Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(39)

This was different because at some point during the day, she had been wounded by Rupert and the possibility that he’d run off with her sister. More to the point, she had ceased to loathe Darcy. Little by little, as the moments passed, he had lost some of his reserve. And now the look he gave her was raw, wanting.

Her breath caught in her throat.

It made her nervous. In an attempt to defuse the moment she gave a little laugh and said, “You look almost like Rupert with your hair like that. A bit more rakish, a bit more dashing.”

His eyes flashed. Had she angered him? How could that have angered him? He took a step toward her.

“I’m nothing like Rupert,” he said in a low voice.

“I know,” she said in a whisper.

He took another step closer. His chest was inches from hers. She had to tilt her head back to look up at him. She had to, for his gaze had locked with hers, mesmerizing her, and she could not look away.

“You don’t know,” he said in a fierce whisper. Her heart began to pound, hard. “You don’t know.”

He placed one finger under her chin, tilting her face, her mouth, up to him. “Rupert will never do this.”

And then he kissed her.

His mouth was firm on hers; yielding was the only option. There was no question of teasing or resisting. Because he was right: she didn’t know anything. The world as she knew it had tipped upside down, spun around, all her truths were now in question.

Because Darcy was kissing her.

Never had she imagined that she would kiss him and that he would kiss like this. A toe--curling, knees--weakening, breathtaking kiss as the rain fell around them. All these feelings were new and wonderful and brought on by Darcy.

She placed her palm on his chest as if to stop him. Or brace herself. His shirt was wet under her palm and she could feel his heart pounding. Oh God, he was feeling this as intensely as she. And that took her breath away.

And still, he kissed her. His mouth firm on hers, urging her to yield and open to him. And she did. Oh, she did.

There was thunder. There was lightning. And there was Darcy. Kissing her.

The world spun around her, whirling out of control, so she did the only sensible thing: she clung to him and kissed him back with a fervor that surprised her because this desire was intense and he was awakening it within her with every second of this kiss.



Good God, he had kissed her.

It was inevitable, he supposed. A man could take only so much of her wicked smiles and the feeling of her curvy little body, warm up against his. A man could take only so many quick glances at a woman’s breasts before he needed to feel them.

She kept going on and on about Rupert, who would never desire her the way Darcy did, at this moment. He was consumed with it, possessed by it.

And he just broke.

Apparently there were only so many feelings and desires he could shove into a small ball, bury in the pit of his stomach, and ignore. He had reached his limit.

So he kissed her. And he took his time about it, too. No longer fighting his desires, he just gave in and enjoyed his downfall.

But sense and reason, rude little bastards, intruded.

She is a lady.

You are an unfeeling gentleman of honor. Get a bloody mistress, not a proper virgin.

Darcy broke away, suddenly, and she stumbled into his chest. He caught her and held her there and kissed her again.

Her hands slid up to his neck, fingers twining in his hair, then she clasped his jaw in her small hands. He needed to feel her, feel her skin, and so he clasped her face in his hands and then, like a fool, he moved lower until he felt her breast beneath his palm. He groaned softly, because to touch her was better than he imagined, because his cock was unbelievably hard and he wanted to explode with desire for this woman, and because they were kissing and they shouldn’t be.

He actually started to entertain thoughts of taking her on the stone floor of the gazebo. In public.

What kind of Englishman was he? What kind of peer of the realm behaved so scandalously?

So much for his infamous self--control. What had he been thinking? One did not kiss gently bred ladies, especially if they were sisters to a duke and especially if the lady in question fancied his brother.

He hadn’t been thinking. Correction: He was thinking . . . about her breasts under his palm, and desperately wanting to close the small distance between them. And nothing else.

He stopped. He had to.

Darcy opened his mouth to say, I beg your pardon, or something to that effect. But the words never crossed his lips. He wasn’t sorry.

He wasn’t sorry at all.

And then he smiled. A roguish smile even. For a moment there, he had cast off Lord Darcy and all its attendant responsibilities and was just a man, kissing a pretty girl in a rainstorm. For a second he felt like . . . lightning or something powerful, and uncontainable. And he felt . . . light.

“You . . .” Bridget said, breathlessly. He had left her breathless. Good.

“Yes.”

“. . . just kissed me?” He had addled her wits. Good.

“You did not imagine it,” he confirmed. His heart was still pounding.

“And it was. . . .”

He lifted one brow.

“. . . not what I expected.”

“Lady Bridget—-”

“You cannot call me lady at a time like this,” she cried.

And then Lord Darcy returned, bringing back common sense. He straightened, and he was sure his expression sobered.