Features which were clouded by dark skies and shadows.
“I care far less about our social standings than you do, Miss Hilgrove.”
He slid his grasp from her wrist, tangling their fingers together instead. Instinct drove him now. After so long—eight days, a bloody eternity—he did not want to argue with her. He did not want harshness or anger or cutting words. He wanted tenderness. He wanted surrender. Hers and his, much to his dismay.
“Spoken with the assurance of a man who has never had to question his place in society. You are a duke, after all. What attention have you ever had to pay to social standings? As a man and the Duke of Westmorland, all the world is ready to bow to you. I should hate you for it.” By the time she finished, her dulcet voice trembled with the fury of the passion inside her.
But she did not withdraw. She held his hand as tightly as he did hers. For a moment, it seemed as if they were trapped in the midst of a maelstrom, raging seas, with only each other to cling to for survival.
He chased the maudlin sentiment.
The sentiment came back. It would not go. Because he had missed this woman. By God, he had missed her fire, missed her flame. He missed her ice. Her hideous black gowns, her looks of disapproval. Everything that made Miss Isabella Hilgrove herself.
He had missed every part of her. And she was here now, as if by miracle. As if by divine decree. He had missed her lips, too.
He wanted them again now.
“Do you dislike me, Isabella?” he asked.
It was the first time he had ever called her by her given name. How smoothly it left him. How right it felt.
She stilled once more. Her eyes were luminous, filled with moonlight. Silver and blue and endless.
“Please, Your Grace.”
She intended his title as a protest, and he knew it. But he had traveled for hours by rail, and then he had taken a hired cab, only to walk by foot through unforgiving January and steal into his home like a thief intent upon filching the silver. He was weary. He had precious little polish now. He was just a raw, raging heart. And he was hers.
He understood it even if he railed against it.
He tugged her hand. Pulled her into his chest. And she came willingly, no resistance. She melted against him. Melted.
And he was lost. His left hand was on her waist. His right held hers. His fingers tightened on hers. His head dipped. “My name is Benedict.”
“I cannot be so familiar…”
Her protest died beneath his lips. He kissed her. His hand slid from her waist, up her spine. He found the silken bare skin at her nape, plunged his fingers into her hair. She opened on a sigh, and when his tongue slid inside her mouth, she welcomed him. Their fingers tightened.
To hell with being familiar. To hell with social differences. To hell with every damned thing that was keeping them apart. He had just spent eight days away from this woman, and all he knew, with a fury that beat to rival the pounding heart in his chest, was that he was desperate for her. He could never have enough of her.
She was kissing him back. Her free hand was on his shoulder, clutching him to her as if he would stray. No chance of that, darling. She rose on her toes, crushing the decadent curves of her bosom against him. Her need was almost palpable, spurring him on.
He forgot he had ever been tired. Dismissed who he was. Ignored who she was. All the reasons why he should not kiss her senseless dissipated. He kissed her as if his life depended upon it. In a sense, perhaps, it did.
Chapter Eight
She was in the Duke of Westmorland’s arms, and his mouth was upon hers. His lips stole all the protestations from her, thieved from her the notions of right and wrong, dashed every attempt to resist him.
How could she resist him when he kissed her like this, as if she were as essential to him as his life’s breath? His lips angled over hers, at once savage yet tender. Their hands were still clasped, and the contact seemed to sear her through her gloves. How she wished they were skin to skin. They were locked together beneath the moonlight, here among the shadowy branches of the fruit trees.
In her clumsiness, she had caught her hem as she had descended from the carriage Callie had sent for her tonight. One moment, she had been intent upon finding the ladies’ withdrawing room so she could make a frantic repair, lest any of the fellow guests suppose her more gauche than she already felt. The next, she had collided with the one man who had never been far from her thoughts ever since she had first crossed paths with him.
The one man who was not supposed to be here.
He had returned early. She should lament that fact. She ought to break away from his kiss, to turn and flee back to the safety of the drawing room and the conjurer’s entertaining antics. But she could not stop kissing him back.
He was dressed as if he had just come in from the outdoors, still wearing his greatcoat. How she resented that extra layer of wool keeping her from him. Despite the thickness of the finely constructed garment, however, there was no denying the breadth of his shoulders, the barely leashed strength of him. Somehow, she had imagined all lords were lean, pallid creatures of aesthetic persuasion as Henry had been. But the Duke of Westmorland gave a lie to her every preconceived notion.
His tongue in her mouth
