Romancing the Duke (Castles Ever After #1)(40)

She covered her face with one hand and moaned. “Why must this be so mortifying? Oh, that’s right. Because it’s my life.”

Ransom kept silent, waiting for an explanation.

She lowered her hand. “Believe me, Your Grace. You will never meet another woman with fewer expectations of romance. You’ve seen how Lord Archer and Miss Pelham and all these people treat me—like a naïve little girl. Everyone’s always treated me that way. I’ve never had even one suitor. So yes, I kissed you like I’d been waiting to kiss you all my life. Because I’d been waiting to kiss someone all my life. Yours just happened to be the lips that met mine.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t kiss me like that was your first kiss.”

“Of course not.” She turned and resumed walking. “I kissed you like it would be my last.”

Her last?

The words kept tumbling through his mind as they walked toward the ruined folly. He could scarcely fathom the absurdity of them.

“That’s ridiculous. It’s like you’ve crammed your brain so full of fairy tales, you’ve squeezed out all the common sense. You’re clever, quick, attractive. Men should be clamoring for you.”

She took his arm and nudged him to the side, around an obstacle in their path. “My life thus far has featured a distinct lack of any such clamoring.”

“That’s only because you’re stuck living in your father’s soppy stories.”

“It’s not only that.” She started to drift away.

He tightened his arm, keeping her close at his side. “Wait.”

Somehow, she had to be made to understand. He couldn’t let her go walking about the world, believing that no more kisses were waiting for her. Or worse—that she shouldn’t go searching them out. She didn’t belong in this castle, hiding away for the rest of her life until she withered to dust. That was his fate, not hers.

“Ransom,” she whispered, “don’t you understand? It doesn’t matter what these girls suggest or giggle about. I don’t see you as Ulric. Ulric is honorable and decent, and you’re—”

“Not.” With an impatient wave of his hand, he batted her words away. “We’ve established that.”

She tried again. “In the stories, which every reasonable person knows are just stories, Ulric loves Cressida with a pure, gallant, ridiculously chaste heart. They trade longing glances from opposite turrets. They send little notes back and forth through their servants. In twelve years, they’ve kissed exactly twice. If I wanted a man who was anything like Ulric, I wouldn’t have thrown myself at you that first night. I wouldn’t sit pondering the exact measurements that make up ‘magnificence.’ And I surely as anything wouldn’t spend hours staring into the darkness every night, dreaming of how your hands would feel against my bare skin.”

What? Her confessions bounced right off his defensive bluster.

“You’re not making sense.”

She growled in frustration. “I know I’m not. It makes no sense at all. I’m not a silly little girl who dreams of knights. I’m a woman. A woman who’s inconveniently, completely, and for the first time in her life, in lust. Just burning with desire for the worst possible man. A profane, bitter, wounded duke who refuses to leave her house. Oh, you are dreadful.”

“And you want my hands on your body.”

A faint whimper escaped her throat. “Everywhere.”

Desire pounded through his veins. He was seized by the urge to tumble her into the grass, right then and there, and strip her of every scrap of clothing. She wanted to be touched. He wanted to touch her. There was nothing holding them back.

Nothing, that was, save for a dozen giggling, foolish handmaidens who wanted to sprinkle them with wild-rose petals.

How did one get rid of these girls? They were like fanned-away horseflies. They just kept coming back.

He raised his voice. “Handmaidens, gather round.”

Once they’d assembled in a loose, giggling circle, he clapped his hands. “Let’s have a game, shall we? We’ll call it ‘Rescue the Maiden.’ Miss Goodnight will count to one hundred. All of you, go run and hide—and wait for your dashing Ulric to save you. No cheating, now. You mustn’t peek.”

The handmaidens disappeared before he could have counted three, laughing and tripping over their hems as they darted through archways and ducked around hedges.

Izzy shook her head. “Very well. You win this point. I will concede, these particular girls may be just a little bit stupid.”

Ransom wasn’t interested in scoring points on silly girls. The moment all the handmaidens were gone, he caught Izzy in his arms and dragged her inside the ruined folly.

“We have until one hundred. Start counting.”

“One. Two. Thr—”

He drew her close and claimed her mouth with his. He gave her no chance to demur but boldly swept his tongue between her lips, stealing her breath. He tilted his head, pushing deeper.

And once again, she kissed him back. If he’d been standing, his knees would have buckled.

She was so instinctively passionate. So unbearably sweet.

This was madness. He knew it. She knew it, too. If he gave her a moment to reply, she would likely tell him so.

But nothing needed to make rational sense. There were no minds in this, only bodies and heat. This was something both of them wanted. Hell, it was something he needed. To touch, to tease, to taste. To explore her with his mouth and hands. Kiss her breathless. Feel powerful and alive.