Of all theresponses she had anticipated receiving from the viscount when she revealed to him Aidan was not her betrothed, seduction had not been among them. And yet, that was precisely what was happening now.
His lips were demanding, hot and firm and giving her no choice but to kiss him in return. How could she not? She would never understand her weakness for the arrogant man holding her so snugly in his arms—as if she were somehow dear to him.
What a lark! In truth, she knew she was anything but. He had made his disdain for her quite apparent. She was not fit to marry his younger brother, and he had been willing to bribe her in order to avoid the terrible scandal which would have ensued had he and his lofty duke and duchess parents been forced to welcome her into the family. Why, then, these passionate kisses? Why his tongue teasing her lips to open, then delving inside?
He tasted of sweetness and mystery, and regardless of all the reasons why she should not, Pen longed for Viscount Lindsey. Longed for him badly.
Longed for him more than she had ever desired a man’s kisses and touches before.
Perhaps this was her reward for taunting him. She should not have goaded him, and she knew it, but as he deepened the kiss and moved them slowly backward, she could not summon a hint of regret. Because she was aflame, and he was nipping at her lower lip as if he wanted to consumer her, and her frantically beating heart and the need burning through her told her that she wanted to devour him too.
It made no sense.
They despised each other.
He was an arse who believed the worst of her, always polished to polite societal perfection.
But an arse who melted her defiance, it was true.
Somehow, her hair pins were raining to the floor and her hair, previously trapped in the tightest chignon she could muster, spilled in heavy waves down her back. His mouth left hers to find the side of her throat, the patch of skin above her rudely tied cravat. His breath fanned over her desperate flesh, making her knees cease to hold their stern shape. They buckled.
He caught her, hauling her into his arms.
Of course he did. Lord Lordly was faultless elegance in every act he committed. A gentleman like him would never allow a lady—even one he looked down his aristocratic nose at—to fall. She wanted to summon resentment, anything to resurrect her swiftly crumbling defenses, and found none.
But then, he quite startled her. Because he was carrying her in his deliciously strong arms. Carrying her through the dimly lit hall into the darkness beyond, holding her tightly to his chest as the scent of him wound its way through her senses. Citrus and bay and musk in a combination that rendered her nearly delirious with desire.
The house was empty. And thank heavens for that. But he knew his way, and she should have been bothered by the knowledge, just as she should have resisted his lips and rejected his kisses. Just as she should not be here with him now, very much in danger of losing whatever lingering remnants of her tattered virtue remained.
Yet, she was not bothered. And she was here. And if she did indeed lose the ragged shreds of her virtue to the viscount, she knew she would not grieve a single bit of them.
“My God,” he said against her throat, “why do I want you so bloody much? I have asked myself again and again, and yet I can find no answer.”
She would have answered him, but she had been asking herself the same question ever since he had first kissed her, and then again just moments ago. Pen most certainly did not have the answer. She doubted she ever would.
It ceased to matter anyway.
He had moved them over a threshold. Light from the brace of candles he had lit in the hall carried dimly over, sending shadows and a warm glow to dance around them. A brief glimpse of carpets and furniture suggested the chamber was a room for receiving callers.
He settled her on a large French sofa, falling to his knees on the carpet as he went, nudging her legs apart so he could settle between her thighs.
He was a tall man, his height such that even in his current position, their faces were at the same level. For a bewildering moment, their gazes met and held before he made a sound of raw desire in his throat and his lips were on hers in a deep, drugging kiss.
What was it about this man’s lips that made her want to feel them on hers without end? Their tongues mated, and she knew in that instant that she was going to give herself to him. Not because he was a vaunted lord, the heir to a duke. But because she wanted him. She wanted him, and Pen had never been saving herself for marriage. She had no interest in taking a husband. Why not allow herself this reckless moment of abandon? Men did so all the time, and without recrimination.
He broke the kiss and dragged his mouth along her jaw. Her head fell back in invitation.
“You are bewitching.” His low voice was at her ear, his teeth nipping her lobe as his fingers made short work of the knot of her cravat.
Oh good heavens, yes. Yes, yes, yes.
The lone word became a litany in her mind as he flung the scrap of linen to the floor. And again as he undid the handful of buttons at the neck of her shirt. More acquiescence hummed through her veins while he peeled her out of her coat and waistcoat, and then pulled her shirt over her head.
He lowered his head to kiss her shoulder while his large, warm hands cupped her breasts through the binding she had wrapped around them earlier that evening before setting out on her jaunt. She never could have predicted this outcome then. His teeth emerged to graze along her clavicle until she shivered.
“What have you done?” he asked, his thumbs unerringly finding her nipples beneath the layers of fabric she had used to secure herself. “Such a travesty.”
The combined effect of his touch and the tightness of the linen had her aching. She wanted his hands and mouth on her. Without thought, she found the pins keeping the binding in place. She plucked them free, and though she knew she ought to place them somewhere for safekeeping, his hot gaze on her was enough to make her forget.
They slipped from her touch, raining to the carpet below.
Holding his stare, she began to unravel the linen. With each layer that came undone, her heart sped, the desire coursing through her burning hotter, anticipation sparking to life like a flame. The last of the binding fell to her lap, leaving her breasts bare. Relief and desire warred for supremacy.
His head dipped, his breath fanning hotly over her aching flesh, and desire won. When his mouth latched on to the peak of her breast, she nearly came out of her skin. He sucked. Liquid heat pooled between her thighs. This longing was familiar and yet new. New because it was stronger than anything she had ever experienced.
“Christ, you are perfection,” he praised against the swell of her breast. “It hardly seems fair.”
No, she was not perfect at all. He was. And yes, she thoroughly agreed that it was most unfair. She would have said as much aloud had he not then taken her other nipple into his mouth. And had not his hands caressed her waist so tenderly, as if even her skin was a vessel to be worshipped, learning the curves in a slow way that suggested he was committing them to his memory.
Her hands, previously occupied by clasping the silken tufted cushions of the luxurious sofa, reached for his broad shoulders now instead. His heat was a welcome sear, but it occurred to her that there were far too many layers of gentility keeping her from what she wanted.
Him.
A new boldness seized her, and she pushed at his shoulders until he rocked back, his gaze melding with hers. “Shall I stop?”
Ah, he believed she was putting an end to this interlude.
“If you do, I’ll plant you a facer, Lord Lordly.”
His smile was instant and genuine. So genuine, it quite caught her by surprise.
Heavens, the viscount was handsome. Diabolically so.
“Garrick,” he said.