A Little More Scandal by Carrie Lofty Page A

poorly.
    He would not begin this conversation by disappointing her. And bloody hell, he wasn’t making love to her again—not until he honored his promise. They might still be able to escape this dalliance.
    Yet from her downy refuge, Catrin smiled just this side of impish. “What do you wear to bed?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Then don’t let me interfere with your usual routine.”
    He stood at the edge of a mighty cliff, dizzy, wanting, and more petrified than a man could ever admit. She watched with avid interest as he shed his clothing. Slowly. At least his body knew how to proceed, rising to meet the warm flesh that awaited him beneath that quilt. His mind, however, remained a boiled muddle.
    Once naked, he stood beside the bed. Catrin’s eyes were wide and greedy. She reached out and gently stroked two fingertips up his thigh, to the muscles of his stomach. William closed his eyes against a hard jolt of pleasure.
    He had a confession to make. Time to get on with this torture.
    After blowing out the candle, he slipped into soft darkness. Catrin didn’t hesitate. She draped her lithe body over his. Breasts and hips and legs—so suddenly, his hands were filled with silken warmth.
    He touched his forehead to hers. Swathed in the black of midnight, so intimate, he finally was able to speak the impossible.
    “I am not a good man,” he rasped. “If given the opportunity before knowing you better, I would have traded your story for its influence. That’s how I see the world. Buy and sell. Trade people. Exchange morals. Anything to keep climbing away from . . . from where I was born.”
    “But you have limits. I’m proof.”
    “You speak with so much certainty.” He kissed her, amazed she could think so well of him. “Nothing has changed regarding what I need from Mr. Lymon, and I will accomplish my aims. Susannah knew that much. Two years of living with my hunger for success was enough to embitter her. She cared more about this house than me, and rightfully so. I fled to Paris when she died. Even I couldn’t live with myself, no matter the detached nature of our marriage.”
    Catrin began to stroke him. All of him. She was learning him by touch. Cool, nimble fingers dusted from collarbone to bicep, before skipping across his hip. She held onto his forearm, gave a little squeeze.
    “You were saying? About Paris?”
    He shut his eyes. So selfish. So greedy. He could not refuse her touch, nor the light kisses she feathered across his face—near enough to absolution for a sinner like him.
    “I met a dancer named Georgette.” He kept his hands still. Motionless. Her curves rested beneath his palms, but he would not take her. “She was exactly what I needed at the time. Uninhibited. Amenable. But how could I contemplate marriage to a French Catholic? An occasional prostitute? She gave me the comfort I needed, until I awoke one morning and returned to England. Christ, I left her behind like a shameful thought.”
    Her deep inhale pressed against his chest. “I’m sorry you were in pain, and that you caused her pain. You can do better than that. You are better than that. Every mistake can be rectified—if not to this woman in particular, then perhaps to others like her. There is more in life to be achieved than accumulating money and power.” Catrin hugged with all the might her tiny, fierce body could muster. “Make her memory an inspiration for all the good you can do.”
    “Catrin, don’t do this.”
    He used his body to pin her against the mattress. The position was dangerous. He was so close to climbing atop this vibrant woman and binding their futures.
    “I took you once,” he said harshly. “But you can still escape unscathed. I have money enough to ensure it.”
    Her hands renewed their exploration. “My lover of choice would provide my dowry to marry another? That sounds torturous to us both.”
    William was hard now. Breathing in a husky rhythm. It would take so little to part her legs.
    Why now?