Any Duchess Will Do (Spindle Cove #4)(64)

“Don’t.” At the new tone in her voice, his eyes narrowed. He backed away, leaning against a nearby tree. “Don’t, Simms. Don’t start this.”

“Don’t start what? I merely said your name.”

“But in that tone. I know that tone. You’re embarking on some vain attempt to fix me, mend the brokenness of my life . . . Whatever fool womanly notion you’re entertaining, abandon it now. You’ll only embarrass yourself.”

Good heavens. The man was so transparent, it was like she could look at his waistcoat and see straight through to the tree trunk he leaned against.

If he thought a few boorish words could shake her off, after the way he’d clutched her to him last night . . . the sweet words he’d whispered . . .

“You are being ridiculous,” she said calmly. “So ridiculous, I can’t even be angry with you, so don’t think you’re pushing me away. Griff, I know you’re hurting somehow. I know it. I could feel it, even that first day, and—”

He turned his gaze. “I’m not having this discussion.”

“Fine. Deny it. I don’t care. I don’t know if that’s male pride or aristocratic phlegm. But whatever quality it is, it’s not one I possess. You can pretend you’re not hurting. I can’t pretend not to care.”

She steeled her courage to continue. “I’m not asking to be in your confidence. I can understand why you wouldn’t share your problems with a girl like me, but . . . perhaps you shouldn’t dismiss the idea of marriage entirely. I hate to think of you alone.”

“Who says I’m alone?” he scoffed. “I don’t lack for companionship if I want it.”

“Yes, yes. You’re a great rake and libertine—or so I hear. But I haven’t seen any evidence of it. From my observation, you’re just an impulsively generous, occasionally decent man who roams the house alone at night and tinkers with old clocks.”

His arm shot out and he pulled her tightly to his chest. “Don’t mistake me for a decent man.”

In one swift move he had their positions reversed. His broad chest pressed her against the tree. She struggled just a little, and the gauzy fabric of her dress snagged and caught on the bark.

She would not let him see her trembling.

“You declined to ravage me last night,” she said. “Surely you don’t expect me to fear it now.”

“Not at all.” He leaned forward, until they were nose-to-nose. “I expect you’ll enjoy it.”

He took her mouth in a deep, demanding kiss. His tongue moved against hers, again and again, and he angled his head to slide deeper still. Exploring her, possessing her. Relentless.

And it didn’t stop there. His hand slid to her bodice, claiming her breast.

Oh, sweet heaven.

He cupped the batting-enhanced mound capably, his fingers lifting and stroking. His thumb skimmed back and forth, searching for her nipple. The padding thwarted him. He gave up with a curse and tugged at her off-the-shoulder sleeve, working her neckline downward.

She sucked in her breath. He couldn’t mean to do this here.

Or perhaps he could.

With a firm, unapologetic motion, he gathered what there was to gather and lifted, hiking her breast above the border of her corset and exposing it to the cool night air. It was dark, but she felt thrust into a spotlight, vulnerable and quivering.

He kissed her again, exploring her mouth with possessive sweeps of his tongue. As their tongues sparred, he rolled her nipple with his thumb. His masterful caresses destroyed all will, all reason. Somehow, between the delicious sparks and shivers of bliss, one simple, straightforward goal began to coalesce.

This time she wanted to touch him, too.

She slid her gloved hands inside his coat, surveying the ridged, stony muscles of his torso and chest. Even through his waistcoat the power in his body was palpable.

She yanked his shirt free of his waistband and thrust her hands beneath. He growled in encouragement as she ran her flattened palms over the hard cobblestones of his abdominal muscles and traced the light furrow of hair bisecting them. Then she swept her touch upward, grazing over his nipple and centering on the fierce thump of his heart.

Boom.

Something exploded. She felt the concussion of it in her chest, and thought it might have been her heart bursting. Then flashes of sparks from the heavens lit the space between them.

She laughed at herself as the realization dawned.

Of course. “Fireworks.”

With one last brush of his lips against hers, he lifted his head. She held her breath, expecting him to speak. But he didn’t say a word. He just stared down at her, the same way he had that first day in Spindle Cove—as though she were the most wonderful, terrible, puzzling, perfect thing he’d ever beheld.

No, no. This was all too much.

She held his heartbeat in her hand. He treasured her small, insignificant breast with his. And overhead, great bloody fireworks exploded with trails of silver and gold.

The power in the moment was soul-rattling. Without the shield of a kiss, she couldn’t hide her own feelings. There was nowhere she could look but straight into his dark eyes.

Her own pulse was an incoherent flutter, but there was no hesitance in the rhythm beneath her palm. No stutter, no doubt. Just a strong, insistent beat of wanting.

Pauline, she could almost imagine it to say. Pauline, Pauline, Pauline.