Confessions of a Little Black Gown by Elizabeth Boyle Page A

passion.
    As his firm, hard lips covered hers, his tongue teased over her own, she felt herself opened, carried into an extraordinary awareness. Her body thrummed to life, giving voice to all the desires she’d held in check for far too long.
    Oh, good gracious, if he was kissing her lips, stroking her hair, whyever did her thighs tremble, her body tighten down there?
    Because, she thought wickedly, she wanted him to touch her there, to tease her there, in the same way he was gently plying at the loose tendrils of her hair, and as he did, her hairpins fell free; the soft plunk as they landed on the grass sounded like the tumblers of a lock clicking open, freeing her.
    He continued to kiss her, moving from her lips toher neck, to the lobe of her ear, which he teased and nibbled at.
    His hands roamed over the velvet of her gown, the skin beneath coming alive in a blazing trail of fire.
    Touch me, touch me again , she wanted to plead. Oh, yes, there , she nearly cried out as his fingers brushed over the rise of one of her breasts, her nipple growing taut beneath.
    Both her nipples going taut. How utterly wicked she felt, reveling in his touch…how wicked this man made her feel. Made her think of things so ruinous…so sinful…
    Oh, just a moment. Sinful? Her? With Mr. Ryder?
    Tally’s eyes opened wide, the sound of Brutus’s angry barking and growling piercing her desire-befuddled senses.
    Heavens! She was kissing a vicar.
    Having sensed the shift in her attention, Mr. Ryder stopped his delicious nuzzling, her neck tingling as the cool evening breeze replaced the warmth of his lips. He rose up and for a moment there was only passion in his dark eyes, and then recognition set in, followed closely by the selfsame shock, she had to imagine, that she was feeling.
    “Miss Langley, I—I—I—”
    She put a finger to his lips, as much to stop the stammering apology about to come forth as for another reason. “Please, sir, not another word,” she whispered.
    “But Miss Langley—”
    This time she covered his mouth and glared at him, the sort of look that Felicity used when she discovered Brutus gnawing on yet another pricelesspiece of Hollindrake furniture. “Will you be still, sir!” Her voice dropped lower and she paused. “For I don’t think we’re alone out here.”
     
    Larken’s gaze narrowed. Not alone? What the devil did that mean?
    Exactly as she said, for as soon as he did still, he heard not only Brutus, but the crunch of grass, the rustle of clothing a few aisles away.
    They weren’t alone.
    There was someone else in the maze. A silent, unknown intruder. Just as she’d said.
    In a fit of pique, Miss Langley wrangled her way out from beneath him, even as he struggled to his feet.
    Now if he were a vicar, or even a gentleman, this sort of discovery would have him in a panic over having ruined the chit before a witness, but Larken’s thoughts were far from that.
    His instincts, already thrumming with desire, now rose in an unholy howl. Who the devil was out here? Lurking about Hollindrake’s estate like a thief?
    And only one name came to mind.
    Dashwell!
    Larken started to lean over to retrieve the knife he kept tucked inside his boot, but another fit of furious barking stopped him—and worse, at the sound of Brutus’s complaints, Miss Langley shot off again.
    How the hell had she gotten untangled so quickly? Let alone gotten away from him? He cursed under his breath even as he dashed down the narrow grassy path after her.
    Christ, how was he supposed to stop Dashwell with Miss Langley between them? And what if that bastard caught her first? He’d possessed no scruples about using Lady Philippa as a shield when he’d been trapped at the Setchfield ball, so who could say what he’d be capable of doing with Miss Langley in his grasp?
    A red-hot, unanswerable anger swelled up inside him at such a thought. He wouldn’t dare.
    But Dashwell would, Larken knew, and that was enough to spur him on so he was