The Unexpected Duchess (Playful Brides #1)(30)

He tasted like brandy. She’d snuck a sip or two from Papa’s stash in the study on special occasions and yes, the duke was exactly what brandy tasted like. But better, because along with it was the passionate force of this man whom she had to admit she was wildly attracted to. True, she didn’t like him one bit, but gorgeous and rugged and handsome and muscled … Ooh, she shuddered. Against her will, not to mention her better judgment, her hands moved up to twine around his neck. He was so tall she was forced to stand on tiptoe even though he was bending down to her. He groaned in the back of his throat and pulled her even more tightly against him. His tongue was hot and wet and skillful, demanding, taking but also giving, and Lucy was rocketed with a barrage of sensations and emotions she’d never known existed.

She became vaguely aware of a moan. It must have been her own. It jolted her back into consciousness. She pressed with all her might against his broad shoulders. He pulled back and stepped away, panting a little and staring at her with those hooded green eyes as if she were some mythical creature come to life and not a flesh-and-blood woman standing in front of him her lips no doubt red and swollen from his potent kiss.

She stood there dumbly, breathing heavily, her hand pressed against her middle. Her stays had never felt so tight. Her body had never felt so hot. Her mind had never been more confused. What the devil had that been about? She pressed the back of her hand against her lips. They were scorching as if he’d burned her. She placed her other hand against the back of the sofa to steady herself, breathe.

What had she just done?

Kissed the abominable Duke of Claringdon, that’s what.

It was improper. It was indecent. It was wrong for half a score of reasons. She didn’t even like him. Not like that. Not like any way.

And why was he kissing her while they were on the subject? It made no sense.

She took two deep breaths, sucking air back into her lungs. Searching her mind for a coherent thought. Thankfully, the duke had turned away from her and was pacing in front of the windows. It helped that he was not staring her down while she tried to make sense of the nonsensical.

First things first. She squared her shoulders. She could handle this. She could. She’d just think about it rationally. Logically. First, and most important, what would she tell Cass? Could she tell her? Should she? Oh, no. She couldn’t tell Cass. Even if she could somehow manage to explain that he had kissed her. Cass was grieving. The last thing she needed was a betrayal from her closest friend. But was it a betrayal? Cass didn’t care for the duke, but … No. No. No. Telling Cass was out of the question. Too complicated.

She eyed the duke’s broad shoulders. The man knew how to fill out a dinner jacket. She’d give him that. A dinner jacket that just happened to accentuate the flatness of his abdomen and— Oh, for heaven’s sake. She should be ashamed of herself. For the barest hint of a moment, she smiled softly, touching her still-scorched lips. Oh, very well. She shouldn’t have kissed the Duke of Claringdon, but it had been enjoyable. It had been quite, quite enjoyable. As much as she hated to admit it, the man knew what he was doing on and off the battlefield, it seemed. And besides, she couldn’t take it back now. The damage was well and thoroughly done.

She pushed up her chin as he turned to face her.

*

Derek turned toward Lucy, opened his mouth, shut it, and then quickly turned on his heel toward the windows again. Damn it all to hell. He’d thought he’d known what he would say but seeing her with her hair a bit mussed and her lips swollen from his kisses made every thought in his head scatter. And at the moment, an even more immediate problem was the stark evidence of how her kiss had affected him, readily apparent with a glance at his trousers. No, facing her had not been a good idea. Not at all.

He scrubbed his hand through his hair and tried to think of something awful to cool his ardor.

Lady Crandall’s hideous laugh.

The Earl of Westwood’s abhorrent teeth.

Swift dying.

That did it.

What the hell had come over him? Why had he kissed her? Very well. She was beautiful and frustrating and challenging and clever. But he didn’t even like her. Did he? No, of course he didn’t. And yet … she was beguiling in her own stubborn way. Damn it. Not only had he gone and kissed a woman he didn’t like, but he also had kissed the closest friend of the lady he’d been actively attempting to court for the past several days. Bad, bad form. What if Lady Lucy told Lady Cassandra about this? And of course she would tell Lady Cassandra about this. Women told each other everything, didn’t they? Yes, it had only been one kiss but when dealing with young unmarried females, a kiss had quite an import. He wouldn’t blame Lady Cassandra if she never spoke to him again.

He sucked in and blew out three deep breaths. A trick he’d learned long ago in the army. It cleared one’s head. Good for one’s decision-making ability.

Very well. The deed was done. It did no good to have recriminations. He’d made his choice and it was over. All he could hope to do would be to reassure Lady Lucy that it had been merely a moment’s indiscretion, an impulsive response to the tension in the room. Not a promise or anything else. Simply a response to a stimulus. He must somehow convince her to remain quiet. To keep her mouth shut. Her mouth. Shut. It hadn’t been. A moment ago. When his tongue had been inside it. Oh, bloody hell he was getting hard again. Damn. Damn. Damn. Why did it have to be so good, too? Couldn’t she have had cold thin lips or hideous breath or something? It would have made the entire affair that much easier. Instead she’d melted like butter in the sun at the insistent pressure of his mouth, and he’d been halfway to melting himself.