Page 37 of Pride & Petticoats

He intended to end it there—a quick taste and then a retreat. But as soon as his lips touched hers, all thoughts of retreat vanished. The velvet softness of her lips on his, the warmth of her flesh pressed against him, the taste of her . . .

Before he could think, Freddie had one hand on the nape of her slender neck and another caressing the small of her back. He pressed her lush little body against him, then parted her lips and swept inside, his tongue meeting hers.

Bloody hell, but she tasted like honey. Even the shyness and surprise in the way she kissed him back was sweet. Sweet and tempting and driving him to new heights of need.

“Dewhurst.” She pulled back, staring at him, her eyes dark now and wary. “I don’t think that is such a good idea.”

Freddie wanted to agree. In fact, he did agree. He agreed wholeheartedly that not only was kissing her a bad idea, but this whole scheme, from start to finish, was a dreadfully appalling idea.

But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t agree with her because, as much as he wanted to agree, when she’d spoken the words, her rich, low voice poured over him, warming him in places that hadn’t felt heat in years—if ever. “On the contrary,” he heard himself say, “it’s a very good idea.” And he bent to kiss her again. She put a hand between them and pushed him back.

“Why?”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Yes, why?”

Dashed if he knew why. He wanted to kiss her, he wanted to feel her heat fuse with his, he wanted to take her upstairs, strip her down to her petticoat, and ravish her until they were both thoroughly sated. That was why.

And he wanted to run screaming from the room because it was completely unacceptable that he should feel this way. She was a colonist, for God’s sake! He should throttle her, not kiss her.

“Because it will help our cause,” he murmured. What in bloody hell was he doing? Why was he trying to convince her to go along?

She wrinkled her brow, and he smiled at the way her nose wrinkled, too. She was terribly adorable when she did that.

Dash it! No, she was not adorable. She was a barbarian colonist, devil take him, and he had to stop this seduction immediately.

“How will it help our cause?” she asked.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Dashed if he had any idea how it would help the Foreign Office if he took her on the floor, hard and fast, right here and now. But the idea was not without its appeal.

“Wait, now I see,” she added. Freddie held his breath. What exactly did she see? “It will help because it will lend authenticity to our marriage, correct? It will make us seem more . . . ah, intimate.”

Yes! Yes! “Exactly,” he said, his voice sounding remarkably composed. “Authenticity is key. We cannot be too authentic.” He leaned in to kiss her again, his lips just brushing hers, when she spoke again.

“But neither should we get too carried away.”

He had no idea what she was saying, only that he had to settle for nuzzling her neck because her lips were still moving. Surprisingly, nuzzling her neck was an altogether pleasant endeavor indeed. Her scent—he was certain it was honeysuckle now—was stronger here, close to her hair. It was delicate and sensual and driving him to the brink of arousal.

“Dewhurst!” she said sharply as his tongue flicked her earlobe. “I said we shouldn’t get carried away.”

“Why not?” he whispered and had the satisfaction of feeling her shiver in his arms. “I want to get carried away.” He turned her in his arms then and kissed her, pressing his mouth hard against her, claiming her and ceasing all possibility of further protest on her part.

Not that she was protesting. No sooner had his lips caressed hers again than her earlier hesitation was gone, and she returned the kiss with passion and an intensity he hadn’t expected. This time, before he had even fully accustomed his mouth to the feel of hers, she’d slipped her tongue between his teeth and slid it along his.

Every hair on the back of Freddie’s neck reacted, and he couldn’t stop himself from pulling her tighter against him, crushing her breasts to him, feeling her softness, smelling her scent, tasting her raw sensuality.

She broke the kiss first, parting from him and gasping for air. Her breasts heaved against him, and he bent to kiss her jaw, this time allowing his tongue to snake down her neck and over her heart. When he reached the mounds blossoming from her bodice, he opened his mouth and pressed against the ripe flesh.

Her reaction was sharp and immediate. She let out a small cry, then pushed him back.

“What’s the matter?” he said, and his voice sounded slurred and fuzzy even to him.

“Sir, I must ask you to cease. I understand that a few kisses might be in order if we are to appear . . . ah, authentic, as you said, but this goes too far. Despite the illusion, I am not your wife.”

“Thank God,” he mumbled, and she tensed. “Dash it!” he added quickly. “No, that’s not what I meant. I mean—” Her scent had enveloped him again, and he was finding it almost impossible to form a coherent thought other than the ubiquitous I want her. Why was he even fighting it? “Charlotte,” he said, looking into her eyes, which turned out to be a mistake because they only served to distract him once again.

“Yes?” she prodded.

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