“Most certainly. We are talking about my giving myself to a man who is not and never shall be my husband.”
“We are talking about you giving your innocence to a man you do not know. Do you have any idea how dangerous that can be?”
“I suppose it would be dangerous.” She had to admit this. “But it is not dangerous with you.”
He reared back. An odd mixture of shock and anger and confusion crossed his face. “How can you possibly know what kind of man I am? What I could do to you when I got you alone? Damn it, Tildy, I could be a monster for all you know.”
“But you’re not.” She knew. She could see it in his eyes.
As her words soaked in, she saw it blossom there, his deep gratification for her trust. But he sighed and scrubbed his face and said “Tildy,” in a tone that made clear he was about to turn her down.
So she went on the offensive. “However, if you do not want to be the one to deflower me, I totally understand. I imagine it can be rather unsettling to be approached by a woman with such a request.”
He murmured, “You have no idea,” beneath his breath, but she heard.
She patted his knee. “And you were injured in the war.”
His features scrunched up. He stared at her hand. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”
She batted her lashes in an attempt to portray her innocence. “I know what happens when men are injured in war.” She leaned closer. “They become incapable. I totally understand.”
“I am not incapable!” Surely there was no need for him to bellow.
“Unwilling then?”
“Bloody hell, no.”
“It is perfectly acceptable if you do not find me attractive. I do look rather like a drowned rat. I am sure I can find someone on the streets of London who is willing to do the deed.” She sighed heavily, just for effect, and then added, “I do hope I don’t get the pox.”
Silence sizzled between them. She determinedly held his gaze, despite the fact that his stare was fierce. His lips worked, as though he was attempting to form a response, several responses, as the moment stretched, and then he reached across the carriage, took hold of her arms and whipped her onto his lap as though she weighed no more than a thistledown.
“Not interested?” he growled. “How is this for not interested?”
And then, he kissed her.
And heaven.
As enchanting as those lips had felt dancing over her hand, it was nothing to this. This was as wild as the storm raging outside, but still unbearably gentle and sweet. His scent suffused her, filled her lungs and stirred some latent hunger deep within. She wanted more. More. More.
And this desire had little to do with her goal of wriggling free of an unwanted betrothal. It had only to do with him. This man. This hunger. This passion.
She’d never felt it before. Not like this.
She’d only felt a passion for passion, which was very different indeed.
His body was warm, heating her. His hands roved, scudding over her shoulders and down to her waist to hold her in place. His lips were hard on her, demanding, yet sensitive to her needs. They engulfed her senses in a velvet trap, one she did not want to escape.
He pulled her closer, settled her more firmly on his lap and leaned her against the wall of the carriage and deepened the kiss, easing in his tongue and tasting her. She had to respond, but she had no idea how her untried exploration would affect him.
Something hard grew against her hip. The knowledge of what it was lit a fire in her belly. Need blossomed and raged. She thrust her fingers in his hair, twining in the strands and tugging. He did the same until they were holding each other still, each consuming the other.
Her mind spun, her body awoke. That long dreamed of desire arose.
She had no idea why, with one harsh movement, he pushed her back into her seat.
They stared at each other across the width of the carriage, the only sounds, their panted breath.
Heat walked between them. Ribbons of carnal lust bound them close, though they no longer touched. Intensity roared.
“Why did you stop?” She didn’t intend for her voice to crack, to be filled with anguish, but it happened.
His lungs worked like a bellows. His stare burned through her. His brow was prickled with sweat, despite the chill of the evening. “Not here.” A whisper, rough and low.
“Not here?”
“I won’t take you in a carriage. You deserve better.”
Oh, she liked that he thought so. She thought so too. “Where then?”
“I am staying the night at a friend’s house in London. Large, comfortable bed. A crackling fire. Excellent wine. All the comforts a proper seduction requires.”
She could not hold back a grin. “Oh. Is this a proper seduction?”
“It will be.” He settled back in his seat and studied her. There was something in his expression that made it clear to her what he was thinking. He was plotting her seduction. She shuddered.
“You really don’t need to seduce me, you know.”