“No, no. Please don’t take it that way.” As she talked, she drifted closer, erasing the gap between them step by cautious step. “Duncan worries over you so much. He didn’t want to gossip, I promise. And he didn’t, exactly. He told me about a Duke of Mothfairy and a Lady Shemily, and I had to extrapolate the rest.”
“Moth-what?”
Izzy slapped a hand to her brow. “Never mind. Please forget I said anything about that part.”
Before she knew what was happening, he was upon her. He caught her by the waist and pressed her up against the nearest wall—one lined with empty bookshelves.
“I warned you,” he growled. “I warned you not to push me. Now I’m going push back.”
He braced his hands on the shelves, caging her between his arms. One hard ridge caught her along the back of the thighs. Another scored the small of her back. The smell of wine was overpowering.
He had her trapped, and her body responded like any trapped creature’s would. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted. Her diaphragm worked like a bellows, pushing air in and out of her lungs. Her pulse accelerated to a mad, frantic thunder in her chest.
“I’m s-sorry,” she stammered. “So very sorry.”
“Sorry for what? Sorry you read me that letter? Sorry for my pain? Sorry that you had a hand in destroying my life?”
Oh, Lord. So he did blame her.
“I’m sorry,” she said carefully, “that Lady Emily never understood the kind of man you are.”
“Really.” One of his hands moved to her waist. His palm slid up and down over the liquid-smooth silk, idly tracing the curves of her breast and hip. “And what kind of man is that?”
“A good one. One who’s gruff some of the time, and off-puttingly arrogant a great deal of the rest. But loyal and protective when it counts. You went after her, Ransom. You rushed after her, when you could have let her go.”
“Yes, I rushed after her. And if you think that made me the hero in her little story, you have it all wrong. Everything she wrote was the truth. I didn’t love her. I never would have loved her. To her, I was always the villain.”
I didn’t love her.
The words should have made her relieved for his feelings. Instead, Izzy was selfishly relieved for her own.
“You have no idea.” He leaned close. The heat of his breath rushed over her ear. “You have no idea how tempted I am to ruin you. Right here and now. The revenge would be so damned sweet. England’s precious little innocent, spreading her thighs so wide for my cock.”
At his carnal words, her knees went weak. She couldn’t draw enough air. These wretchedly tight corset laces. With every shallow breath, her breasts pushed higher against the restrictive red silk. The exquisite friction chafed her nipples to hardened peaks.
“You wouldn’t do that.” She swallowed hard. “You’re not the sort of man to take advantage.”
“I don’t need to be a man who takes advantage.” He sent one hand to burrow under her skirts. “Just one who takes an invitation.”
He hooked a hand under her knee and lifted, drawing her leg to the side and propping her heel on the first shelf above the ground. Using the weight of his own knee, he pinned her in this lewd position.
Her heartbeat stalled as he pushed the folds of her petticoats and shift aside. She wasn’t wearing anything but stockings beneath. But she couldn’t bring herself to protest or shy away. His possessive touch excited her, and she found herself growing aroused even before his hand moved to cradle her sex.
She didn’t want to scurry back to the dining room and continue pretending. She wanted to be here with him, raw and craving. Her flushed, breathless response to his touch . . . This was honest. The need gathering between her legs . . . It was real.
His thumb slipped over her crease, parting her gently for his explorations. Pleasure shuddered through her, and she gripped the nearest shelf for strength.
“Yes.” He groaned. “I knew it would be like this. I knew you’d be so wet for me.”
The crude words made her wild. He slid a finger inside her, and she bit her lip to keep from crying aloud.
Yes.