Unveiled (Turner #1)(36)

Ash tamped down a smile. She wasn’t going to find it boring with him. He was going to worship her, from the smooth column of her neck to the tight rosettes of her ni**les. He was going to set her aflame, coaxing every last desire from her body.

She tilted her head up to look at him. No, not just look; she was studying him, as if he were a painting whose import she had yet to divine. Her eyebrows drew down in puzzled slashes. And then, slowly, she lifted her hand.

He didn’t dare breathe. He felt as if he’d spent weeks leaving crumbs for a bird, only to have it land on a stone wall beside him. It was hell to keep still, to wait for that moment. But then she brushed her fingers down the side of his face and it was sweet heaven. Her touch was wary, as if she feared a sudden movement on his part. His hands clenched at his sides. God, he wanted to touch her back. He wanted to grab her to him, to press his body against hers. He wanted that kiss against his lips.

But it was exploration, as she tentatively stroked the line of his jaw. When she traced the contours of his lips, she was asking him a question. Am I safe with you? And no matter that he wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her close, he could have only one answer for her. Yes, darling. Always. Even more than he needed the feel of her lush body beneath his, even more than his thumbs yearned to part the slick depths of her sex, he wanted her to be sure of him. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time. As if he’d been veiled in mists all the days of their acquaintance and she was only now making out his features.

These tentative caresses were discovery on her part. Not seduction. This wasn’t seduction.

But damn it, he was seduced anyway. She stepped in closer—so close her skirts brushed his trousers, so close that it would be the work of a moment to trap her in his arms. He had a vast well of patience to call upon. But beneath it all, a deeper current welled up. He wanted her. Not just this tremulous reconnaissance. He wanted more than the feel of her body clasping his, more than the certainty of her physical surrender. He wanted to possess all of her—from her fierce loyalty to the wary strength he sensed hidden inside her.

Her hands drifted down to his shoulders. He’d shed his jacket long before, but even through his satin waistcoat, he could feel the warmth of her fingers. They pressed down on him as she lifted up onto her toes. She leaned into him, her br**sts sliding against him, her arms coming round his neck. Her lips were a light flutter against first his chin, then his cheek. He bowed his head, trading every ragged exhalation with her. If she pressed against him just a little more, she would know just how badly he wanted her. He was painfully, exquisitely erect.

And she wanted him, physically. He could not miss the signs—the flush on her cheeks, the unsteady rhythm of her breath. The sway of her body against his.

Her lips found his, and a stab of exquisite desire shot through him. Finally. Endlessly. This was what he had been waiting for, all this time. Not a stolen embrace, to be wrested from her in the dark of night. A gift, freely given. One that he would keep forever in some small part of his soul.

Damn. He wanted to grab her to him and show her precisely how not-boring he could be. His hands clenched at his sides.

She subsided onto her toes and looked up at him.

She’d been hurt—badly. So badly that tonight may well have been the first time she’d taken that memory out and given it a firm shake. It had made her feel helpless, vulnerable. Ash knew that feeling. He hated it. He also knew how to banish that feeling of powerlessness: promise that it would never happen again, and make good on that promise through action. She’d given him a kiss. He could give a gift in return.

He reached out and touched her nose. “You told me once I was the most cheerfully ruthless man you’d ever met. Well, sweetheart, how would you like to see what happens to men who bore you? Shall I destroy him for you?”

Her eyes widened. “I haven’t even told you his name.”

“Really?” He favored her with a droll look. “A years-long engagement, formed young—likely kept secret, for you not to have brought the point upon him. A gentleman, you claim. How many gentlemen have you met, Miss Lowell, here at Parford Manor?”

She blinked at him in confusion. Perhaps she hadn’t realized how much she’d revealed. It was all of a piece. What sort of man would so cavalierly treat a woman that way? There was the secrecy. The willingness to say anything, just to get a taste of female flesh. These facts all pointed in one direction.

“Oh, I can guess the identity of your hapless fiancé easily enough. It must have been either Richard or Edmund Dalrymple.”

Her lips parted, and she took a step back. “No,” she said. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Ash said softly. “And now that I know about it, I do believe I’ll destroy them both.”

CHAPTER NINE

AS MARGARET LEFT HER father’s chambers the next evening, she could not even pretend that she’d spent the day doing anything other than thinking of Ash. He presented a confusing mix of pain and pleasure to her. Pain, because he’d taken from her everything that once she’d thought mattered—because he still opposed her brothers’ attempt to win back their place in society.

She’d done her best last evening to dissuade him from taking revenge on her brothers. But he’d lured her into telling him a piece of the truth. He’d seemed so safe, so trustworthy, that she’d almost forgotten who he was. Then he’d blamed her brothers—as if they would ever do such a thing—and she’d remembered all too well why she needed to keep her distance. But despite that pain, there was pleasure, too. Everything she’d once thought had mattered—her family name, her position—had washed away. Ash had looked past her ruin and seen someone important.