She tore away from the viscount’s grasp and spun to face him. The light from the sconces caught on his slashing cheekbones, brilliant eyes, and sculpted lips. It seemed vastly unfair for the Lord to have made a man so beautifully handsome and yet such an arrogant arsehole, all at once. But then, that was the way of things, wasn’t it?
“I won’t go anywhere with you,” she said, her stubbornness rising. She was a Sutton, and Suttons did not do what they were told. “I have some matters to attend to in the gaming room.”
The smile he flashed her was grim and made her traitorous heart trip over itself as an accompanying flash of heat bolted through her. “I am afraid you misunderstand, my dear. I did not give you the option of denying me.”
The arrogance of the man would have astounded her had she not already experienced it on every occasion their paths had thus far crossed. “I’m not your dear, you oaf.”
The patronizing manner in which he employed the endearment made her long to poke him in his lordly jaw again. But now was neither the time nor the place.
His lips compressed into a forbidding frown, and she could not help but to recall what that mouth felt like on hers, kissing her so expertly. “I have no wish to be caught with you in this establishment, madam. I have managed to live two-and-thirty years without the taint of scandal, and I will not allow you to dash my reputation to bits.”
His cold scorn vexed her mightily.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Then please do go elsewhere, Lord Lordly. I have no need for your presence.”
His nostrils flared. “I cannot go elsewhere when I know you are gadding about dressed as a gentleman.”
He truly was the most ridiculous man. “Why not?”
“My honor will not allow it,” he said through clenched teeth.
Pen almost laughed, but he was serious, his countenance chillier than winter and every bit as frozen. “You can save your breath to cool your porridge, my lord. I’ll be moving along.”
Of course, Lord Lordly likely did not eat anything as common as porridge. But never mind. He could take his honor and shove it up his arse. She turned on her heel.
“Damn it, you troublesome minx.”
His muttered words were her only warning. In the next instant, a strong arm banded around her waist, hauling her backward, over a threshold and into a chamber. The door closed. Pen had a brief impression of lewd murals and more glittering, mirrored wall sconces before the instinct to remove herself from Lord Lordly’s overbearing clutches returned.
She attempted to wrest herself free, but he was as strong as those broad shoulders and thick arms beneath his coat suggested. She could not free herself regardless of how much she struggled.
He spun them about suddenly, pressing her back to the door and pinning her in place with his body. His palms flattened to the door on either side of her head. His knee slipped between her legs, unimpeded by the gowns and petticoats she would have ordinarily worn.
“What the devil do you think you’re about?” she asked as she squirmed, still determined to flee him.
“Stop moving,” he ground out, his jaw clenched.
Naturally, she ignored him, continuing to wriggle, her palms flattened on his chest. His heat seared her through her gloves, the rippling of his muscles as he worked to subdue her strangely pleasant. Her actions made his thigh settle at the apex of hers, wedging there.
And the connection between their bodies sent a jolt from her core that rushed through the rest of her.
Heavens.She was not meant to enjoy this. Venturing within The Duke’s Bastard this evening had not been so that she would again cross verbal swords with the viscount, but rather so she might see for herself whether or not Aidan was within. And yet, what a terrible friend she was proving to be.
For she was not thinking of Aidan at all in this moment.
How could she?
The viscount was holding her to the door, dressed as if he had been gracing a ducal ballroom this evening, perfect and handsome and infuriating and everything she should not want. Everything that was forbidden to her. Her friend’s lordly older brother. A man who believed her to be nothing more than a fortune hunter who was attempting to wed Aidan so she could amuse herself with drawing room visits and trips to the modiste.
But her desire was burning hotter than the fires of Hades itself.
His lordship’s breathing was harsh. For a few heartbeats, they remained as they were, utterly still, bodies pressed together. His scent wrapped around her like a lover’s embrace. And then he shifted. Subtly. Scarcely any movement at all, but she noticed it. Oh, how she noticed it. His leg slid more firmly between hers, pressing deliciously into her awakened flesh.
Her lips parted. The fight fled her. When his gaze dipped to her mouth, she was ready and willing, already anticipating his kiss. But he was not as hasty as she would have liked. Instead, he allowed his gaze to linger, as tempting as a touch, and swallowed hard. She watched the maddening dip of his Adam’s apple above his expertly knotted cravat.
“This is your fault, Miss Sutton,” he said crisply.
Coolly.
As politely as she imagined he would if they were facing each other in a society drawing room.
And then he quite made a lie of that frigid display of well-mannered gallantry by lowering his mouth to hers.
Sweet angels and saints.
The urge to fight him was gone. In its place was that same welcoming surrender she seemed to experience whenever he was near enough, his dangerous proximity rendering her weak. Inexplicable, thoroughly unwanted, and yet nonetheless true. Her arms wound around his neck, holding him close. His lips slanted over hers in a kiss that was almost harsh in its insistence. Firm and demanding, his warm mouth caressed hers with such stunning hunger that she was helpless to do anything but respond.
The viscount could kiss, blast his arrogant hide.
His tongue dipped inside her mouth, and he tasted of tart citrus.
He had been consuming lemonade, she thought, which seemed decidedly at odds with a gentleman who was at his club. He ought to taste of brandy or some other such spirit. But then, if she had learned anything from her brief acquaintance with Lord Lindsey, it was that he was a man of surprising disparities.
He was calm and gentlemanly, polished and perfect in true nob fashion. And then, by turns, wild. As he was now, trapping her to the door and devouring her with his mouth. He played the part of gallant viscount well, but he did not fool her. He was no stranger to iniquity.
His lips traveled along her jaw, stringing a path of unquenchable yearning in their wake. When he found her ear, he kissed the shell, his breath making a shiver of desire roll down her spine. Her nipples, already painfully pressed within the binding she had donned for this excursion, ached.
She knew from experience just how delightful a touch could be on them. But no one before the viscount had ever made her feel such shattering desire. Her entire body, from the soles of her feet, to the very roots of her hair, felt astonishingly alive.
Alive, and desperate for more.
His lips grazed the whorls of flesh she had not even known would crave such attention until now. Her knees threatened to give out. The abrasion of her undergarments beneath the too-large male trousers, coupled with the pressure of his thigh, sent pulsating awareness blossoming from her cunny.
That sinful tongue flicked over her flesh, and then his teeth caught the upper curve of her ear, biting. Marking her, it seemed. Claiming in an elemental fashion.
“You are a wretched annoyance, Miss Sutton,” he murmured into her ear.
But while his words were unkind, his tone was nothing short of deep, dark seduction. Velvet and silk to her senses.
She rubbed her cheek against his, relishing the prickle of his whiskers on her sensitive skin. “As are you, my lord.”