Never Deceive a Duke by Liz Carlyle

circled behind a giltwood settee now, as if doing so might somehow protect her.
    “Antonia,” he finally went on, “we made a dreadful mistake last night. It was…imprudent. And I will admit, I am mostly to blame. You were not yourself. You were obviously distraught and—”
    Something like horror flashed across her face. She whirled about and went at once to the bank of windows. He followed on her heels, lightly touching her shoulder. “Antonia?”
    He felt her tremble beneath his touch.
    “Antonia, I am sorry. I think we must put this behind us, my dear.”
    She leaned forward and set her fingertips to the glass, as if longing to meld into it and vanish. “I do not know what you are referring to,” she rasped. “Will you kindly go now?”
    “I beg your pardon?” His grip tightened.
    Another deep shudder ran through her. “I thank you, Your Grace, for your concern,” she said. “I…I did not sleep well. I often do not. Whatever—that is to say, if something happened—then I cannot—”
    At that, he forced her around. “ If something happened?” he demanded. “ If? By God, woman, you know as well as I what we did last night.”
    She shook her head, her eyes wild. “No,” she whispered. “I can’t—I don’t—really remember. Please, let us just forget it.”
    “Antonia.” He set both hands firmly on her shoulders now. “Antonia, why are you lying?”
    Her eyes shied away. He gave her a gentle shake. “Antonia, there was something between us last night.” His voice was oddly hoarse; not his own. “How can you say this? How can you just pretend it didn’t happen?”
    She shook her head and said nothing.
    “Antonia, we made love,” he went on. “It was wild and it was passionate—and yes, it was madness, too—but it was not remotely forgettable. Don’t lie to me about this. It is too important.”
    “I’m sorry.” The words came out throaty and a little tremulous. “I cannot talk about this.”
    Without realizing it, he had backed her up against the wall by the window. “Why? Does it scare you that much? Well, by God it scared me. No one can deny that sort of passion.”
    “You just said it was a dreadful mistake,” she choked. “How…How can it be if I do not remember? How can it be? Please, Your Grace, just leave me alone . I don’t want passion. Can’t you understand?”
    “No, by God, I cannot.” And then, somehow, he was kissing her, his hands still braced on her shoulders. He took her mouth roughly, only half-aware of what he meant to do. Antonia set her hands flat against his chest and pushed, but he ignored her, deepening the kiss. She made a strange sound; a sob or a sigh of surrender, then opened her mouth to his. On a rush of triumph, he let himself surge into her mouth, ravenous and desperate. Like molten silk, their tongues entwined in a heated dance of passion. Her hands curled into the soft wool of his coat at last, her face lifted to his in submission.
    “There, Antonia,” he rasped when their lips finally parted. “That is what runs so hot and fierce between us. Passion. Madness. You don’t for one moment deceive me.”
    Still trying to catch her breath, she tore her gaze from his and set her hands flat against the wall behind her. He sensed her drawing back inside herself, shutting him out. It was as if she’d ripped his heart from his chest again.
    “Is it me, Antonia?” he demanded. “Is that it? You want me—but I’m not good enough? Then by God, just say it!”
    “You won’t believe anything I say,” she answered, refusing to look at him. “Why should I say anything? You have had your way with me, Your Grace. You have made me…respond to your caresses. May we not end this charade?”
    Her words were like a thinly veiled slap. She desired him. But she would not stoop to have him. “Yes, I suppose we may,” he retorted. “And I hope you enjoyed it—because it will be a cold day in hell before I warm your bed again.”
    It was only as he