Scottish Brides (15 page)

“The ladies I favor generally do.”

The flat statement was a clear refusal to be drawn; Rose abruptly changed tack. “Actually,” she said, leaning closer and lowering her voice, “I wanted to cast myself on your mercy.” With a lilting smile, she raised her eyes to his. “Draw on your experience.”

He raised a brow. “My experience?”

Her smile deepened. “In matters of . . . dalliance.” Her lashes drifted lower, and she looked away. “I wanted to inquire as to your educated guess.”

Duncan frowned. “Guess?”

“Hmm. About what aspects of myself Jeremy might worship.” Turning slightly, Rose faced him, with less than a foot between them. And smiled, warmly, enticingly—provocatively. “I wanted to know what, in your opinion, a gentleman might find most alluring in me.”

Her eyes, when they met his, didn't twinkle; they smoldered. Duncan drew a slow, steady breath and held firm against the impulse to react, to allow the tension surging inside him to show, to transmute into physical expression in his eyes, his face, his body. She was as transparent as rippling water; she was up to something, but he couldn't see what. She was purposely tempting him, and doing a very good job of it—that much he knew. Luckily, he was in control. They were on the open terrace, not in the library; within twenty feet sat hordes of his relatives, her father, her prospective husband, and his own prospective bride and her parents. And Penecuik would return any second with her shawl. She didn't have the first idea how to conduct a seduction. He'd have to teach her, but not here, not now. “I wouldn't presume to hazard a guess as to what Penecuik might find attractive.”

Rose favored him with a sultry glance. “You do have some idea—you said so.” She leaned closer; her fragrance wreathed his senses, her warm curves a handsbreadth away. She tipped her face up and met his eyes. “So what is it—my eyes? My lips? My body?”

All that, and a great deal more. Duncan stiffened, and refused to let his demons loose. He remembered, vividly, the one and only time he'd touched Rose with any physical in-tent, when, an adolescent fourteen, he'd reacted to one of her barbs. Together with two friends from Eton, he'd gone hiking in the woods, with Rose at his heels, unmercifully cheeky as usual. One of her comments had struck too close to a bone; he'd swung about and clipped her over the ear. He hadn't struck her hard, but she'd fallen to the ground, more from shock than the blow. That had been when, to his horror, he'd discovered that Rose didn't cry like other girls. She didn't screw up her face and bawl; instead, her huge eyes had silently filled with tears, then overflowed. She'd lain there, one palm to her ear, tears rolling down her cheeks—with a look in her eyes, in her face, that had slain him.

He'd been on his knees beside her, stammering an incoherent apology, trying awkwardly to comfort her—all in front of his utterly bemused friends.

Afterward, he'd vowed he'd never again put himself at her mercy; he'd never physically responded to her taunts again.

He looked into her eyes, warm golden brown, enticing and inciting, and steadfastly reminded himself that he was strong enough to withstand anything she threw at him.

She moved closer, bridging the last inches between them; her breasts brushed his coat, pressed lightly against his chest; her hip settled, a warm weight, against his thigh. The light in her eyes as she lifted them to his, and lifted a hand to lay it
,
palm flat, slim fingers extended, on his chest, was beyond teasing—pure, unadulterated temptation glowed in the soft brown.

The heat of her hand sank through his fine shirt; inwardly, Duncan quaked.

“You do know,” she whispered, her brogue a soft caress. “So…tell me.”

He looked into her eyes, drew in a less-than-steady breath—and dispensed with all caution. He had to put an end to her game; she was driving him demented. Again. Dropping his impassive mask, he fixed her with a narrow-eyed glare. “What is it you're really after?”

His clipped accents had the desired effect; she blinked, and straightened away from him—Duncan fought down the urge to pull her back, to draw her soft warmth back against him.

Rose read his eyes, read his face—and frowned. Her attack wasn't working; he appeared impervious to her teasing, her taunts—to every move she made. Not that she had any experience inciting gentlemen, but her failure, nevertheless, irked mightily. Disgruntled, she scanned his long frame, down all the way to his shoes, then up, slowly. When she reached his face, she shook her head.

Not a single
hint
of the tension she wanted to provoke showed. It was that she wanted to learn about—that odd tension of his that transferred itself to her, tightening her nerves, leaving her tingling with a sensation she could only call excitement.

She met his eyes—crystal hard in the moonlight—and sighed in disgust. “If you must know, I wanted to know what it was that . . . that came over you in the library.” When he didn't immediately react, she prodded a finger into his chest. “What made you so tense.” She wrapped her fingers about the steely muscles of his upper arm and tried to squeeze. “What that something was that . . . that made me feel like you were going to eat me!”

Duncan managed not to groan, only because his teeth had set. “That particular response,” he informed her through them, “is fully described by a single four-letter word starting with L.” He heard his words, and quickly added, “L-U-S-T.”

Rose stared at him.
“Lust?”
she eventually got out. “That's
lust?”

“Precisely—the overwhelming urge to have you, preferably naked in my bed.” He was losing the fight; the reins were slipping from his grasp. Duncan could feel his body tensing, feel it heating. Rose's widening eyes didn't help. He pointed a finger at her nose. “And you needn't look so shocked—you feel it, too.”

She stiffened. “Nonsense!” She shifted her gaze from his face; looking past his shoulder, she gestured skittishly. “I was merely curious—”

“That
I believe.”

“It was no more than that.”

“Liar.”

At the soft, purring taunt, she snapped her gaze back to his. “I do not want . . .”—dragging in a breath, she lifted her head—“to be
in lust
with you.”

With that, she went to step around him; Duncan put out a hand to stop her. Rose didn't see it in time. She walked into it—pressed her left breast firmly into his right palm.

Reflexively, Duncan's fingers cupped the soft weight.

Rose's knees buckled.

Instinctively, he caught her, supporting her against him. And felt the deep shudder—of surrender, of pure need—that slid through her. He did not withdraw his hand; instead, his thumb brushed the warm flesh, found and circled her pebbled nipple.

He heard her breath shiver, felt shimmering desire rise within her; she held herself stiffly for one moment longer, then sank against him, leaning her forehead against his collarbone.

“Don't.”

She whispered the word without any conviction.

“Why?” He kneaded her breast, and felt the flesh firm. “You like it.”

She shivered and pressed closer, her body saying what she would not. Bending his head, Duncan pressed a kiss to the top of her forehead. Instinctively, she turned her face up. And he covered her lips with his.

He gave her no choice, no chance to think—no chance to tease him and drive him insane. Her lips were as luscious as he'd imagined, soft, hauntingly sweet, breathtakingly generous. He sampled them thoroughly, then wanted more. Shifting slightly, he slid the hand at her back down, over her hips, over her gorgeously ripe bottom, then filled his palm with her heated flesh and drew her fully against him.

She gasped—her lips parted. He slid his tongue between and tasted her, and felt his heart skip a beat, felt desire soar, felt a ravenous hunger grip him. He angled his head, deepened the kiss—and ravished her. Voraciously.

And she responded. Tentatively at first, then with greater urgency, pressing her own demands. Hot, wild, untempered, abandoned, her passion poured through them; he felt her hands steal up his chest, over his shoulders, until her fingers locked in his hair. And as she'd always done, she taunted and teased; even though he knew she had no idea what she was doing—or perhaps because of that—he was powerless to tame his own response, an urgent, ruthless, primitive need to take her, claim her. Make her his.

Rose sensed it, knew it, and reveled in the knowledge. Beyond thought, beyond sense, with only sensation and emotion to guide her, she sank into the kiss, seized the moment and him, and gave herself up to the delight, the challenge, the insatiable need to appease him, ease his hunger, satisfy and soothe the raging tempest that had somehow sprung up between them.

It was a whirlwind of legendary proportions, a cataclysmic force that tensed his every muscle, and left her melting against him. Heat rose between them—she gasped as it flared. Duncan drank the sound, taking it from her along with her breath. She drew him deep and returned the pleasure, stirred to her toes when she felt his breath hitch.

She was deep in the kiss, sunk in delight, hostage to spiraling sensation, when a feminine gasp not her own fell on her ears.

“Oh! I say!”

It was Jeremy's voice.

Reeling, Rose pulled back; Duncan released her lips, but slowly. Even more slowly, he drew his hands from her, closing them about her waist in a warning squeeze before he released her. Straightening, he turned; her hands falling from him, dazed and close to stupefied, Rose blinked at Jeremy and Clarissa.

Round-eyed, slack-jawed, they stared back.

“Ah . . .” Rose cleared her throat and rushed into speech. “Duncan and I are cousins, you know—it was just a cousinly kiss. As a . . . a thank-you.” She shot a glance at Duncan; he was watching her, his expression inscrutable. Rose resisted the urge to wring her hands—or his neck. Dragging in a breath, she drew herself up and looked directly at Jeremy and Clarissa. “I was just thanking Duncan for finding a book for me to read. I like to read before I fall asleep.”

“Oh.” Jeremy's expression cleared; he smiled ingenuously. Then he held out her shawl. “I had to get your maid to fetch it from your room—you must have forgotten to bring it down.”

Rose gave thanks for the faint light, too weak to show her blush. Ignoring the cynical quirk of Duncan's brow, she smiled graciously and stepped forward and turned; Jeremy draped the shawl over her shoulders. It was clear he'd accepted her excuse; equally clearly, Clarissa, still shooting sharp glances from Duncan to her and back again, had not.

Avoiding Duncan's eye, still light-headed and fervently praying she wouldn't faint, Rose smiled at Jeremy. “I think we should go inside.”

They did; Duncan and Clarissa trailed in behind them. Only a few members of the party were still in the drawing room; they looked up and smiled and nodded their good nights.

As a group, the four of them climbed the stairs; Rose could feel Clarissa's gimlet gaze on her back. From the gallery, they would go their separate ways; Rose calmly bade both Jeremy and Clarissa good night, then turned to Duncan.

He turned from Clarissa and inclined his head. “Don't forget my present.” His eyes met hers, his gaze limpid, un-threatening—totally untrustworthy. “By all means dwell on it once you've slipped between the sheets, but don't be surprised if it keeps you awake.”

She had to smile serenely, had to incline her head graciously. From the corner of her eye, she saw Clarissa blink, saw her glance quickly at Duncan, saw her suspicions fade. Exercising the wisdom of Solomon, Rose declined to tempt fate—or Duncan—further. “Good night, my lord.” She let her gaze slide from his as she turned. “Sleep well.”

Duncan watched her glide away, her hips gently swaying. Only the presence of Jeremy Penecuik, and thirty-odd others he mentally wished at the Devil, prevented him from following—and ensuring he did.

Three

 

 

 

Rose began the next day determined to keep her dis
tance from Duncan, at least until she could understand just what was going on. Lust—particularly with him—was not something she'd come prepared for. She'd spent most of the night in a mental tizz, a state that had never afflicted her before.

Then again, no man had kissed her like that before.

She entered the breakfast parlor more wary, more uncertain, than ever before in her life. She took her place beside Jeremy, close to the foot of the table, not far from the comforting presence of Lady Hermione—and a long way from Duncan.

Only to have Duncan prowl up, with Clarissa, once more sweetly smiling, on his arm. Duncan just looked, a distinctly feral glint in his eyes; it was Clarissa who spoke.

“We thought, seeing the weather's amenable, to take a punt out on the lake.” Both coy and clinging, Clarissa smiled up at Duncan. “I'm quite partial to the activity”—she turned her ingenuous gaze back to Jeremy and Rose—“but we really need a party or it wouldn't be at all the thing.”