Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(69)

“In what capacity? Lover, or husband?”

Annabelle stared at him in shock. “What?”

His arms slid around her, holding her quivering frame securely against his. He said nothing, only watched her intently as she tried to grasp the implications of the question.

“But you’re not the marrying kind,” she managed to say weakly.

He touched her ear, his fingertip tracing the fragile outer curve. “I’ve discovered that I am when it comes to you.”

The subtle caress set fire to her blood, making it difficult to think. “We would probably kill each other within the first month.”

“Probably,” Hunt conceded, his smiling mouth brushing over her temple. The warmth of his lips sent a rush of dizzying pleasure through her. “But marry me anyway, Annabelle. As I see things, it would solve most of your problems…and more than a few of mine.” His big hand slid gently down her spine, calming her tremors. “Let me spoil you,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you. You’ve never had anyone to lean on, have you? I’ve got strong shoulders, Annabelle.” A deep laugh rumbled in his chest. “And I may possibly be the only man of your acquaintance who’ll be able to afford you.”

She was too stunned to respond to the gibe. “But why?” she asked, as his hand traveled up to her unprotected nape. She gasped as his fingertip dipped softly into the shallow depression at the base of her skull. “Why offer to marry me when you might have me as your mistress?”

He nuzzled her throat gently. “Because I realized during the past few days that I can’t leave doubt in anyone’s mind about to whom you belong. Especially not yours.”

Annabelle closed her eyes, her senses flooded with euphoria as his mouth wandered slowly up to her dry, parted lips. His hands and arms compressed her willing flesh into his demanding hardness. If there was mastery in the way he held her, there was also reverence, his fingertips discovering the most sensitive places on her exposed skin and teasing in whisper-light strokes. She let him coax her lips open, and she moaned at the gentle probe of his tongue. He ravished her with tender kisses that assuaged her need, yet made her desperately aware of empty places that longed to be filled. As Hunt felt the urgent quiver of her flesh against his, he soothed her with a long caress of his mouth, while his arms supported her body. Cradling her blood-hot cheek in his hand, he drew his thumb across the satin veneer of her lips. “Give me your answer,” he whispered.

The warmth of his hand sent fine shivers across her skin, and she nestled her cheek deeper into his palm. “Yes,” she said breathlessly.

Hunt’s eyes gleamed with triumph. He tilted her head back and kissed her again, stealing deeper and deeper tastes. His palms clamped gently on either side of her head, altering the angle between them until their mouths fit together perfectly. The rhythm of her breath became capricious, and she was suddenly light-headed from the inrush of too much oxygen. Reaching for him, she clutched at the support of his hard-muscled body, her fingers digging into the broad-cloth of his coat. Without breaking the kiss, Hunt helped her to hold on to him, reaching for her hand to draw it around his neck. When he was satisfied that her balance had been secured, he moved his hand to her corseted waist and applied light pressure to bring her body closer to his. He kissed her with rising urgency, until the potent influence of his mouth had reduced her to sensual delirium.

Eventually he took his mouth away and hushed her as she moaned in protest, telling her in a low murmur that they had company. Sleepy-eyed and bewildered, Annabelle peered out from the circle of his arms. They were confronted by a group of witnesses who could hardly avoid the sight of a couple embracing in the middle of the path by the drystone wall. Lillian…Daisy…their mother…Lady Olivia and her handsome American fiance, Mr. Shaw…and, finally, none other than Lord Westcliff. “Oh, God,” Annabelle said feelingly, and turned her face against Hunt’s shoulder, as if closing her eyes would make them all disappear.

Her ear tingled as Hunt bent to murmur to her, his voice threaded with amusement. “Checkmate.”

Lillian was the first to speak. “What in the world is going on, Annabelle?”

Cringing, Annabelle forced herself to meet her friend’s gaze. “I couldn’t go through with it,” she said sheepishly. “I’m so sorry—the plan was such a good one, and you did your part beautifully—”

“And it would have been a great success if you hadn’t been kissing the wrong man,” Lillian exclaimed. “What in God’s name happened? Why aren’t you in the pear orchard with Lord Kendall?”

It was hardly the sort of thing that one wanted to articulate in front of a crowd. Annabelle hesitated and looked up at Hunt, who was watching her with a mocking smile, seeming fascinated to hear what explanation she might offer.

In the lengthening silence, Lord Westcliff appeared to have put two and two together, and he looked from Annabelle to Lillian with obvious disgust. “So this is why you were so insistent upon a walk. You two made an arrangement to trap Kendall!”

“I was part of it, too,” Daisy asserted, determined to share in the blame.

Westcliff didn’t appear to hear the comment, his gaze locked on Lillian’s unrepentant face. “Good God—is there nothing you won’t stoop to?”

“If there is,” Lillian replied smartly, “I haven’t discovered it yet.”