“I don’t care about reputations. You should know that.”
“Then why are you insisting on marrying me?” she demanded.
“Let’s turn this around, shall we?” he said in his elegant voice. “Why don’t you tell me why you keep refusing my very handsome offer?”
He really was being a rat bastard, Alexander thought. He shouldn’t be enjoying this so much, but Sophie had that effect on him. In fact, he enjoyed her so much he’d probably be better off letting her escape, but he couldn’t bring himself to allow it. He set the paper down beside him, stretched his legs out, and watched her as she struggled through her justifiable outrage. “Because I hate you!” she finally said.
“What a pathetic answer. And entirely
untrue—you’ll have to do better than that. Why should you hate me? I’m rich and titled, just as you required.”
“I wanted an elderly peer who’d die off and leave me alone,” she shot back.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” he murmured. “I am a bit older than you are, but I intend to live a long, long time. Right at your side, my precious.”
He watched her fume, and wondered whether he’d still be able to drive her into a passion when they were elderly. He hoped so.
“I don’t—”
“Don’t come up with another lie, please,” he said. “It’s tedious. Why don’t you want to share my bed and board?”
“Because I didn’t happen to like your bed, and I prefer my own board,” she snapped.
“Well, then, I suppose I’ll simply have to change your mind.” She was light enough, and it was a simple matter to reach across and lift her into his arms. She wasn’t expecting it, so she didn’t fight, and he held her in his lap, a mass of billowing skirts and infuriated womanhood.
“You are a beast,” she said in a low, furious voice.
“And as you’ve pointed out to me numerous times, you are a beauty. See how well matched we are.” He put his finger under her stubborn chin, lifting her face to his. “So let’s see how easy you are to train.”
She tried to elbow him in the ribs for that one, and he swallowed his laughter. There were times when he was his own worst enemy, but she was just so delicious. He lowered his mouth to hers, half expecting her to bash him in the head, or at least bite him, but the moment his lips touched hers she stilled, like a startled woodland creature confronted by danger, and all his humor fled.
He slid his hand up to cup the side of her face, pulling her even closer with his other arm, and she melted against him, flowing, her mouth soft and welcoming, opening for him when he deepened the kiss. She tasted of cinnamon and coffee, delicious, and he lost himself in the kiss, in her response, as he lured her tongue into his mouth with sweet seduction.
He lifted his head and looked down at her, bemused. He knew the answer to the question she kept asking, and he was damned if he would tell her. He was marrying her because she made him feel alive, he was marrying her because he’d never wanted a woman so much in his life, he was marrying her because in her arms he felt like he’d finally come home for the first time in his life.
He kissed her again, and because he no longer had to hold her in place he slid his hand down her neck, his fingertips tracing a pattern on her warm, creamy skin. God, he wanted to lick her all over, he wanted to claim every inch of her. He wanted to show her that the small release she’d had before was nothing compared to what he could give her, and he wanted to drown in her response.
The neckline of her sunny yellow dress was demurely high, her breasts guarded by layers of cloth and whalebone. He let his fingers trace one, and she startled for a moment. He lifted his head to look down at her. “Hush, Sophie. You’re like a fortress with all these layers. I won’t do anything but touch you.”
She stared at him, her dark blue eyes slightly dazed, and then she reached up and pulled his head down to hers again. He would have laughed in triumph but her mouth was too wonderful, and he cupped her breast in his large hand, his thumb finding the nipple beneath all that armor with unerring instinct, rubbing, gently at first, and then harder, pinching slightly until it was like a button beneath the cloth, and she was squirming on his lap, needing more.
He tore his mouth away, finally moving it to her neck, kissing her soft skin, sucking at her, biting her, and she responded with a low moan, her arms tightening around him as she tried to get closer. God, he wanted her breasts in his mouth; he wanted to suck at her like a hungry pup. He wanted to push her down on the carriage seat, shove up her skirts, and slam into her sweet, moist depths, finding his own, mindless release.
He wouldn’t do it. He’d already taken her too hard, when he thought she’d been experienced. The next time he got inside her he was going to take his time.
But he could get her ready. It didn’t matter that her delicious bum was seated directly over his straining erection—it provided a wicked stimulation on its own as she squirmed. He held her safely in one arm as his hand slid down her leg, reaching the hem of her heavy skirts and touching her stockinged foot.
He’d forgotten he’d stolen her shoes to keep her from running, and for a moment he smiled at the brilliance of it. Her foot was small, sensitive, and he rubbed it, his thumb beneath the arch, and her reaction was electric. Who would have thought a woman would like her feet rubbed this much, he thought, increasing the pressure, and she moaned in pure pleasure. He put that information in the back of his brain for further use, but he had more interesting destinations in mind. Taking the hems of her dress and petticoats in his hand, he began to draw them upward.
Her moan of pleasure turned into a sound of distress, and he returned his mouth to hers for a brief, caressing moment, feathering her lips with his. “Hush, love. I promise. I’ll only touch you.”
He looked into her dazed blue eyes as if he could command her agreement like the great Mesmer, and to his relief and astonishment she finally nodded. He kissed her again, a brief, hard one. “Good girl,” he praised her, and lifted those ridiculous layers of skirt higher still.
Why did women wear so goddamned many clothes? After they were married he would take her away someplace, maybe a secluded cottage, and she could dance around in her shift the way she had in his garden, when he’d finally succumbed to his . . . obsession.
It was easy enough to simply slip his hand beneath all these layers, to move up her silk-covered leg to the ribboned garters that tied them in place. And the silky flesh above it. She wore the very latest in Parisian underwear. Her knickers were of a fabric so soft it was practically nonexistent, but he moved past, up her lovely thigh to his ultimate goal.
She jerked again when his fingers found her, the soft curls between her legs, the dampness between her thighs, and he wanted to lick her there. He would, sooner or later, but now he let his fingers dance over her, letting her get used to his touch.