Unveiled (Turner #1)(91)

She grabbed a nearby door handle and wrenched it open. A tiny storeroom stood behind the door, little more than a closet where the household kept decorations and table linens. She stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind her.

Darkness enveloped her. Darkness and blessed silence.

Only then did she put her head in her hands. Rubbing her eyes did nothing to obliterate his image in her mind. She could still feel his smile against her skin, as if it were a tangible thing. That wicked, horrible, inescapable smile. Oh, who was she fooling? That lovely, insane, undeniably attractive smile. Pulling her arms about herself could not erase the feel of his hands, big and strong, on her shoulders.

She felt both utterly humiliated and sick at what she had done to him.

How long was she going to have to stay in this darkened storeroom? Long enough for the gossip to die down. Minutes, certainly. Hours, perhaps. She rubbed her temples. She should have just jumped in a fountain and had done with it.

Half an hour later, the humiliation hadn’t subsided. Instead, her legs were cramped; there was not even enough room to sit, not with all her skirts. She had just about convinced herself she could safely show her face, when a polite knock sounded on the door. It was so ridiculously incongruous—that knock, on a storeroom. It could be only one person.

She shut her eyes and waited, but of course Ash didn’t go away. Instead, he knocked again.

“Margaret,” he said gently. And then, even more quietly: “Please. I know you’d like me to keep my distance—but I don’t believe it’s possible.”

She opened the door. He slouched against the doorjamb. His cravat was crooked. She wanted to bury her head against his chest and hold him close. She wanted to run away again. She’d have done the latter, except he was standing in her way.

“Ash, are you trying to destroy my reputation? If we’re seen together alone, it won’t be marriage they’ll imagine we’re after. And the gossip would not help either of us—not you, for using me so, nor my brothers, for their scandal of a sister.”

He nodded gravely. “You make an important point,” he said. “I must respect your wishes.” But instead of leaving, he stepped into the close confines of the room with her, pulling the door shut behind him. Her skirts squished against him.

Oh, God. She could feel the heat wafting off him. He couldn’t have kept his distance, not in the tiny space allotted for storage. His limbs brushed hers. His hands covered hers in the dark.

“Forgive me for my social ineptitude. What are the rules of etiquette,” he asked conversationally, “for conversations in a closet?”

“One ought never have them.”

He nodded once. “Sensible enough. I agree.”

He stepped closer to her. His eyes, rendered mahogany by the dimness, sought hers.

“You agree? Then why aren’t you leaving?”

“Hush,” he said. “You just told me: closets are not for conversing.”

He put his hands on her shoulders. He lifted one hand and brushed a wisp of hair from her face. She could barely see him, but in the close confines of the closet, she could feel her skirts bunch as he leaned into her. She had every chance to move away, every chance to shove him six inches and have him land atop the pile of rags on the floor.

She didn’t do it.

When his lips touched hers, they were soft and sweet. When his arms wrapped around her, she rested against him. She drank him in, like water after a long thirst. He didn’t say a word, just kissed her. Tongue touched tongue. Hands entwined with hands. His body was so familiar, and she needed him, desperately. He pulled back from her briefly.

“Ash.” Margaret knew her voice was trembling. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I adore you. Because you looked so stricken when I saw you and I couldn’t bear not to comfort you.” His voice was warm breath against her skin. “Did you know, when you left that room, you took all the light with you?”

“Stop,” she said. “Stop trying to seduce me.”

He smoothed back her hair against her forehead. “If I were trying to seduce you, Margaret, I’d have done it by now.”

“In here? But—there’s no room to actually do that.”

His breath hissed out. “I should have done it sooner,” he said. “I should have done it more, and Mrs. Benedict be damned. No room to seduce you?”

His hands came down on her hips, hard, but not painfully. And then he was lifting her up and holding her against the wall. He pulled her bodice down as far as it would go, exposing the tip of one nipple. “No room? Margaret, we don’t have to lie down for me to do this.” And then his mouth was on her breast, his tongue swirling around it. She gasped and shivered. But he did not relent. Instead, he brought his hand up to cup her bottom, pulling her into him, grinding her against the hard ridge of his erection. She wrapped her legs around his, bringing herself that much closer, and his hand crept beneath her skirts, sliding aside her drawers to dip into the warmth between her legs.

“Tell me we need to be lying down for me to do this,” he said, his finger sliding inside her passage. “I can still feel you, can I not?” And then he adjusted her weight against the wall behind her and undid his breeches. She could feel the hard tip of him against her, blunt and powerful.

He sucked on her nipple again, and sensation swirled through her.