The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(57)

He blew out his breath.

“I knew it when I first saw Delacey in there,” she said. “For the tiniest instant, I thought he was you. Don’t be offended; it was a trick of the light. It was a trick of my heart, looking for you even when I knew I wouldn’t find you. For just one moment—that moment when I thought that I’d seen you—I smiled. And I felt the whole world come alight.”

He was stock-still, completely unmoving.

“And then he turned, and I realized who it was.” She gave a little laugh. “Once, many years ago, I had this dream. It was rather racy, if you must know. There was a young man I fancied, and in my dream…” She cleared her throat delicately. “In any event, I shut my eyes in my dream, focusing on the sensation. And then I opened them, and as things are in dreams, that handsome, charming young man had turned into the aging vicar. All my want washed away in a cold flush of revulsion. That’s what it felt like tonight. He came and spoke to me, and all I could think was, Free, you idiot, this is what it’s like not to trust a man. I don’t care what you say. You would never, ever hurt me.”

“I would,” he growled.

“You’re so arrogant that it never occurred to me that you doubted yourself so. But you do, don’t you?”

He made a surprised noise. And then he turned back to her. “I doubt every inch of happiness that comes my way.”

She set her hand on his wrist. “Don’t.”

“I can’t ask you to trust me,” he said. But he didn’t draw away. Instead, he turned his hand in hers, so that his gloved fingers faced hers, interlacing.

“You don’t have to ask.” She ran her thumb along his palm. “That’s the beauty of it. You don’t have to ask me to trust you. I already do.”

“You shouldn’t.” He wrapped his other arm about her waist, pulling her to him abruptly. “A trustworthy man would never do this.” And before she had a chance to say anything—before she could even contemplate the heat of his body pressed against hers or the hard muscle of his chest—his lips found hers. No preamble; no light brushes. There was no need for it; the memory of their last kiss was on both their lips already. His mouth was hard and desperate, lips opening to hers. The unshaven stubble on his cheeks brushed her. It made the kiss all that more complex—so sweet, so lovely. She’d wanted this—wanted him—and now she didn’t need to hold back.

Still, she set one hand on his chest and gave him a light push. “Wait.”

He stopped instantly, pulling away. “What is it?”

She laughed and dropped her voice to mimic his. “‘A trustworthy man would never do this.’ Oh, yes, Mr. Clark. Look how untrustworthy you are. You stopped kissing me the instant I asked you to do it.”

“Damn you, Free.” But there was a note of dark amusement in his voice.

She twined her arms about his neck. She had to stretch up to do it, her body lengthening along his. She leaned forward and set her lips against his neck. “Damn us both.”

He tasted of salt, and he let out a breath as she touched her tongue to the hollow of his neck, following it up his jawbone.

“You’ll pay for that.” His voice was a low rumble in his chest. His fingers slid up her ribs; his left hand cupped her breast. And then he kissed her again. This time, his kiss was slow and gentle. His fingers against her breast warmed her, making slow circles that matched the stroke of his tongue. She’d been right: He was the absolute best scoundrel she’d ever known.

She’d heard another girl talking about how a man’s kisses had made her insensible, unable to think. It seemed so odd now. Why would anyone want to stop sensing at a time like this, stop thinking about how lovely it all felt? The entire world felt more—sweeter, more solid, more real, as if his mouth on hers grounded her to earth. As if that careful caress, the fingers of his left hand sliding under the neckline of her gown, were sketching the details of the night sky for her, putting in moon and stars over the dark cloud of London’s soot.

He’d backed her against the wall of the mews. She felt the rough planks against her spine. But she simply leaned back and took the opportunity to explore him—to run her hands down his chest, feeling every curve of muscle go taut beneath the linen of his shirt. He stepped into her, leaning against her until they were hip to hip, until she could feel the hardness of his erection pressing into her. Her whole body sang in response.

He pulled back just long enough to lean his forehead against hers. “Lovely Free,” he whispered. “God, I should not be doing this.”

“Too true. You should be doing more. Much more.”

He shook his head, but leaned in to kiss her again. And this time, it was a whole different world of a kiss—a kiss that said it was coming before, a kiss that promised a night after this one, and a night after that. It was a kiss that said that all those weeks they’d known one another had been only a prelude to this moment. This was only the second act of the play, but the climax was not out of sight. It was a kiss of bodies, of hips and hands, of br**sts and tongues. His hands tangled briefly in her laces, loosening her bodice; she helped him undo it, just enough so that he could lean down and set his mouth there, right on her nipple.

“Stop,” Free said. And he did, pulling away when she least wanted him to, even though his body vibrated with want and his hands clenched on her hips.