to complain because . . .?”
She let her voice drift off with ennui to disguise how her pulse raced.
“Because you never bore me. Even though it’s more
concealing, I think I like your robe better than that pretty gown you wore this
evening.” He eyed her open neckline, although he had to see that she wore a
high-necked shift beneath it.
A summer shift,
one sewn from the finest muslin and nearly transparent because the room was hot.
She had not expected male company.
“I am not part of the evening’s entertainment,” she
retorted. “Please remove yourself so I might decently close the door. What
would my sisters think if they saw you now?”
“That we are pursuing the age-old tradition of house
parties? Although they might not be aware of our traditions.” He came in and
shut the door. “There, now the door is decently closed. I live to serve.”
She backed further into her spacious chamber, heart
improperly pounding. “I’m not certain what ideas you have created in your
feeble mind, Hoyt, but I am not in the habit of entertaining men in my
chambers. If you live to serve, then depart now.”
“I’m fairly confident that you have not entertained other
men, or I’d have heard them bragging. I simply think it’s time you considered
it. We have the perfect opportunity here, where there are no city streets
between us, no London audience to observe. Your sisters are at the other end of
the corridor. What better chance will we have to see if we might suit? I
promise not to tell.”
He stalked her, as a lion hunts prey. Bell was fairly
certain she’d read that a cat was more likely to chase prey that ran, so it was
better to hold still, but instinct was difficult to fight. She crossed her arms
over her robe and clutched her elbows.
“It does not matter if we suit. I will not marry you, so
there is no point in pursuing me.” She had learned from experience not to be
easily intimidated, but she’d not learned how to combat her own desires.
Lord Quentin Hoyt was a very desirable man. She’d dreamed of
him for years—in a lascivious way, of course. She wasn’t quite dead yet. But
romance simply wasn’t in the cards or stars or any other part of her life.
He traced a finger down her jaw, and she tried not to shiver
at the gentle contact. It had been a long time since she’d been touched with
tenderness. Edward’s disappointment in not producing an heir had made him
bitter and cold those last years.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t a woman, Bell,” Quent said, “because
I won’t believe it. Tell me I turn your stomach with disgust, and I won’t
believe that either. We know each other too well, and we’ve deliberately
avoided exploring our needs. But life changes. It’s time to take this one step
further.”
He lifted her chin with the side of his hand and placed his
firm lips against hers. And she let him.
Lord help her, she let him kiss her. The sensation spiraled
straight from the brush of his masculine mouth into the pit of her soul. And
lower. Very much lower. To parts much less innocuous than a feeble soul. She
wanted to grab his arms and pull him closer, to rub against him and feel all
that glorious masculinity, to part her lips . . .
She shoved away before she could descend into the depths of
hell. Her heart pounded, her blood raced, and desire pooled in places she’d
thought long dead. Her breasts ached with need—for a man who was little more
than a money-making machine, like Edward.
“I cannot do this, Quent. I cannot. If you don’t wish to
kill me, leave.” Frozen, she couldn’t even run. She simply trusted him to do as
she asked.
He brushed his finger down her jaw again. She flinched at
how much she needed him to keep touching her.
“I’ll leave for now,” he reluctantly agreed, “but I think we
both know what we could have would be very, very good. I haven’t rushed you
before, but I’m about to start pushing. Life is too short to deny our very
natures.”
He
She let her voice drift off with ennui to disguise how her pulse raced.
“Because you never bore me. Even though it’s more
concealing, I think I like your robe better than that pretty gown you wore this
evening.” He eyed her open neckline, although he had to see that she wore a
high-necked shift beneath it.
A summer shift,
one sewn from the finest muslin and nearly transparent because the room was hot.
She had not expected male company.
“I am not part of the evening’s entertainment,” she
retorted. “Please remove yourself so I might decently close the door. What
would my sisters think if they saw you now?”
“That we are pursuing the age-old tradition of house
parties? Although they might not be aware of our traditions.” He came in and
shut the door. “There, now the door is decently closed. I live to serve.”
She backed further into her spacious chamber, heart
improperly pounding. “I’m not certain what ideas you have created in your
feeble mind, Hoyt, but I am not in the habit of entertaining men in my
chambers. If you live to serve, then depart now.”
“I’m fairly confident that you have not entertained other
men, or I’d have heard them bragging. I simply think it’s time you considered
it. We have the perfect opportunity here, where there are no city streets
between us, no London audience to observe. Your sisters are at the other end of
the corridor. What better chance will we have to see if we might suit? I
promise not to tell.”
He stalked her, as a lion hunts prey. Bell was fairly
certain she’d read that a cat was more likely to chase prey that ran, so it was
better to hold still, but instinct was difficult to fight. She crossed her arms
over her robe and clutched her elbows.
“It does not matter if we suit. I will not marry you, so
there is no point in pursuing me.” She had learned from experience not to be
easily intimidated, but she’d not learned how to combat her own desires.
Lord Quentin Hoyt was a very desirable man. She’d dreamed of
him for years—in a lascivious way, of course. She wasn’t quite dead yet. But
romance simply wasn’t in the cards or stars or any other part of her life.
He traced a finger down her jaw, and she tried not to shiver
at the gentle contact. It had been a long time since she’d been touched with
tenderness. Edward’s disappointment in not producing an heir had made him
bitter and cold those last years.
“Don’t tell me you aren’t a woman, Bell,” Quent said, “because
I won’t believe it. Tell me I turn your stomach with disgust, and I won’t
believe that either. We know each other too well, and we’ve deliberately
avoided exploring our needs. But life changes. It’s time to take this one step
further.”
He lifted her chin with the side of his hand and placed his
firm lips against hers. And she let him.
Lord help her, she let him kiss her. The sensation spiraled
straight from the brush of his masculine mouth into the pit of her soul. And
lower. Very much lower. To parts much less innocuous than a feeble soul. She
wanted to grab his arms and pull him closer, to rub against him and feel all
that glorious masculinity, to part her lips . . .
She shoved away before she could descend into the depths of
hell. Her heart pounded, her blood raced, and desire pooled in places she’d
thought long dead. Her breasts ached with need—for a man who was little more
than a money-making machine, like Edward.
“I cannot do this, Quent. I cannot. If you don’t wish to
kill me, leave.” Frozen, she couldn’t even run. She simply trusted him to do as
she asked.
He brushed his finger down her jaw again. She flinched at
how much she needed him to keep touching her.
“I’ll leave for now,” he reluctantly agreed, “but I think we
both know what we could have would be very, very good. I haven’t rushed you
before, but I’m about to start pushing. Life is too short to deny our very
natures.”
He
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