She tried to ignore the silken promise in the words. Tried to remember that it wasn’t real. That this night was all fa?ade. That this strange man was not her husband. That her husband had done nothing but use her for his own gain.
Except, tonight wasn’t about him. It was about her and her sisters. “Thank you, Michael,” she whispered in the darkness, “I know that you did not have to honor this part of the arrangement. That you did not have to help my sisters.”
He was silent for a long moment. “I do have to.”
His willingness to keep his word surprised her even as it reminded her of their agreement. “I suppose there is honor among thieves after all.” She hesitated, then said, “And the rest of the agreement?”
One of his dark brows rose.
“When do I get my tour?”
“You’re learning to drive a hard bargain.”
“I’ve little else to keep me entertained,” she replied.
“Are you bored, wife?”
“Why would I be bored? Staring at the walls of your town house is so fascinating.”
He chuckled at her words, and the sound sent a shiver of heat through her. “Fair enough. Why not take your excitement now?”
“Because right now, we’re trying to convince them that you have changed and our disappearing from the festivities will not help.”
“Oh, I think my disappearing with my proper wife would help a great deal.” He crowded closer. “More than that, I know you’ll enjoy it.”
“Hiding in the hallway of Tottenham House like a thief?”
“Not like a thief.” He peeked around the edge of their hiding place before returning his attention to her. “Like a lady having a clandestine affair.”
She gave a little snort of disapproval. “With her husband.”
“Having an affair with one’s husband is . . . He trailed off, his eyes darkening.
“Bourgeois?”
One side of his mouth twitched. “I was going to say it was an adventure.”
An adventure.
She stilled at the word, looking up at him where he towered above her, his lips turned up in something akin to a smirk, his hands cupping her face, everything about him, his heat, his scent . . . him, surrounding her.
She should deny him. She should tell him that she found their wedding night as plain and uninteresting as dinner at Tottenham House.
Should put him in his smug place.
But she couldn’t. Because she wanted it again. She wanted him to kiss her and touch her and make her feel all those glorious things she had felt before he’d left her as though he hadn’t felt a thing.
He was so close and so handsome and so male. And as she looked up into the eyes of this man who was one moment exciting and entertaining and the next dark and dangerous, she realized that she would take adventure with him any way he offered it.
Even here, in the alcove of Tottenham’s hallway.
Even if it was a mistake.
She placed her hands flat against his chest, feeling the hard, flat strength that coiled there beneath layers of perfectly fitted linen and wool. “You’re so different tonight. I don’t know who you are.”
Something flashed in his eyes at the words, something there, then gone so fast that she could not identify it. When he spoke, his words were low and soft and liquid, with a hint of teasing. “Then why not get to know me a little better?”
Why not, indeed.
She lifted herself onto her toes, reaching up for him as he bent toward her and claimed her lips in a searing, nearly unbearable kiss.
He pressed closer to her, pushing her back against the wall, covering her with his body until she could do nothing but reach up and thread her arms around his neck, pulling him toward her until his lips, firm and silken, gave her what she had not even known she wanted, what she had not even known could be—a hard, possessing kiss that she would never, ever forget. She was consumed with the feel of him, his broadness, his strength, as his hands cupped her jaw and moved her to align her mouth more lushly, more perfectly to his own.
He licked at the seam of her lips, the feel of his tongue tempting her until she gasped, and he took advantage of the sound to capture her open lips and slide into her, pressing against her, tickling and tasting until she thought she might die from the excitement of it. Of their own volition, her fingers threaded into the curls at the nape of his neck, and she leveraged herself up to press against him, more firmly, more scandalously . . . and she didn’t care.
She didn’t care a whit . . . not as long as he didn’t stop.
Not as long as he never stopped.
As she pressed closer, he shifted his grasp, his hands lowering in a long, torturous slide, pressing just barely at the outside of her breasts, just enough for her to ache in places of which she’d never thought, before sliding lower, lower still, until he clasped her bottom and pulled her tight against him with a force that both shocked and aroused.