Nicole Jordan (11 page)

Yet that wasn’t the true source of her emotional turmoil; it was her feelings for her betrothed that troubled Antonia most. Or rather her
lack
of feelings.

She should be perfectly content with Lord Heward for her husband. They had much in common. They enjoyed the same literature, the same plays and art. He was not as inordinately passionate about riding as she, but they both relished long drives in the country in his curricle and pleasant strolls in the park.

She was quite fond of him, and yet . . . she only wished she could love him. Wished she could feel the slightest spark of passion for him. Physically Heward was appealing, with his elegant, aristocratic looks. And he was athletically fit as well, for he regularly practiced fisticuffs at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing rooms and fenced at Angelo’s salle, in addition to shooting pistols at Manton’s shooting gallery. He was not as fit as Deverill, however. . . .

Antonia gave a soft groan.
That
was the problem. She kept comparing the two men, and her betrothed came up short every time.

It was not Heward’s fault that she found Deverill so dynamic and magnetic, so exhilarating to be near. Or that Deverill had always been her ideal: strong, courageous, bold, exciting. That for years she had admired and envied his adventuresome spirit.

The deplorable truth was, she found Deverill’s brazen behavior secretly enticing. He defied society’s rigid rules the way she often longed to do. And his provocative charm, no matter how exasperating, was nearly irresistible.

Oh, why did it have to be Deverill who attracted her so fiercely? Who made her blood tingle? Who filled her with forbidden desires to do more and be more and feel more? Deverill made her dream. He made her reckless and daring. He made her feel gloriously alive.

Worst of all, he made her yearn for the kind of passion and adventure she knew she would never have in a marriage of convenience to Lord Heward.

Damn him, damn him, damn him—

A footfall on the wooden steps made Antonia warily raise her head. When she saw who it was, she went rigid.

“I am surprised you aren’t at your archery range,” Deverill said in his deep voice. “I expected to find you shooting me in effigy about now.”

“Oh, it’s you,” Antonia said irritably, putting her forehead back down on her knees. “Will you please go away? I prefer to lick my wounded sensibilities in private.”

“Why are you hiding yourself here?”

“I am not
hiding.
I am determining how best to grovel. I owe Heward an apology.”

“I disagree. You did nothing wrong.”

“Indeed, I did. I knew taking up your dare would upset him, yet I let you provoke me into it. You deliberately challenged me so I would quarrel with him.”

“How wicked of me. How could I have been such a cad?”

Antonia raised her head to glare at him. “It is extremely rag-mannered to gloat, Mr. Deverill. Now, pray go away! You are a dreadful influence on me, and I want nothing more to do with you.”

Rather than leave, however, he settled on the bench beside her, stretching out his long legs and lacing his hands over his flat stomach. “I beg to differ. I’m an excellent influence on you. I shake you out of your stifling, decorous pretenses.”

“To my immense regret. I was foolish to risk your life today. I could have killed you.”

“I don’t regret it. Taking risks lets you know you’re alive. My guess is that you’ve only been half alive these past four years, buried under your prim and proper rules of social etiquette.”

Raising a plaintive gaze to the ceiling, Antonia gave another low groan. “Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

A chuckle escaped Deverill. “You’re only nettled because you’ve begun to see I am right: You don’t want Heward for your husband. He is far too tame and stiff-necked for you.”

Even if it was true, the accusation brought Antonia loyally to her betrothed’s defense. “He is not too tame!” She leveled an arctic stare at Deverill. “So what if he isn’t brave and dashing? Not every man is like
you.
Lord Heward is gentle and caring, and he is always willing to put my interests above his own. He loves me.”

“Does he?” Deverill sounded highly skeptical.

“Yes! And I love him.”

One slashing eyebrow shot up, as if he knew very well her claim was a lie.

In frustration, Antonia jumped up from her seat and whirled to frown down at him. She didn’t love Heward, but even if she was privately having second thoughts about wedding him, she was not about to let Deverill know it. In fact, she would do better to convince him she was entering into a love match, for then he might drop his absurd campaign to end her betrothal.

“I
do
love him,” she insisted.

“I take leave to doubt that. You could never be swept away by a cold fish like Heward.”

“He is not in the least a cold fish. He is a very passionate man.”

That made Deverill smile.

“It’s true. Lord Heward is as passionate a lover as any woman could wish. A better lover than you could ever be, I’ll warrant.”

His green gaze sharpened. “So now you expect me to believe you’re not a virgin?”

A blush stained her cheeks, but Antonia was determined to feign nonchalance. “That is precisely what I expect you to believe. After waiting so long for our nuptials, I saw no reason to hold off becoming intimate with Heward. I asked him to indulge my curiosity and consummate our union a trifle prematurely, so you see why I have no intention of ending our betrothal—”

Antonia broke off suddenly, for Deverill had risen to his feet and wore a scowl on his face that alarmed her.

She took a wary step back, toward the arched entryway. She hadn’t expected him to be so angry simply because she professed to have bestowed her innocence on her betrothed.

But Deverill did indeed look angry. A muscle flexed in his jaw, as if he was striving for control. When he advanced toward her, she retreated, yet she never made it to the doorway. Instead, her back came up against the wooden lattice.

Deverill halted barely a step from her, watching her with searing eyes. Tension throbbed in the air as he asked softly, “A better lover, hmm?”

Perhaps she should never have made that wild claim, Antonia belatedly realized. It was no doubt unwise to challenge a man’s sexual prowess. “Well, perhaps I exaggerated a little. . . .”

“Perhaps the problem is that you don’t know any better. You have no other lovers to compare to.”

Her chin lifted. “I don’t need any comparisons.”

He was regarding her through half-closed lids. “Has Heward brought you to pleasure?”

Caught off guard by the question, she hesitated a moment too long. “Yes, of course.”

“I wonder.”

Deverill stepped even closer, until their bodies almost touched. He stood unmoving, holding her with nothing more than his glance.

Exhilaration made Antonia’s heart pump harder, while the very air crackled between them.

“I very much doubt,” he murmured, “that you know what true pleasure is.”

Remembering the incredibly pleasurable kiss Deverill had once given her, she found herself staring at his mouth . . . that sensuous, beautifully carved mouth. She couldn’t bring herself to look away.

His eyes were focused on
her
mouth as he reached up to touch her. When his knuckles brushed over her parted lips, a frisson of fiery sensation sparked from his fingers to her flesh.

Startled, Antonia clutched at his arm, holding him away. “You can’t kiss me, Deverill.”

“I won’t. It would leave your lips swollen and passion-bruised, and I don’t want to give the appearance that we have been making love.”

Instead, his thumb stroked her jaw, his touch lingering and provocative. She wanted to move, to flee his disturbing nearness, yet she was held captive by the intensity of his gaze, by the raw, powerful sexuality emanating from him.

And his low, rich voice stroked her senses like velvet, further weakening her defenses. “I don’t intend to caress your breasts as I would like, either, since I don’t want to dishevel your gown.”

A heated tremor eddied deep in the pit of her stomach, even before she felt his glance travel along the line of her face and throat to the swell of her bosom. She couldn’t prevent the shameful tingling of her breasts, the brazen warmth that coiled inside her.

Despite her restraining grasp, Deverill slowly ran the back of his hand down the side of her throat to the square neckline of her gown, then lower still to lightly brush the lavender muslin of her bodice. Antonia drew a sharp breath, wondering how his barest touch could make her burn like this, want like this. When he trailed his fingers deliberately over her breast in a caress that was calculatedly erotic, her senses skittered wildly.

Deverill smiled, satisfied.

Antonia clutched more tightly at his arm. “Deverill, stop!”

“Why? I can see how much you want me.”

“I
don’t
want you.”

“Then why are your nipples peaked and throbbing? Why is your pulse racing?” The backs of his fingers stroked her nipple again, making her pulse throb even more wildly. “I doubt your proper, starched nobleman affects you like this.”

Antonia took a deep breath, struggling to resist him, even as her body shuddered with longing. Deverill’s arrogance galled her, but it infuriated her more that all he had to do was touch her and she melted.

Then he leaned forward, so that his hard, muscular form pressed fully against her softer one.

Antonia’s heart leapt when she felt the hard bulge of his manhood through their clothing. She wasn’t ignorant about lovemaking, thanks to her friend Emily’s divulgences. She understood enough to realize that a man’s member grew long and hard and swollen when he was aroused. So she knew that Deverill was most definitely aroused.

She also knew very well that he was trying to intimidate her. The knowledge, thankfully, gave her the willpower to hold her ground against him. Trey Deverill might be her ideal, but he was also vexing and arrogant and entirely too self-confident.

Arching an eyebrow, she managed a cool, superior smile. “I can see that you are not unaffected yourself.”

“No, I’m burning for you.” His voice was low and husky. “I intend to show you the kind of pleasure I’m certain Heward never has.”

That made Antonia give a start and widen her eyes. “You can’t. It would be scandalous.”

Deverill’s hot gaze raked her face, a bold and steady challenge. “What if it is? You like living dangerously.”

Her mouth went dry as she stared back at him. She did like living dangerously, Antonia thought, enticed by the sizzling lure of temptation. The shocking truth was, she wanted Deverill to make love to her. She had dreamed of this man as her lover for years.

He bent closer then, his hot breath fanning her ear, his husky voice prodding her. “You don’t want me to stop, princess. You want me to make you remember that you’re a flesh-and-blood woman, not a prim, sheltered debutante.”

Moving slightly, he wedged his knee against her gown, between her thighs.

A hot, biting arc of awareness shot through Antonia. She curled her hands into fists as she struggled to breathe evenly, but she could feel moisture gathering in her most secret feminine places.

“I intend to show you pleasure like you’ve never felt before.” That velvet voice, so rough and hoarse, made her shiver.

Then Deverill moved again, pressing the sinewed flesh of his thigh slowly, rhythmically, against her woman’s mound, creating a burning friction from the muslin of her gown.

Antonia’s breath fled at the primitive sensations he aroused in her, and a whimper escaped her lips. Involuntarily her hands rose to clutch his shoulders.

Deverill must have considered that an invitation to continue, for his hands slid around her hips to grip beneath her buttocks and raise her up so that she actually rode his thigh.

The pleasure was sharp and riveting in her secret folds where her sensitive flesh had become so damp and swollen and hot.

She made a final murmur of protest, but Deverill pulled her body totally flush to his, pressing her breasts against the hard wall of his chest. Then he settled his hands at her hips and began to slowly undulate her.

“Move against me,” he ordered, showing her how.

Antonia squeezed her eyes shut and obeyed. Instantly wild desire flared though her body, tightening her nipples and kindling a fierce ache between her thighs. Helplessly she wound her arms around his neck and moved her pelvis against him with urgent need. Sheer, sensual instinct swept away her inexperience, guiding her, driving her.

Deverill nurtured her excitement, rocking her, arousing her, rubbing her wet, swollen cleft harder against his muscled thigh, until her skin burned with fever.

The rhythm of her breath turned frantic. Her hips bucked, but he mercilessly held her in place, letting her twist and struggle and strain against him.

The pleasure built unbearably; the heat became excruciating. Her breath coming in ragged gasps now, she dug her fingernails into the fine fabric of his coat and clung to him as intense pulsations began deep in her feminine core.

She was still shocked, however, by the explosion that racked her body. The hot sunburst of sensation made her jolt and arch in his arms, while her low, keening moan became a cry.

“Shh,” he murmured, and covered her lips with his own to quiet her.

But she couldn’t remain quiet. Her whole body coiled around him, spasming with the wrenching pleasure, her thighs clenching desperately around his, all her senses obliterated as a shimmering, flaming brightness took her.

As the shattering paroxysm faded, Antonia sagged against him, burying her hot face in his shoulder. She felt Deverill’s lips press against her hair, calming her violent trembling, soothing her.

When finally he lifted his head, she opened her eyes. His beautiful, ruggedly chiseled face came into soft focus. She stared at him, dazed with sensation, torn between dismay and desire. Never had she had such a primal reaction to anyone or anything.

The glorious, searing pleasure that had swept through her had left her stunned. It was part of what she had yearned for, Antonia knew deep in her heart; part of the unfulfilled longing that had haunted her dreams for so long.