as he ruthlessly explored her mouth. His tongue teased her relentlessly … thrusting, retreating, returning. At the same time, his hand began to roam the bodice of her blue merino gown.

When he cupped her breast, Tess drew in a shuddering gasp. She ought to stop him, she knew, but heat scorched her, incinerating any remaining fragments of common sense she possessed. Thus, rather than push him away, she curled her fingers in Rotham’s thick dark hair, clinging with her remaining strength.

At her obvious eagerness, he shifted his wicked mouth from her lips to graze over her cheekbone, then lower, beneath her jaw and along her bare throat, leaving a trail of fever on her skin. Enraptured by his caresses, Tess bent her head backward to give him better access.

“I can’t catch my breath …” she fretted in a rasping voice.

“You don’t need to breathe, angel. Just feel.”

His husky half-whisper was as seductive as it was dangerous, but she obeyed his beguiling command, straining against his arousing palm as he caressed the swelling mounds of her breasts beneath the fine wool fabric. Within the constricting confines of her corset, she could feel her nipples peak to a tingling ache—a result he seemed determined to encourage.

When his hand continued molding the contours of her breasts, Tess moaned out loud. Sweet shocks of reaction compressed her chest, while her bones melted beneath the sensual onslaught.

“So beautiful,” he murmured as he drew back.

Lifting her heavy eyelids a fraction, she glimpsed his face above her and saw that he was watching her every response. Her dazed gaze locked with his hypnotic one.

“Bloody hell, how I want you.…” His gruff declaration somehow aroused her even more.

She wanted him, too. She felt as if she’d never lived until he touched her. The surge of want, of need inside her, overwhelmed Tess. She shuddered with the excitement of yearning as Rotham’s hand abandoned her breasts and reached down to raise her skirts, baring her legs to mid-thigh. Then his dexterous fingers began to glide upward along her skin—

“Good God, what is the meaning of this?”

Even through her stupor, Tess recognized her godmother’s outraged voice.

When she jerked her head up, she saw that the stage curtains had parted and the baroness stood there, the picture of wrath.

On the stage steps behind Lady Wingate stood several of her patrician houseguests, gaping at the sight of Tess sprawled on the Duke of Rotham’s lap, her skirts in total disarray, his palm fondling her bare inner thigh. Their scandalized expressions presented a fitting complement to the baroness’s furious one.

Aghast, Tess scrambled to right herself, awkwardly trying to push off Rotham’s lap and struggle to her feet. She felt his strong hands on her hips, helping her to stand, then steady her when she swayed from dizziness.

He rose more slowly to face their horrified audience.

Lady Wingate was practically quivering with rage, her eyes shooting virtual daggers at them both. In a similar vein, Sir Alfred Perry and his high stickler wife, Lady Perry—who were among Tess’s largest contributors—eyed them with supercilious scorn.

Tess felt her cheeks flush scarlet. When she glanced guiltily up at Rotham, she saw that an enigmatic look had settled over his features, yet his sensual mouth held a grimness that acknowledged the gravity of their social infraction.

In disbelief, Tess raised a hand weakly to her temple. How could she possibly have failed to hear their approach? No doubt her moans of pleasure had drowned out the sound of their footsteps.

Renewed shame flooded Tess. For the second time in half an hour, she had been discovered locked in a passionate embrace with a wicked gentleman.

Yet this time she had the sickening feeling that she’d sunk herself utterly beyond repair—and worse, that there would be no escaping the consequences.

How is it possible that Rotham makes my blood boil and race at the same time?

—Diary Entry of Miss Tess Blanchard