Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands #3)(35)

None of it made a whit of sense.

Just as it made no sense that here he was, pacing the hall like a caged tiger, waiting for her, when he very well could have gone to have a glass of whisky and had Giles call him when she finally deigned to join him for dinner.

At long last, she appeared at the top of the staircase, beginning her graceful descent as though she wasn’t—he consulted his watch again—thirty-three minutes late. When he glanced back up at her, his mouth went dry and a hunger that had nothing to do with dinner and everything to do with her slammed straight into his chest.

Her gown was purple brocade with full, tiered skirts that were pinned with flowers and trimmed with lace. Her ivory shoulders were mouthwateringly bare above small, delicate sleeves. But the most arresting feature of her gown was the ribbon that crisscrossed over a bodice that hugged her ripe bosom and trim waist to perfection. The ribbon tied into a pretty bow just between her breasts.

He had never wanted to untie a ribbon more in his life than he did now as he wordlessly drank in the sight of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. His woman, and he felt that possession of her in his bones as though it was just as right and natural and necessary as his own blood. Some devil in him, some wild impulse, wanted to keep her.

Forever.

What the bloody hell?

He frowned, feeling like a volley of cannon had exploded in his head. “You’re late,” he barked out, his voice a tad more sharp than he’d intended.

She faltered on the last step, losing her balance and pitching forward. Like a child drawn to a sweet, he’d already stalked to the base of the stairs, his body subconsciously seeking proximity. When she fell, it was directly into his arms. He caught her, soft and warm and bergamot-scented and unbearably fucking lovely.

Her golden curls brushed his jaw.

“Sebastian.” She sounded breathless.

Her small hands splayed against his chest, twin brands through three layers of cloth. When she would have taken a step back, he held her firm. He told himself it was so that he could ascertain she was steady on her feet. The truth of it was that he wanted to hold her. He craved her. Had to have her.

“Dinner was set for half an hour ago.” Some churlish part of him, that part at war with himself, forced him to issue the cool admonishment. He could have said so many other things. Told her how blindingly lovely she looked, for instance. Demanded she spin on her heel and return to her chamber so he could strip her out of the gown she’d just spent half the evening donning.

The push and pull inside him was like a gong. Had to have her. Couldn’t have her. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t. Needed to. Longed. Damn it, when had this mission become so complicated? The first moment he’d ever laid eyes on the dazzling, complex goddess that was Daisy Vanreid. That was precisely when.

She tilted her head back, considering him with that signature, intense regard of hers. A frown creased her brows, the only imperfection on her face, and he wanted to smooth it with his lips. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting. It took rather a great deal of… persuasion on the part of the footmen sent to my father’s house. By the time my gowns arrived, it was already quite late.”

Her voice, dulcet and warm, slid through him like honey to the senses. By God, looking and smelling and sounding as she did, he could forgive her anything. Even treason, whispered an insidious voice inside his mind.

Conscience? The devil? He didn’t know.

He forced himself to clear his suddenly thick throat and form a response. “Dinner is served at eight here. Now that you’ve the fripperies you required, I trust your tardiness won’t happen again.”

Her expression shifted, her smile disappearing. He felt the loss of that sunshine as viscerally as a tooth extraction. He was being a cad. He knew it. But damn it, he’d never before been so torn between duty and what he felt. He wasn’t meant to have feelings. He was bloody well meant to feel nothing. At. All.

“Since my tardiness has so disturbed your good humor, perhaps you ought to release me so that we may attend dinner without further delay.” Her tone was tart. The depths of her eyes sparkled with something indefinable.

She was fierce. And right. Jesus, he was still holding her in his arms as if he couldn’t bear to release her. He hadn’t let her go. That was how perfect she fit, how much the beast inside him needed to keep her there.

He set her away from him as though she were made of flame rather than the most tempting feminine flesh he’d ever touched. “Of course. I wished to be certain you were steady on your feet.”

The look she gave him was knowing. “Yes, naturally. Thank you for ascertaining my… stability.”

What could he say to such cheek? He would dearly like to put her stability in peril once more by sweeping her off to the nearest chamber, lifting her skirts, and running his hand up her thigh to the slit in her drawers. He’d stroke her pearl until she cried out for him, slide his fingers inside to test her tight sheath and ready her for his cock.

Dear God, the fire in him was burning out of control. Had she poisoned his afternoon tea? He swallowed. Bowed to her with a formal precision that was the antithesis of the raw crudity roiling inside him. “Allow me to escort you to dinner, Duchess?”

She took his proffered arm. “I thought you’d never ask, Duke. Dinner is to be served at eight, you know.”

Though she appeared as poised and regal as any lady born to play the role of duchess, there was an unmistakable tinge of laughter in her voice. She mocked him. The daring of the woman would never cease to astonish him. As he led her to the dining room, he realized, quite belatedly and much to his consternation, that he too was smiling.