Seven Wicked Nights (Turner #1.5)

“Don’t stop on my account,” he said. “Melancholy does become you so.”


She closed her eyes and drew a deep, slow breath. If he wished to taunt her…two could play at that game. Her fingers launched into a jaunty folksong, one she knew he would recognize instantly. They’d sung it that summer, practiced it over and over in preparation for that farce of a musicale at Lady Westfall’s estate. She played the introduction effortlessly, from memory—not caring that she would betray the fact that she’d practiced it often over the years, out of sentimental folly. And here came the cue for his entrance, that gay little trill that ushered in his bass. She drew the notes out, extending him a musical dare. Would he sing his part? He’d always had the most beautiful voice, before.

“Enough,” he said. “I preferred the mournful dirge.”

Cecily dropped her hands to her lap. “So it would seem. You are as devoted to low spirits as bottled ones, these days.”

“Quite. I think I’ve developed an aversion to levity. When you marry Denny, together you will be so revoltingly happy, I shall have to remove myself to another county.” He came to stand at her shoulder. “Perhaps another continent.”

He would leave England again? The thought gutted her. She knew what it was, to fret endlessly about his whereabouts, not even knowing whether he still lived. It was a miserable way to spend one’s time.

“I’m not going to marry Denny.”

He paused. “You have told him this?”

“Not yet. I will tell him soon.”

“When did you decide?”

“Last night.” She lifted her face to his and read pure male arrogance in the set of his brow, the little quirk at the corner of his lips. How like him, to think that disastrous kiss had changed everything. “No, not in the drawing room. I knew it later, in the forest.”

He clucked his tongue. “Ah, Cecy. Don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with the werestag? I fear he will make you a prickly husband.”

“Don’t be absurd. And stop deriding me for my honesty, while you hide behind that ironic smirk.”

His eyes hardened, and he set his jaw. Curse him, he still wouldn’t let her in.

Exasperated, she pushed back the piano bench and stood. “Of course I do not mean to wed a werestag,” she said, crossing to the window. “But that encounter showed me what I truly desire. I want the man who will be there when I need him. The man who will protect me, fight for me.”

“I have fought for you, Cecily.” His voice was low, and resonant with emotion. “I have fought for you, protected you. I have suffered and bled for you.” He approached her, covering the Aubusson carpet with a lithe grace that made her weak in the knees. For a moment, she was reminded of the majestic white stag: the innate pride that forbade him to heed her commands; the sheer, wild beauty of his form. They were so alike, he and Luke.

Cecily’s breath caught. What did he mean, he had fought for her, bled for her? Was he referring to last—

“I have fought for you,” he repeated, thumping a fist to his chest. “Risked my life on battlefields—for you, and for Denny, and for Brooke and Portia and every last soul who calls England home. Is that not enough?”

Mere inches separated them now. She swayed forward, carving the distance in half. Her heart drummed in her breast as she whispered, “No.”

His eyes flared. “Cecy…”

“It’s not enough.” She lifted one hand to his neck, curling her fingers into the velvety hair at his nape. Yes, every bit as soft as it looked. “I want more.”

If their game was taunting, victory was hers. Grasping her by the hips, he crushed her to the wall and kissed her with abandon. And unlike a typical kiss, which started with superficial contact and then deepened by degrees, this kiss began at the end. He devoured her in those first desperate seconds, prying her jaw wide, stroking deep with his tongue; but then he soon retreated to gently explore her mouth. And then he was worshipping just her lips—reverently tracing their shape with his tongue, blessing them with feather-soft kisses as she stroked his hair.

Oh. Oh, sweet heaven.

His hands slid up to cup her breasts. She arched against him, pressing her breasts into his palms, thrilling when he thumbed the hardened tips. He bent and kissed her throat, her collarbone, the tender border of her décolletage. His tongue dipped between her breasts, and she clutched him tight.

“Yes,” she said aloud, afraid he might stop. This was what she needed. Yes, yes.

This was paradise.





HE WOULD MOST CERTAINLY go to hell for this.

Luke knew it, and he didn’t bloody well care. It was all he could do not to drag her down to the carpet, toss her skirts up around her ears and claim her in the most primitive way possible—what remained of his soul be damned.