unexpected softness of her lips on his. The rest of his body had followed at a roaring gallop, until he’d wrapped his arms around her, gathered her close, and reveled in a kiss so unneighborly, so unchaste, she’d been panting and dazed when he’d let her step back, likely horrified to the soles of her slippers.
Trent should have been horrified, too, and likely would be, when he had to see Ellie again, though first he hoped to talk himself out of wanting to kiss her exactly like that, over and over and over.
He’d been starving for such a kiss, going mad, shutting down, function by function, to cope with the ache of its loss from his life.
And he did ache, bodily, because Ellie had kissed awake his long-dormant lust, and now he could not argue or ignore it back to sleep. In hindsight, Trent could see all the instants she’d leaned on him or taken his arm, the times she’d been close enough to touch, the moments she’d allowed his body a little too near hers. His awareness had been stirring restlessly the whole while, threatening to come back to life, one sniff, one lean, one smile at a time.
Like a flaming spill touched to a well-oiled wick, a single kiss had him adjusting himself in his breeches two days later and completely unable to focus on the upcoming days at Wilton. Ellie’s taste haunted him, for he’d driven his tongue into her mouth with no thought to teasing preliminaries, no pausing to silently ask permission. That kiss had been the most aggressive, glorious, erotic kiss he’d ever bestowed on a woman, and she’d been too stunned to do more than allow it.
He dismounted and jogged beside his horse in an effort to exercise off his lust, though he was soon winded and back in the saddle. He’d gained another mile in the direction of Wilton Acres, and no distance at all from his memories of Ellie Hampton and the desire they inspired.
***
“Amherst.” Gerald, the Earl of Wilton, nodded coolly at his firstborn over a glass of excellent brandy. The future earl might have been a passably good-looking man had he not inherited both vulgar height and dark coloring from his blighted mother. Then too, Amherst had acquired a yeoman’s complexion since last Wilton had seen him.
“Wilton.” Amherst, ever inclined to the courtesies, bowed slightly and marched into the library as if he already owned the damned place. “You look well.”
“For a prisoner?” Wilton gave the word a touch of ironic emphasis, though the situation was enough to make a peer of the realm into a Bedlamite. “Oh, I thrive here, Amherst, unable to vote my seat, unable to socialize with my peers save for the gouty baron or two in the immediate surrounds, hoarding up my allowance like a schoolboy. You cannot imagine all the ways I thrive.”
“While you,” Amherst replied evenly, “cannot imagine all the ways your children did not thrive, deprived of their rightful funds by your venery. Think on that, when you can’t afford another couple of hounds.”
The damned man was bluffing, though Wilton gave him credit for bluffing convincingly.
“You’re here to pay the trades? I cannot think scolding your father sufficient reason to lure you from your busy life.” Though from what the London staff had reported, napping and swilling brandy figured prominently on Amherst’s agenda.
“I’m here to tend to the finances and to see you.” Amherst poured himself a drink, which was a small victory. The civilities between father and son were such that the prisoner had not offered his warden a drink, though apparently one was needed.
“You’ll see me depart for some grouse hunting,” Wilton replied. “The season grows near, and journeying north takes time.” Particularly when a man intended to tarry among the demi-reps in London for a few weeks first.
“Enjoy yourself.” Amherst sipped with an appearance of calm, though the vein near his left temple throbbed. His mother had been given away by the same
Trent should have been horrified, too, and likely would be, when he had to see Ellie again, though first he hoped to talk himself out of wanting to kiss her exactly like that, over and over and over.
He’d been starving for such a kiss, going mad, shutting down, function by function, to cope with the ache of its loss from his life.
And he did ache, bodily, because Ellie had kissed awake his long-dormant lust, and now he could not argue or ignore it back to sleep. In hindsight, Trent could see all the instants she’d leaned on him or taken his arm, the times she’d been close enough to touch, the moments she’d allowed his body a little too near hers. His awareness had been stirring restlessly the whole while, threatening to come back to life, one sniff, one lean, one smile at a time.
Like a flaming spill touched to a well-oiled wick, a single kiss had him adjusting himself in his breeches two days later and completely unable to focus on the upcoming days at Wilton. Ellie’s taste haunted him, for he’d driven his tongue into her mouth with no thought to teasing preliminaries, no pausing to silently ask permission. That kiss had been the most aggressive, glorious, erotic kiss he’d ever bestowed on a woman, and she’d been too stunned to do more than allow it.
He dismounted and jogged beside his horse in an effort to exercise off his lust, though he was soon winded and back in the saddle. He’d gained another mile in the direction of Wilton Acres, and no distance at all from his memories of Ellie Hampton and the desire they inspired.
***
“Amherst.” Gerald, the Earl of Wilton, nodded coolly at his firstborn over a glass of excellent brandy. The future earl might have been a passably good-looking man had he not inherited both vulgar height and dark coloring from his blighted mother. Then too, Amherst had acquired a yeoman’s complexion since last Wilton had seen him.
“Wilton.” Amherst, ever inclined to the courtesies, bowed slightly and marched into the library as if he already owned the damned place. “You look well.”
“For a prisoner?” Wilton gave the word a touch of ironic emphasis, though the situation was enough to make a peer of the realm into a Bedlamite. “Oh, I thrive here, Amherst, unable to vote my seat, unable to socialize with my peers save for the gouty baron or two in the immediate surrounds, hoarding up my allowance like a schoolboy. You cannot imagine all the ways I thrive.”
“While you,” Amherst replied evenly, “cannot imagine all the ways your children did not thrive, deprived of their rightful funds by your venery. Think on that, when you can’t afford another couple of hounds.”
The damned man was bluffing, though Wilton gave him credit for bluffing convincingly.
“You’re here to pay the trades? I cannot think scolding your father sufficient reason to lure you from your busy life.” Though from what the London staff had reported, napping and swilling brandy figured prominently on Amherst’s agenda.
“I’m here to tend to the finances and to see you.” Amherst poured himself a drink, which was a small victory. The civilities between father and son were such that the prisoner had not offered his warden a drink, though apparently one was needed.
“You’ll see me depart for some grouse hunting,” Wilton replied. “The season grows near, and journeying north takes time.” Particularly when a man intended to tarry among the demi-reps in London for a few weeks first.
“Enjoy yourself.” Amherst sipped with an appearance of calm, though the vein near his left temple throbbed. His mother had been given away by the same
Similar Books
