His gaze lowered; her lips throbbed. She waited…
His gaze rose to her eyes. He held her gaze, then slowly raised one brow.
You may be as bold as you like…
His earlier words returned to her; their true meaning-the meaning his deep, purring, seductive voice had invested them with-rang crystal-clear. She hesitated no longer. Framing his face with her hands, she set her lips to his.
They felt as they had before, alive, firm, tempting; they made her lips tingle. She kissed him and he kissed her back, pressure for pressure but no more. She kissed him again and the same thing happened-she was in control. Some part of her mind tried frantically to remind her just how dangerous he was; the rest gloried in the unexpected possibilities. There were so many things she'd always wanted to know, sensations she'd wanted to experience.
She traced his lower lip with her tongue and he obediently parted his lips. She ventured in and was immediately lost in a carnival of delicious delights, slipping from one to the next and back again. Whatever she asked, he gave; wherever she ventured, he followed. The texture of his tongue against hers, the heated wetness of the kiss, were all still new to her. She reveled in each novel delight, then, confident and secure, explored further.
Lucifer lay there and let her have her way with him. He had to concentrate to maintain his passive state, given she was a mature twenty-four and every development in their kiss apparently necessitated a wriggle or a squirm. Luckily, she provided a distraction, too-her naivete coupled with her blatant curiosity left him wondering what the local gentlemen
had been doing for the past six years. Asking for her help, apparently-certainly not kissing her. Especially not kissing her as she deserved to be kissed.
She was twenty-four-the warm swells that tantalizingly brushed his upper chest, the warm weight of her hips pressed to his waist, the long sweeps of her thighs riding down, over his hips-He abruptly cut off that train of thought and focused again on her hungry lips, on satisfying her and satisfying himself.
He felt they'd succeeded very nicely when she finally raised her head.
Phyllida looked down at him, and felt her heart thud. Her skin, all her nerves, had come alive; she was intensely aware of his body, and hers, of the masculine power he exuded yet controlled so effortlessly. It surrounded her, yet she didn't feel trapped, didn't feel like pulling away. She felt like plunging deeper in.
Temptation might well be his middle name.
She frowned, then struggled, just a little. "Let me up."
His lips curved. "I'm not holding you."
She stared at him; heat rose in her cheeks. His hands on either side of her waist might be burning her-they weren't gripping her. She tried to push away, to roll off him. His fingers gripped lightly and he lifted her from him.
Scrambling upright, she brushed herself down, tugged her cap firmly on her head, then, with barely a glance to confirm he was on his feet, she strode on toward the house.
Lucifer followed, careful, even in the darkness, not to grin too triumphantly. Close behind her as they navigated the shrubbery, he felt more than victorious. He felt honored, curiously so, as if she'd bestowed something on him that was worth more than words could define. In one way, she had-she'd gifted him with a degree of trust she'd never given to any other man.
He'd invited it, true, but it wasn't something he could have forced from her. Inordinately pleased with himself, and her, he stepped onto the back lawn.
She'd trusted him in one way-that augered well for his plan, a plan that was simplicity incarnate. She knew something about Horatio's murder and she was a sensible, intelligent female; the only reason she hadn't told him all was because she didn't yet trust him that far. Once she'd learned more of him and convinced herself that he was an honorable man, then she would tell him her secret. Simple.
Grinning, he walked on by her side.
His next thought came out of nowhere, unheralded-unwanted. It destroyed his triumph, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. Was he any better than the others who courted her, not out of real desire, but out of a desire for something she could give them?
The question clanged in his brain. The sensual memory of her body lying flush atop his washed over him.
Jaw setting, he willed both memory and question away.
The house rose before them, silent and still. Without words, they made their way inside, and parted for what was left of the night.
Chapter 7
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Late the next morning, Lucifer walked into the front corner bedchamber at the Manor and looked around. His brushes were on the dresser. If he opened the wardrobe, he would, he was sure, find his coats neatly hanging. Covey had been busy.
He'd breakfasted at the Grange with Sir Jasper and Jonas; Phyllida, he assumed, had still been abed. Or perhaps, after last night, she'd decided to avoid meeting him quite so soon. If so, he was grateful. Taking leave of his host, he'd walked through the woods to the Manor to take up the reins Horatio had willed him.
After speaking with Covey, Bristleford, and the Hemmingses, assuring them that he would, indeed, be residing permanently at the Manor and that he was happy to have them continue in their present positions, he'd allowed himself to be shown around the house and had chosen this room as his.
Leaving Mrs. Hemmings and Covey to organize and fuss-which had reassured them as no words could-he'd settled in the library to write letters. One to his parents, one to Devil, one to Montague, and a summons to Dodswell to join him here. He didn't know where Gabriel and Alathea were, so he couldn't write to them. Had it really been only four days since their wedding? It felt like weeks.