Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(57)

He gave her a narrow-eyed glance and made a lunge for her across the table. Tasia sprang up with a giggle, barely managing to avoid him. The room tipped, and she concentrated on keeping her balance. When she found her feet, she picked up her glass and wandered away aimlessly. She knew she was drinking too much, but she had a glowing feeling of well-being, and she didn't want it to stop.

“Who's that?” She gestured toward a portrait of a fair-haired woman on the wall. A few drops of wine sloshed over the rim of the glass. Frowning in dismay, Tasia applied herself to drinking the rest before she spilled any more.

“My mother.” Luke joined her in front of the portrait and plucked the wine from her hand. “Don't gulp it, sweet, you'll make yourself dizzy.”

Tasia was already dizzy. He was so steady and solid…She leaned back against him, squinting at the painting. A handsome woman, the duchess, but there was an utter lack of softness in her face, and a compressed thinness to her lips. And her eyes, so keen and cold. “You don't favor her very much,” Tasia said. “Except for the nose.”

Luke laughed. “She has a strong will, my mother. She hasn't softened a bit with age. Very quick-minded, too. She's always sworn she would never outlive her wits. So far she's kept an iron grip on them.”

“What is your father like?”

“An old scoundrel, with an insatiable passion for women. God knows why he married someone like my mother. To her, any display of emotion—even laughter—is undignified. My father claims that she never let him into her bed except the few times it took to produce offspring. They had three children who died in infancy before my sister and I were born. As the years passed, my mother turned more and more to the church, leaving my father free to chase women to his heart's content.”

“Did they ever love each other?” Tasia asked absently.

His chest lifted with a thoughtful sigh. “I don't know. All I remember is a sort of polite tolerance they had for each other.”

“How sad.”

He shrugged. “They chose it for themselves. For their own reasons, neither of them approve of marrying for love—which is ironic, since both their children did.”

Tasia settled more comfortably against him, enjoying the feel of firm muscle at her back. “Your sister loves her husband?”

“Yes, Catherine married a stubborn Scot with a temper to match hers. They spend half the time shouting at each other and the rest in bed.”

The last few words seemed to hang in the air. Remembering the night before, the languorous hours in bed with him, Tasia felt her face burn. She took a shallow breath, and then another, and blindly sought her wineglass. “I'm thirsty—” She turned and half-collided with him, her balance precarious. He slid a steady arm behind her back. Suddenly Tasia gasped as she felt a splash of liquid on her shoulder. “You spilled it on me,” she exclaimed, fumbling at her peasant blouse.

“Did I?” he asked softly. “Here, let me see.” His head bent, and she felt his warm mouth on her skin, right where the wine had spilled.

Confused, Tasia thought that they must be sinking—the floor was coming closer—and then she realized that Luke was lowering her to the carpet. Before she could object, she felt another small splash, and tiny rivulets that chased down to her belly. “You did it again!”

With a contrite murmur, he set the glass aside and pulled gently at the drawstring of her blouse. The damp garment slipped from her shoulders. There was a tug at her waistband, and her skirt inched down her hips. Tasia stared at herself in confusion. “Oh, dear,” she said, perplexed by the way her clothes seemed to be falling off. But Stokehurst was smiling at her as if it were a perfectly natural thing. He leaned forward to her exposed chest and licked the side of her breast, and then the shallow curve beneath, picking up sweet drops of wine with his tongue. Tasia quivered in agitation, knowing she should make him stop. But his mouth felt so warm and tickling and nice. Her head wobbled on her neck, and she slid her arms around his shoulders to steady herself. “I must be drunk,” she said thickly. “I've never been drunk before, but I always thought it would feel like this. All that wine…Oh, I must be! Am I?”

“Just a little.” He dragged the skirt away from her body. She relaxed on the floor and kicked her legs to help him, sighing in relief as the cumbersome fabric was removed. With her legs free, she felt so light, unburdened…and then he was pulling off her other garments, one by one.

“You're taking advantage,” she said sternly, and rolled to her side with a giggle. He lay down and faced her. She couldn't stop herself from touching his lips with her fingers, tracing the smiling curve. “Are you seducing me?”

He nodded, stroking back a skein of hair that had dropped over her chin.

“I'm sure I shouldn't want you to. Oh, my head is spinning.” Tasia closed her eyes, and she felt his mouth on hers, warm and intense, making the blood dance in her veins. He was right above her, so handsome and tempting that she reached up for him.

“Help me with my shirt,” he muttered.

What a splendid idea…She wanted to feel his hard chest, and the shirt was in the way. Willingly she struggled with the line of tiny carved buttons, but they didn't want to let go. Grasping handfuls of fine linen, she yanked until there was a satisfying ripping, popping sound, and the shirt was hanging open. Pleased with her accomplishment, she stared at his long, bare torso and his candlelit face. His eyes were the color of the sea, pure, with no hint of green or gray. “How can your eyes be so blue?” Carefully she touched his face. “Beautiful blue…so beautiful.”