Lady Bridget's Diary (Keeping Up with the Cavendishes #1)(59)

He did not.

He did no such thing.

Darcy pulled them into the butler’s pantry, just off the foyer, and shut the door behind them.



Oh my Lord. Oh my Lord. Bridget’s heart started to beat at a frantic pace. The room was empty; a candle burned, provided the barest hint of illumination. Her back was against the hard wooden door and Darcy stood before her. Tall, proud, proper Darcy.

She could barely see his expression but she knew it wouldn’t matter if she could; he was always so inscrutable. He must have gone mad, to pull her into a closet at a dinner party. This was all kinds of impropriety and he was the King of Proper Behavior.

Or was he?

“Don’t go,” he whispered fiercely. “Please do not run away.”

And then his mouth claimed hers for a kiss that was rough with pent--up passion, frustration, and longing. She felt her knees buckle beneath her, but his strong arms held her up.

His scent enveloped her and she breathed him in deeply. She ought to protest. How dare he just drag her into a darkened closest and proceed to kiss her senseless! Just because everyone did his bidding and bowed down to him, he thought he could simply ravish her with kisses in a butler’s pantry!

It was positively barbaric.

It was also devastatingly romantic.

It was hardly the behavior she expected of the tightly reined in Lord Darcy, who was now pressing hot kisses along her neck. But it was wonderful all the same. His hands skimmed along her hips, and he pressed against her, as if he could not get enough. Of her.

“I love your mouth. The way you kiss, the way you taste, all the shocking things you say,” he whispered.

“Oh.” She had nothing to say now, shocking or otherwise. Her head and heart were a tangled knot of feelings. There was surprise, and there was something like her heart breaking open, and then there was desire. Hot, wicked desire. Certain parts of her had not received the message that she loathed him.

“I love how you feel against me,” he whispered, skimming his hands along her waist, her hips, everywhere. She felt just how much he loved it. And she felt herself lean into his every touch.

Then he pressed another hot kiss along her neck. Sparks. She felt sparks.

“I’m too plump,” she mumbled. “I’m too . . .” She was going to list all the reasons he couldn’t possibly want to do this with her.

Darcy pulled away from her. Held her face in his hands. Looked her in the eye.

“No, you are not,” he said in his I--am--a--lord--I--am--right voice.

“Oh,” she sighed. Oh, why hadn’t anyone ever said that to her before? Oh, why hadn’t she known? Oh, why did it have to mean so much to hear him say it? Oh, why did he have to make her feel like this?

Like she couldn’t remember why she had refused him, even though she’d had very good reasons, she was certain of it.

“I have longed to kiss you here,” he whispered, pressing his lips to the delicate skin just above the line of her bodice. Sparks. She felt more sparks. In a hoarse whisper he continued, “I long to kiss you everywhere.”

She felt his words. Everywhere.

“Bridget . . .” Her name was a plea, a question, in a voice laden with longing.

Then he kissed her.

She could taste how much he wanted her. He was confounding. Maddening. But dear Lord above, did the man know how to kiss a woman. The more he kissed her, the more she forgot about slights, perceived or real. She forgot about ladylike rules of behavior. Nothing mattered anymore except this strange, new wonderful feeling of his lips against hers. A tingling of her skin. A heat in her belly. A feeling of being wanted, desperately wanted. She couldn’t get enough of it.

She kissed him back. She touched him, feeling his hard chest beneath her palms. His heart pounded. He wanted her and there was no pretending otherwise. Thinking soon became impossible, save for one thought: Yes. More. Bridget felt hot inside. She wanted more, and yet the more he kissed her, the more she wanted.

Then he gently pushed aside the sleeves to her gown and dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder. Sparks. His hands rested on her shoulders, slowly sliding the silk away, moving lower. Smolder.

There was just enough light to see him gaze up her, asking with his eyes for permission. She sighed. That was all, just a little sigh of pleasure.

“I wanted to do this ever since that day in the lake.”

He teased the centers of her breasts with his thumb, lightly, back and forth. She sucked in her breath as her nipples stiffened under his touch and the cool air.

Then when he did the same with his mouth, she gasped, and something in her core tightened. She moaned in pleasure. And forgot to breathe. She’d had no idea that he had wanted her like this, and had wanted her for so long.

And that was almost as arousing as that wicked thing he was doing with his mouth. To her breast. In the butler’s pantry. How so very un--Darcy.

“Bridget . . .”

He kissed her again. She pulled him in close, savoring the sensation of his body against hers. She felt him, hard, pressing into the vee of her thighs. She couldn’t help but move against him, driven by instinct and desire. “Yes . . .” he rasped. “Please . . .”

His hands skimmed up her thighs; she felt his hands pause where her silk stockings ended and her bare skin began. This was dangerous territory now, wicked territory, unknown territory. Whatever it was, every nerve in her body was aching for more of his touch.