Yet…
Yet, he felt as if he were.
“Hart,” she whispered in his ear, her nails raking over his back now as she arched closer and he pulled aside her bodice and chemise to bare her shoulder.
His name in her voice.
And the curve of her shoulder. It was perfection. He bit her smooth, creamy skin lightly, but a bared shoulder was hardly enough. So he caught the center of her bodice in his hands and tore. The sound of rending fabric filled the chamber. It was Lily’s gown he was tearing off Lady Emma, and the knowledge was a bitter remembrance of family, of what he was meant to be doing.
Which was not bedding Lady Emma Morgan.
But damn the woman, if she remained within this room, within his reach, and she kept making those breathy sounds of encouragement and writhing against him in all the right places, he was going to fuck her.
He was going to fuck her and hate himself afterward.
But he was going to enjoy every bleeding moment of sinking his cock into her hot cunny and taking what he’d paid for. Taking what they both wanted.
The gown fell around her waist, and he removed his mouth from her body long enough to help her to peel her arms from the sleeves and shimmy out of it.
“I didn’t want this,” he felt compelled to tell her as she stood naked before him.
“You do,” she said. “And so do I.”
Her soft words undid Hart, sending lust racing through him, pooling hot and pulsing in his groin. But through the fog of need, he recognized the bitter truth of their circumstances. And he knew she would regret her surrender, and so would he.
Later, when she understood who he truly was, why he had made certain the auction was held at The Garden of Flora, why he had been so determined to win her, she would hate him. But her loathing would be nothing compared to what he would feel for himself.
Because he was going to ruin her.
Hell, he was going to ruin the both of them.
But instead of shrinking away from his gaze, she reached for his shirt, helping him to pull it over his head. He kicked off his boots, a haze of lust invading his mind, controlling his actions.
“You were crying,” he bit out, trying to rein himself in, to give them both one last chance to put an end to this madness before it was finished.
She touched him, her hands caressing his chest, traveling tentatively over him. “Not because of you. I was overwhelmed. Yesterday was long and tiring and confusing.”
“Then you should sleep.”
“I did. On the floor beside you.”
Yes, she had, had she not? When she could have lain in the comfort of his bed, instead she had bedded down on the floor. And when any other lady in her circumstance would have been bleeding overjoyed he was not making any demands of her, she had been determined to goad him into making love to her.
She was a complex woman, Lady Emma Morgan. Far more than he had bargained for. Far more than he could have imagined. Reluctant admiration rose, joining that other queer feeling in his chest
He kissed her again, taking those pretty pink lips with his. She was responsive, deliciously so. And naked, wickedly so. Her breasts were pressed into his bare chest, the pebbled nipples and full softness mounded against him in the most excruciatingly provoking temptation.
He cupped her arse and drew her more firmly against him, allowing her to feel the thickness of his cock, ready for her. Hart did not recall ever being so lost in the need for another before. He had lusted, of course, and he had known his fair share of women. But never like this. Never the way he hungered for Lady Emma.
Was it that she was forbidden?
Or was it something else?
He kissed her deeper and told himself he did not care, that the answer did not matter. Kissed her harder and tried to blot out the questions and confusion and turmoil like ink spilling on a clean sheet of paper. Kissed her until…
Until he wasn’t.
He tore his mouth from hers, half-naked and desperate for her, his cockstand tenting his bleeding trousers. Someone was knocking on the goddamned door.
If it was Hugh, he was going to give him a sound drubbing after he had allowed Lady Emma to run wild about The Sinner’s Palace, only to interrupt at the worst possible moment.
“Bleeding ’ell, what is it?” he demanded, irritation making his voice sharp.
“There’s trouble brewing,” came Wolf’s familiar voice.
If this was his brother’s notion of a joke, Hart was going to give him the basting he had been intent upon delivering to Hugh.
He muttered a vicious curse. “What manner of trouble?” he called.
“The sort that needs your attention,” Wolf answered in vague and bewildering fashion.
Lady Emma was still clinging to him, her mouth swollen from his kisses, her eyes glazed with lust. The last thing he wanted to do was throw on his damned shirt and leave her again, especially now that he had wished his conscience to perdition and intended to bed her silly.
But then, mayhap that was the reason for his brother’s interruption. Maybe Hugh had been leaky and told Wolf that Hart had been returning Lady Emma to his room. Perhaps the intervention was timed to prevent him from making a further mistake. But curse his brother to the devil for doing it, either way.