Page 23 of The Marquis, the Minx, and the Mistletoe
"I see," he said easily, enjoying her discomfit. "Apparently those cards of yours are very explicit indeed."
"No!" she protested, her eyes flying back to meet his. "They are utterly useless of late. Unless you, My Lord, are in a spot of trouble with domestic matters and household management, the answers I've received have been garbled nonsense. Nothing at all like the cards you deserve."
"And what cards do I deserve, Miss Everstead?" he inquired, leaning over the arm of his chair with his body positioned toward her, so close that their knees could brush. "Only the best ones, I hope."
"You are teasing me."
He shook his head, a slow smile growing across his face.
She could smell his skin, like pine needles in a snow-dusted forest, warm masculinity winding its way about her from the fire. It felt as though a heat was radiating off him and would soak into her if she stood too close. She considered scooting away, but Echo's body prevented her from doing so, occupying any and all empty space in the cushioned chair.
"I am perfectly sincere," he said. "Please. Will you sate my curiosity, Tatiana?"
She felt flush with heat at the way he said her name, boldly, as though it belonged to him, each syllable caressed by his Scots brogue. "The Tower," she whispered, looking at him through her lashes, "the Devil."
There was a beat of silence between them, accompanied by the spark and flicker of the fire nearby. He held her gaze for a moment, her words hanging in the air. They were truthful, she thought, even if he did not understand their implication.
"If," he replied with careful consideration, his fingers resting on his knee, knuckles brushing against the soft edges of her dressing gown. "If I were the devil himself ..."
"That is not what I meant," she choked, serving only to amuse him, rather than to interrupt.
"If I were the devil himself," he repeated, dropping his eyes to watch his fingertips as they gathered the material of the robe, bunching it between his fingers until the fabric fell to the side, revealing to him the curve of her calf in her lacy white night rail. He appreciated the sight, inhaling sharply through his nose, before raising his eyes to hers to complete his thought. "I do believe the devil would have already hauled you across this table and into his lap, my dear. I would rather argue that I am, in fact, exhibiting constraint tonight that is nigh angelic."
"You are not half as constrained as you could be," she shot back, her voice thin at the image he had sent crashing into her mind. She could so easily imagine those strong hands snatching her into his embrace. She could perfectly picture herself sitting astride him, her dressing gown pulled down over her shoulders, the roughness of his stubble rasping across the tender flesh of her throat. The Tia in her mind's eye was not a ravished damsel, but an enthusiastic sinner, hungry for more.
She had a creeping suspicion that he could see this fantasy play out behind her eyes, that he could feel how much she wanted him to continue to say such things, or perhaps even to act upon them.
Had she not already thoroughly destroyed her reputation in Society, she was certain that just by merit of sitting here in this chair, so close to Sheldon Bywater, with her body as hot and glowing as a coal bathed by the fire in the hearth, would have compromised her beyond repair.
Surely the chaperones and matrons could simplytellwhen a girl had exchanged words like this with a man. Surely all could see when a girl had allowed thoughts like the ones Tia was having. Surely it branded her, sizzling against the porcelain skin of a once pure debutante to advertise to the world that she had been charred and dirtied by the smoky edge of wantonness.
"Perhaps you'd prefer the devil sitting across from you," he continued, the steady rumble of his voice resonating in her chest. "That's what you need, isn't it, Miss Everstead? You need the prince of pleasure and temptation to take those desires you have and mold them to reality, absolving you of any guilt in doing so yourself."
"What desires?" she whispered.
"Oh, I think we both know exactly what you want," he said, resting his hand on her thinly covered knee, his fingers brushing the soft muslin of her night rail into the tender flesh of her thigh. He bit his lip, sliding those big fingers higher, resting his palm against the warm flesh above her knee. "And I think we both know that it is inevitable. That is why you came here, alone, in the cold, instead of going to some other man's bed."
"I tried to hate you," she confessed breathlessly. "I tried."
"Aye, I know you did," he said with a dry chuckle, his fingers traveling in bold circles, ever higher on her thigh. "All those glares and barbs you tossed my way when I was looking your way could not hide the things you thought when you thought I was looking elsewhere. I couldn't for the life of me figure out why you were so committed to being contrary. I knew you felt it too, this strange pull between us. I know you did."
She swallowed, nodding her head in silent confirmation, unable to stop her knees from parting further, urging his exploration farther, and more forbidden. She closed her eyes, trembling with the strength of what she wanted in this moment, of the power of the desire that radiated from his fingertips. "I kissed you," she reminded him, "in the end."
"I remember." He dragged those dark eyes over her legs, parted as they were with the hem of her gown drawn up over her knees.
She could feel his gaze as clearly as she felt his touch. She could remember that kiss, hidden in her guest chambers, so very close to an unmade bed, and her wild hope that perhaps he might tip her into it and simply bring this unwanted desire to its natural conclusion. She released a helpless sound, wondering how that big, heavy body might feel pressing her into the softness of a mattress, how those rough, barbarian's hands might feel on her naked skin.
He raised a hand to her cheek, dragging his thumb down over her parted lips. He gave a soft groan, almost pained to her ear. Perhaps it was her lack of resistance that distressed him.
In the hallway, a clock chimed, counting three bells to mark the hour. In another world, it might have startled her to good behavior, but she found herself frozen, only wishing this night might stretch on forever.
"Lord Moorvale ..." she breathed, her heart pounding to the chimes of the clock outside.
"Sheldon," he said firmly. "My name is Sheldon."
"Sheldon," she echoed obediently, though she had already forgotten what she wanted to say.
"I am going to kiss you," he told her, "and then I am going to send you to bed, before I truly do become the devil you think me. You understand?"
