gentlemen must still be in the dining room. Relieved, she walked into the keep, hesitated, debating, then headed for the duchess’s morning room. It was too early for sleep, and her embroidery frame was there.
The morning room had been the late duchess’s personal domain; her daughters had only intruded when invited. Since her death, they hadn’t set foot there. Variseys had little interest in the dead; they never clung to memories.
That had suited Minerva. Over the last three years, the room had become her own.
Presumably it would remain so-until the next duchess arrived.
Opening the door, she went in. The room lay in darkness, but she knew it well. She walked toward the table that stood along the back of the nearer sofa, paused, then returned to the door and locked it. No sense taking any chances.
Smiling to herself, she strolled to the sofa table, set her hand on the tinderbox, and lit the lamp. The wick flared; she waited until it burned steadily, then set the glass in place, adjusted the flame-and suddenly felt-
At Royce, sitting at his negligent ease on the sofa opposite. Watching her.
“What are you doing here?” The words left her lips as her panicking mind assessed her options.
“Waiting for you.”
She’d locked the door. Looking into his eyes, so dark, his gaze intent and unwavering, she knew that despite him being on the farther sofa, if she tried to reach the door, he’d be there ahead of her. “Why?”
Keeping him talking seemed her only option.
Assuming, of course, that he would oblige.
He didn’t. Instead, he slowly rose. “Helpful of you to lock the door.”
“I wasn’t trying to help you.” She watched him walk toward her, tamped down her flaring panic, reminded herself it was pointless to run. One did not turn and flee from a predator.
He rounded the sofa, and she swung to face him. He halted before her, looked into her face-as if studying it, her features, as if memorizing the details. “What you said-about me not kissing you again?”
She tensed. “What about it?”
His lips lifted fractionally. “I didn’t agree.”
She waited, beyond tense, for him to reach for her, to kiss her again, but he didn’t. He stood looking down at her, watching her, his dark gaze intent, as if this were some game and it was her move.
Trapped in his gaze, she sensed heat stirring, rising between them; desperate, she searched for some way to distract him. “What about your bride? You’re supposed to be arranging an announcement as we speak.”
“I’m negotiating. Meanwhile…” He stepped forward; instinctively she stepped back. “I’m going to kiss you again.”
That was what she was afraid of. He took another step, and she backed again.
“In fact,” he murmured, closing the distance between them, “I’m going to kiss you more than just once, or even twice. And not just now, but later-whenever I feel like it.”
Another step forward from him, another back for her.
“I intend to make a habit of kissing you.”
She quickly took another step back as he continued to advance.
His gaze lowered to her lips, then flicked up to her eyes. “I’m going to spend a great deal of time savoring your lips, your mouth. And then…”
Her back hit the wall. Startled, she raised her hands to hold him off.
Smoothly, he caught them, one in each of his, and took one last step. Pinning her hands to the wall on either side of her head, he lowered his and looked into her eyes. Held her gaze relentlessly from a distance of mere inches.
“After
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe-couldn’t think.
“I’m going to know you intimately.” He savored the word. “I intend to explore you until there’s nothing left to learn-until I know what makes you gasp, what makes you moan, what makes you scream. Then I’ll make you do all three. Frequently.”
Her spine was plastered to the wall; he wasn’t leaning into her-yet-but with his arms raised, his coat had fallen open; there was barely an inch separating his chest and her breasts-and she could feel his heat. All down the front of her, she could feel his nearness, the beckoning hardness.
Everything her wanton self needed for relief.
But…She swallowed, forced herself to hold his gaze, lifted her chin. “Why are you telling me this?”
His lips quirked. His gaze lowered, fastened on her lips. “Because I thought it only fair that you know.”
She forced a laugh. A breathless one. “Variseys never play fair-I’m not sure you ‘play’ at all.”
His lips twisted. “True.” His gaze drifted back to her eyes.
She caught it. “So why did you tell me?”
One brow lifted devilishly. “Because I intend to seduce you, and I thought that might help. Is it working?”
“No.”
He smiled then, slowly, his eyes locked on hers. He shifted one hand, turned it so, when she followed his sideways glance, she saw he had the tips of his long fingers clamped over the veins at her wrist.
“Your pulse says otherwise.”
His absolute unshakable arrogance set spark to her temper. Swinging her gaze back to his face, she narrowed her eyes on his. “You are the most ruthless, conceited, diabolical-”
He cut her off, his lips closing on hers, drinking in her temper- diverting it with ruthless, diabolical efficiency into something even hotter.
Something that melted her bones, that she fought, but couldn’t contain; the molten heat erupted and flooded through her, consuming intentions, inhibitions, all reservations.
Eradicating all good sense.
Leaving only hunger-blatant, explicit, ruthlessly seeking succor-in its wake.
The hard thrust of his tongue, the heavy, steely weight of him as he shifted closer and at last leaned in and pinned her body to the wall, was everything and more her witless senses wanted. Her tongue met his in a flagrant mating; her body strained, not to push him away but, every sense alive, to press against him.
To meet his hunger with hers.
To feed his desire with hers.
To meld the two, entwine them, until the power became too much for either of them to withstand.
This, now, was her only option; the rational part of her surrendered, and set her free to grasp the moment, and take from it all she could.
Wring from it every iota of pleasure.
He gave her no choice.
She left him with even less.
For long moments, mentally cursing, Royce kept both his hands locked about hers, safely pressed to the wall on either side of her head, for the simple reason that he didn’t trust himself. And with her as she was, all but drunk on passion, he trusted her even less.
Her body was a heated feminine cushion pressed the length of his, her breasts firm against his chest, her long limbs riding against his, tempting and luring, the soft tautness of her belly caressing his already engorged shaft as if to urge him on.
He hadn’t known she would respond as she had-instantly plunging them both into the fire. He recognized the flames well enough, but with her the conflagration threatened to run amok, to cinder his control.
That realization had been shocking enough to snap the hold combined lust and desire had gained-enough to allow him to reassert that essential element. Control, his control, was vital-not just for him, but even more for her.
So he held on, battled the temptation she wantonly lavished on him, until his mind rose above the fog of his
