To Romance a Charming Rogue

“What does it matter to you, my lord?” she retorted archly. “You haven't the right to care how I wear my hair.”

“True.”

Giving a casual shrug of his broad shoulders, he unexpectedly changed the subject again. “How is Marcus faring?”

Eleanor breathed more easily. She could relax a measure if Damon would only speak of such mundane matters as her brother. “He is faring very well, as it happens.”

“I understand he married this past summer.”

“Yes… Marcus wed Miss Arabella Loring of Chis wick. They are in France at the moment, visiting Arabella's mother in Brittany, along with her two younger sisters, who also recently wed. I believe you know her sisters’ husbands, the Duke of Arden and the Marquess of Claybourne?”

“I know them well.” Damon paused. “It surprises me they all three succumbed to matrimony so suddenly. I thought them confirmed bachelors.”

“Matrimony is not catching, if that worries you.”

Her wry quip elicited a quick smile from Damon. “I am cured of any desire to wed, believe me.”

Eleanor bit her lip at his implication that she was the one who had cured him of his momentary madness.

A long pause followed as Damon grimaced, appearing to regret his careless remark. And his tone was more serious when he said, “I heard that you were betrothed shortly after I left England, but that it did not last long.”

Eleanor raised her chin, once more feeling defensive. “No, it did not.” She had quickly broken her second engagement, a betrothal she had made out of defiance and pain and had regretted almost instantly. “I decided I was not willing to settle for a marriage of convenience after all. I was not in love with him, nor he with me.”

I still loved you, Damon, she thought with a wistful ache.

Damon's voice lowered another register. “It is just as well that you broke off our betrothal. I could not have given you my heart.”

“You could not, or would not?”

His expression was unreadable. “I see little difference. And you deserved better for your husband.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And now you are being courted by Prince Laz-zara,” Damon observed, his tone prodding.

Eleanor hesitated. “I would not say he is courting me, precisely. The prince came to England to see the sights.”

“And to look for a bride?”

“So rumor says.”

“I am not surprised that he is showing a marked interest in a beautiful heiress.”

Not inexplicably, Damon's observation stung. “You think my fortune is all he sees in me?”

“Certainly not.” The corner of his mouth curved. “But you don't need me to flatter you by cataloguing your many appealing attributes. Nor, I suspect, does Lazzara. The man would have to be a fool not to be attracted to you as well as your fortune.”

But you feel no such attraction any longer? Eleanor wondered, feeling the ache increase. Aloud, she said in an offhanded tone, “It can be of no import to you if he thinks to woo me.”

“Even so, I am concerned. He would be fortunate to claim you for his wife, Eleanor, but you could do better for a husband. He is not good enough for you.”

She frowned at Damon. “How can you possibly know that?”

“Because I know you. You deserve better.”

Eleanor truly did not know what to think of his remark, so finally she shrugged. “It is exceedingly presumptuous of you to set yourself to judge my suitors, Lord Wrexham.”

“But then you know how presumptuous I can be.”

She did indeed, she thought, as Damon unexpectedly stepped closer.

He halted barely a foot away and stood looking down at her for a long moment. When his dark gaze held her transfixed, Eleanor's heart suddenly began wildly somersaulting again. Dear heaven, did Damon intend to kiss her? She would never forget the thrill of his kisses, never forget the taste of that firm, sensual mouth, which was moving slowly toward hers…

Eleanor's breath faltered altogether when Damon reached up and traced a fingertip over her cheekbone. She felt overwhelmed by his nearness, his warmth, his scent. Then, as if he could not help himself, he slid one hand behind her nape and lowered his head, letting his warm lips cover hers.

The delicious shock of it held her completely immobile; any thought of struggle melted at the softness of his kiss. His lips drifted, lingered, melded with hers, making her shiver.

At her involuntary response, Damon angled his head and pressed deeper, as if refamiliarizing himself with her taste, relearning her texture, his tongue probing her inner recesses, exploring.

Suddenly she was tumbling headlong into his kiss, falling. Myriad sensations poured through Eleanor at the magic of his mouth, while a rush of feeling blossomed in the depths of her body. She had no thought of escape. Damon had captured her completely. And the sweetness, the tenderness, the heat, all combined to rouse a trembling ache inside her.

When a soft whimper lodged in her throat, Damon drew her even closer, bringing her breasts against his chest, her thighs against his sinewed ones. Her body reacted helplessly; her spine arched and her limbs weakened. Eleanor strained toward him with hungry yearning as his tongue continued stroking, tangling, mating with hers in a bewitching rhythm.

When his hand rose to cup her breast, a fission of fiery sensation sparked within her-a stark reminder of how easily he could arouse her yearning.

An even starker reminder of the pain he could bring her.

Suddenly recollecting their circumstances, Eleanor fought the searing wash of desire that was flooding her. She'd let Damon beguile her with his sensual caresses once before, and he had broken her heart.

The realization gave her strength to renew her struggle for control. Striving for willpower, she brought her hands up between them and pressed, trying to break free of his seductive embrace.

When Damon didn't immediately release her, Eleanor shoved at his chest, thinking to push him into the yew hedge. Apparently he was prepared for just that response, for he braced himself against her force as he lightly grasped her upper arms.

When he continued to claim her lips, Eleanor drew back her slippered foot and kicked Damon hard in the shin, striking the white silk stocking below his formal satin knee breeches.

Thankfully her violence had the immediate result of prying loose his grasp-and even elicited a muffled sound of pain from him.

Stifling her own whimper of pain, Eleanor freed herself completely and backed away.

Breathing hard, her pulse leaping in fits and starts, she tried to regain her dazed senses as she stared up at Damon.

His features had turned enigmatic again. To her surprise, there was no triumph in his expression. Instead, she glimpsed regret in the shadows that darkened his eyes.

“Forgive me, I became carried away,” he said, his voice a husky rasp.

So had she, much to her chagrin, Eleanor acknowledged unwillingly. She was furious at Damon for enchanting her so that she had actually returned his kisses, and yet she felt oddly bereft now that they had ended.

“Donna Eleanora?” a deep masculine voice called out softly.

She went rigid upon realizing Prince Lazzara had come in search of her.

Hoping her lips were not too wet and swollen, Elea nor scurried out from behind the hedge. “Yes, your highness?”

Don Antonio smiled charmingly when he spied her, although his smile faltered when Damon stepped out behind her.

Heat staining her cheeks, Eleanor hastened to explain. “I encountered an old acquaintance, you see. In fact, I was just telling Lord Wrexham about my brother's recent marriage.”

“Lord Wrexham?” Prince Lazzara repeated slowly as his gaze sharpened on Damon.