My Favorite Bride (22 page)

He chuckled, a soft puff of breath in her hair. “My darling, you don't even know what you like.” He bit her again.

“God. Duncan.” She clutched his hair in tight handfuls, wanting to wound him, too.

He didn't seem to care. He kissed her below her ear, kissed the pulse on her throat, lingered over one particular place which seemed to fascinate
him, right where her neck met her shoulder.

She heard herself moaning, blatantly exposing her feelings like some madwoman.

Duncan didn't taunt her, though. He tasted her as if he couldn't get enough.

She stared up at the stars wheeling past and wanted . . . wanted his hands on her breasts, wanted his head between her legs. Blast him, she wanted the rogue in every way possible.

He kissed her lips again, entering her mouth as if sure of his welcome—and he was. Eyes closed again, she teased at his tongue, kissing him as she had never kissed a man before. And she hadn't. Not like this. Not with her whole body. Not with her whole mind consumed with desire for the man who held her in his arms.

When he lifted his head at last, she ran her fingers through his hair. In a husky voice she scarcely recognized, she said, “I'll meet you in my bedchamber.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “Later.”

She blinked at him, trying to get her bearings. “Wha . . . what do you mean, later?”

“Dear girl, you have sent William on his way to meet his love. William is the host. That leaves you as the only one left to direct the ball, because you are the hostess.”

She couldn't believe it. She could scarcely breathe. He wasn't on fire as she was. He wasn't out of control. “You did this to me. You did this on purpose.”

“What? Kissed you? Damn right. You've needed kissing for years.”

Humiliation clawed at her. “You brought me out here, and you forced me until I . . . you forced me.”

“My darling, I'm not restraining you at all.”

He wasn't. At some point in that last kiss, he'd stood her upright, and she still clung to his shoulders like some weak girl in need of a man. She snatched her hands back to her side and balled them into fists. She wanted to shriek. She wanted to kick him. She wanted to claw his eyes out.

“When the ball is over,” he said, “I'll come to you in your bedchamber.”

She could see the dimples in his cheeks again, and knew he was laughing at her. He hadn't been as involved as she had been. He had deliberately made her desperate for him, then proved he held the upper hand. “You will not be welcome.”

“Maybe not initially, but we both know I can change your mind.”

She lifted her hand to slap him again, open-handed and with the full strength of her arm behind her.

He didn't touch her, but his voice was suddenly cold and hard. “Don't hit me again.”

She hesitated, lowered her hand—then it occurred to her. She had to go back in, and she'd been kissing Duncan Monroe in every lascivious way she knew. And he'd been kissing her. The bastard had already marked her. Of course. He wanted to humiliate her in front of everyone. Because she'd been so scornful of him, he'd taken his revenge, and a fine revenge it was. “Did you mess up my hair?”

“Not at all. I was careful not to.” He carried her
shaking hands up to her head. “See? I didn't even slip out a hairpin.”

“Did you unbutton anything?” She groped for her back.

“You are completely fastened. Your gown is as impeccable as it was when you arrived.” He stepped back and viewed her. “Well, perhaps a little more wrinkled, but surely the dancing can account for that.”

“Yes. Yes, I'm sure you're right.” Taking a long breath, she straightened her shoulders. “You're sure you didn't do anything that would make me conspicuous?”

“My darling, you have an incredibly suspicious mind.”

“And you can weave horseshit into gold.”

He laughed. The bastard threw back his head and laughed in full-bodied amusement. She started to walk away, but he caught her arm. In between snorts, he said, “Your hair, your gown are perfect, and if you have a passionate, revealing glow about you, I can hardly be blamed for that.”

“I'm going in.”

“I'll be in your bedchamber tonight.”

“Don't bother.”

She sailed into the ballroom, her chin tilted upward perhaps a little too much, but she needed the confidence such a posture gave her. The guests smiled at her, toasted her with their wine, and she smiled back, grandly aware of her duty tonight. She
was
aware. That slip out on the veranda could scarcely be considered anything more than a moment's madness. She circulated, making her way to
the stage. She stepped up with the musicians and ordered them to play a little trill. When she knew she had everyone's attention, she announced, “Colonel Gregory is indisposed, but he has asked that we enjoy ourselves, and in tribute to him, I think we should.” A titter ran through the ballroom, and she smiled and nodded. “It's time for our midnight supper now. It will be served in the great hall.”

Everyone smiled at her until she descended the stage, smiled with such amusement a cold trickle ran down her back, and her gaze swung to Duncan. Duncan, who stood silhouetted against the night, leaning against the open French door and like the lout he was, smoking a filthy cigar.

She jerked her gaze from his and strolled toward the great hall, leading the guests. But she casually glanced in one of the mirrors as she passed—and there it was. On her pale smooth skin, where her neck met her shoulder. A small, purple mark. A love bite. She stopped. She stared. She couldn't—didn't—restrain her gasp of horror. And in the mirror, she could see Duncan. Moving toward her. Across the ballroom. The focus of all eyes.

And in the light, clearly visible on his cheek, was the mark from her fingers.

He bowed, a great, sweeping gesture of obeisance, and mouthed a single word. “Tonight.”

Chapter Twenty-two

William strode up on the porch of the guest house. In a rage of frustration, he discarded his jacket on the wooden floor, ripped off his waistcoat and flung it over the rail. Striding to the door, he lifted his hand to knock—and stopped.

This course he considered was not honorable. The young woman did not deserve to be debauched by her employer, regardless of the freedom with which she handed out her kisses.

He lowered his hand.

To him, though. Only to him. And he ought to be ashamed for kissing her, and more ashamed that he felt such pride in her response.

Her awkward, inexperienced response.

Certainly she gave no indication of being a woman of the world. Rather, she made clear her scorn for the society ladies who fluttered about
their men, flattering them to their faces while discounting them in private.

He strode to the railing and clutched it so tightly the blood left his fingers. But he wanted Samantha. Everything in his body, in his mind, demanded he take her, possess her. He dreamed about her—about her blonde hair flung across his pillow, about the satin skin of her shoulder and how it would feel to his lips, about mounting her and having her, again and again. It was ruthless, the way he felt about her, as if she were an enemy to be conquered. He wanted to teach Samantha her place, and that place was in his bed.

He pounded the railing with his fist. Damn it. Damn it!

He was a civilized man, a soldier who had seen too much in his travels and who prided himself on his enlightenment. He should look on Samantha and remember her gentleness with his children, her kindness to his servants, her propriety with his guests.

Instead he remembered how openly she laughed at him, how cleverly she defied him, how she strode like a panther and smelled like a woman. Every emotion he experienced for her was primitive, coarse, and unregulated. He was a man out of control.

Behind him, the door banged open and he turned to observe Samantha, exiting in a flurry. She slammed the door so hard it bounced back open, and she growled as she turned to shut it properly.

That was all it took. The sight of her, the sound
of her. His lips felt stiff, but his voice low and dark. “Samantha.”

She froze, then little by little faced him.

It was dark on the porch. The curtains muted the light from inside the cottage, the roof deflected the moonlight, but he could see the tense outline of her figure against the white wall. She wore the same garments she had worn at the ball, her arms and chest pale and bare. She stared at him, and her bosom heaved as she took a long breath. “You. How dare you come to me, here, tonight?”

Then she rushed him. Right at him.

He braced himself for an attack.

She grabbed his lapels, yanked him toward her, and kissed him.

He could almost hear the last fragments of his restraint crack.

She pressed her lips against his, slanting her mouth as he had taught her, and bit his lower lip. Gently, yet with an aggression that lifted the hairs on the back of his neck.

He sure as hell hadn't taught her
that.

But he wasn't going to let her take charge. Not when lust pulsed through him: blinding, blood-red lust. Sitting on the railing, he spread his legs to brace himself. He wrapped his hands around the back of her head and held her in place. He drove his tongue into her mouth. He tasted her momentary surprise, a fleeting resistance, then the surge of her response.

She held nothing back. She tried to devour him,
skirmishing, answering his every feint. Her palms slid up over his shoulders, a deliberate caress that left a path of fire on his skin.

He nipped at her lips, then soothed the bite with small licks of his tongue.

She stepped between his legs and pressed herself against him. Chest to chest. Groin to groin.

Her breasts pushed against him, and he wanted . . . everything. Now. Now. He stood.

She whimpered as he broke the kiss.

Embracing her, his arms around her waist, he hurried her backward and pushed her against the cottage, trapped between him and the wall.

She gripped his arms and writhed against him. Not to escape, but like a cat enticing him to pet her.

He obliged, moving his hips against her, trying to scratch the itch she had created with her languorous eyes and pert mouth, her smooth skin and that body that moved with such sinuous sensuality. Sliding his hands up from her waist, he discovered . . . dear God, she wore no corset. No corset. No chemise. Her skin resided beneath a single layer of thin silk, and he would touch every inch. Soon. But not soon enough.

He found her breasts, and cupped them. Full. Sensitive, if that gasp she gave was anything to go by. “Were you coming to me?” He didn't recognize his own voice, it was so deep.

She leaned against the wall, her head thrown back and her neck exposed, the portrait of a woman in the throes of passion. “What?” She sounded as breathy as he sounded guttural. “What did you say?”

“Were you coming to find me?”

She didn't answer, she only rolled her head back and forth.

“Samantha.” It killed him to step away, but he had to know. “Answer me.”

She caught him, pulled him back against her. “Yes. You. I want you.”

He rewarded her by circling her nipples with his thumbs.

She rewarded him with hardening nipples, and a heartbreaking moan.

The clear, smooth expanse of her neck beckoned, and he leaned down to kiss it, to taste the sweet cream of her skin. She intoxicated him. “From the first moment I saw you . . . on that road . . . I knew you would be trouble.”

She laughed, a warm, husky chuckle of amusement. “You frightened me half to death.”

“I would never have known.” He fumbled with the buttons on the back of her dress. He'd lost his dexterity—or he was simply so desperate he couldn't . . . there! Three buttons in a row. Enough for him to slip the sleeves off her shoulders. “You stood up to me.”

Grasping his shoulders, she arched her back to allow him greater access. “I thought you were stealing my reticule. Promise me.”

The buttons opened easier now, and the bodice dropped to her waist.

“Promise me you won't get yourself . . . killed.”

“No. No, I won't get myself killed.”

He would have said more, but her breasts spilled into his hands, soft skin peaked with
nipples as velvety and tight as ripe berries. He savored the weight of them. Wrapping his arm around her back, he arched her backward and caught the soft, precious mound in his mouth.

She gave a cry, strangled and uncertain. Then, as he suckled, a moan escaped her. She trembled in his embrace. She cradled his head. Stroked his hair back from his forehead. “William. Please, William.”

The weeks of watching her, the nights of desiring her, drove him to a frenzy. He circled her nipple with his tongue, used his lips in wanton arousal, and struggled to control the mad woman he had created. He wanted to laugh with her, to dance with her . . . he wanted to plunge inside her until she acknowledged him as her master. He wanted to love her until she was as wild as he knew she could be.

And she . . . the little witch, she wanted to wrest control from him and drive him as insane as he had driven her.

With a swipe of her hand, she untied his cravat and cast it aside. She fumbled at his collar and discarded it. She spread his shirt wide, and slid her hand inside, on his bare skin.

Her hand . . . on him.

He could scarcely breathe. He bit down, gently, threatening her and pleasuring her at the same time.

She gave a choked cry, and slid one leg up around his hip.

If nothing stood between them . . . if his trousers had miraculously disappeared and her skirts were
hiked up to her waist . . . he would be inside her. Thrusting his cock past the entrance to her body, into her depths. Stroking her to the depths of her womb. Making her respond to him as he demanded. If nothing stood between them . . .

Purposefully, her hands wandered down and latched onto his trousers. Her fingers stroked over him, touching his hip, his belly . . . my God. She found his cock and fondled the length of it. His heart stopped at her daring. At the gratification of her touch. It didn't matter that his trousers blunted the sensation, or that his undergarments stood between him and ecstasy, or that she didn't yet know how best to pleasure a man. She was his. His woman. His mate. And he responded to her from the marrow of his bones and the depths of his being.

He pressed her against the wall and caught a handful of her skirts. He lifted them, caught another handful, lifted them. With his knee, he separated her legs. There was no finesse about his gesture. He moved to conquer . . . and the choked cry she gave was not an objection, but simple surprise. He ran his hand up her thigh and discovered . . . he shouldn't have been surprised, but she was bare beneath her petticoats, her legs smooth and long and daring.

He laughed aloud, his triumph expressed in merriment. She had hoped to disconcert him. Instead, she'd sanctioned his brashest move. He slid his leg up until she rode his thigh. She gasped and tried to lift herself onto her toes, away from him.
He followed, giving her no surcease, pressing his knee against the wall, lifting her so her most sensitive parts rubbed against him.

“William,” she whispered, and her voice quavered. “Don't.”

He chuckled again, and reached between her legs. He found the thatch of curling hair, delved deeper and touched her. The barest, most sensitive skin. The vulnerable nub that could bring her—would bring her—the most exquisite pleasure. Using his fingers, he opened her so nothing remained between her and satisfaction.

“William.” Her hands clawed at his shoulders. “Please.”

“Don't?” he murmured. “Or please do?” And he raised his thigh. He held her bare hips and moved her, back and forth, allowing the weight of her body and the contact with his leg to work on her.

She couldn't get away. She tried, God knows. She squashed herself against the wall. She pushed at his chest. She tried everything, but at last she surrendered.

And as he'd always known, when Samantha surrendered, she surrendered everything. She held nothing back. She leaned her head against the wall. She bunched his shirt in her hands. She breathed harshly, haltingly. And as he held her, arm around her waist, she shook with the onset of climax. And when climax struck—she cried out until he had to cover her mouth with his own to stifle her. No one wandering in the garden could mistake that sound for anything but a woman in the throes of rapture.

He wanted to protect her from censure, and at
the same time—he wanted to puff out his chest and tell the world. He had brought Samantha to the peak. Forced Samantha to the peak. Controlled a woman whose heart and mind challenged everything he was.

Supporting Samantha in his arms, he slid his leg down. He held her, and kissed her forehead, and prided himself on his handling of her. He might be half-mad with desire, but he'd driven her over the edge.

Then he felt the tug of her fingers at his trousers. And his drawers. Somehow, she'd managed to unbutton him, and now . . . he caught his breath. He could scarcely breathe. Somehow, she'd managed to burrow beneath his clothing . . . she held his bare cock in her hands.

No woman had ever done that before. Held him, stroked him, fondled him in curiosity and provocation. She slipped her fingers along the length, tracing each vein on his straining manhood. She circled the head, and he thought for one incredulous moment he would climax in her hand. But he grasped at control . . . barely. “You don't know what you're doing.”

“No, but I like it.” She sounded deep, husky, like a woman sated on love.

He still held her bare hips. He'd show her satiation. Thrusting his hand between her legs, he opened her folds and with his fingers, found the entrance to her body.

She jerked and trembled—and grasped him more firmly than before.

He slid one finger into her.

A groan tore from her, and she tried to wrap her leg around him again.