The Naked Viscount by Sally Mackenzie

brain, however…Hmm…Did she have a brain? Thought, rational or irrational, appeared to be impossible. Feelings overwhelmed her; she was surrounded by Edmund’s heat and scent. Her heart started to thud so, she half expected to see her chest move.
    He was so close. His coat sleeve was slightly rough against the tender skin of her neck and shoulders. Her nipples peaked; the place between her legs began to throb in union with her heart.
    Oh! He touched his handkerchief gently to the scratch. He’d removed his gloves. She stared at his fingers; they were strong and dark against the white of the cloth, the white of her skin. They moved slowly, gently, from her collarbone down to the swell of her left breast.
    She stopped breathing. A shocking, wonderful, wicked thought slipped into her frozen brain. What if his fingers moved lower? What if he pulled down her bodice and his soft lawn handkerchief touched her there?
    God should strike her dead right here in Lord Palmerson’s garden for thinking such scandalous thoughts.
    What if his lips replaced his handkerchief?
    Her nipples tightened into almost unbearably hard little points.
    â€œDoes it hurt?” His whispered words slid over her cheek.
    â€œYes.” Yes, it hurt—they hurt. How did he know? She hadn’t known nipples could ache like this.
    Idiot! Think! Edmund wasn’t talking about her nipples; he was talking about her small cut. She must gather her wits before she did or said something completely mortifying. She could hear Lady Lenden and Lady Tarkington muttering to each other—the women were still looking for them on the path. If they found her with Lord Motton, the scandal would be horrendous. She’d be forced to marry the viscount immediately.
    Perfect!
    No, not perfect. Forced marriages were never good; becoming the latest course in the ton ’s gossip feast would be disastrous. Lord Motton, in particular, would hate all the giggling and whispering. Well, and she would hate it, too.
    She should be alarmed. She was in immediate danger. She needed to act sensibly, to detach herself from the man so they would not be found in the leafage together—and certainly not as together as they were at the moment.
    Why couldn’t she feel alarm?
    Apparently there was no room in her aching, throbbing body for alarm, or thought, or anything but this hot, drenching need.
    His fingers were now hovering right above her gown’s neck. What if she arched a little? Would that encourage him to move lower? Perhaps a moan…
    â€œI think the ladies have moved on.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI think the ladies have moved on.” Motton forced himself to straighten and step back. Thank God the ladies had left. He’d been about to do something very foolish with Miss Parker-Roth. He wadded up his handkerchief and stuffed it in a pocket. Something very foolish indeed.
    She would have let him, too. He could tell. She’d been standing so still. Hell, she’d been almost panting.
    Why shouldn’t he touch her? She was not a young girl. She must have stolen a kiss or two in a garden sometime over her seven Seasons. What harm could one more kiss do?
    But he would not have stopped at one kiss. He knew that. He might not even have stopped at two kisses. He might not have stopped at all.
    She was not that experienced. He’d wager she was not very experienced at all, even given her seven Seasons. She had not acted experienced in Clarence’s study. Enthusiastic—yes; experienced—no.
    She was a gently bred young woman. She was the sister of two of his friends. She was…
    Beautiful. Entrancing. Attracted to him.
    And not available for dalliance. He could only have her if he married her—and he was not prepared to make that decision here in Palmerson’s garden. Especially as he had Clarence’s sketch, something far more important—or at least more pressing—to consider.
    The girl was