Page 17 of Touched By a Traitor
She bristled. “This is my domain, my lord. Perhaps you should return when you’re capable of discussing serious matters without resorting to… whatever this performance is meant to accomplish.”
“Performance?” His voice dropped to velvet mockery. “My dear Miss Morton, if I were performing, you’d know it. This is merely friendly counsel.” His eyes traveled deliberately down her throat. “I advise you to cease provoking powerful men and retreat to Chatham’s protective embrace. Some battles cannot be won through sheer bloody-mindedness.”
“Bloody-mindedness?” Charlotte’s voice rose an octave. “Is that what you call principled conviction? How terribly unfashionable of me.”
“Your principles are admirable,” he said, rising with predatory grace. “Your survival instincts, however, leave much to be desired.” He perched on her desk with deliberatecasualness. “I wish you wouldn’t keep stumbling into my path, Miss Morton. My capacity for rescue has its limits.”
“Rescue?” She laughed, a sound like breaking crystal. “From my perspective, Lord Carlisle, you appear more akin to the dragon than the knight.”
His smile turned positively wicked. “How perceptive. Though I confess, the role of dragon has its… compensations.”
“Such as?”
“Dragons, my dear, always get to keep the treasure.”
Charlotte shot to her feet, pushing the chair back, heart thundering against her ribs. “Lord Carlisle, this is inappropriate,” she whispered, but she didn’t step away. Couldn’t step away.
For a moment, they stared at each other, six years of longing suspended between them like a taut wire. The air crackled with unspoken words, with all the passion they’d tried to bury.
Then he reached for her, one hand sliding around her waist while the other caught her wrist, pulling her against the solid heat of his body. The world dissolved into sensation—the bitter burn of brandy on his tongue as it swept into her mouth, the bruising grip of his fingers digging into her ribs, the helpless whimper that tore from her throat as denial and desire exploded in a kiss that was equal parts punishment and plea.
Her knees buckled, forcing her to clutch at his coat for support, her fingernails scraping against the wool as her body betrayed every rational thought. Heat pooled low in her belly, spreading like liquid fire through her veins until she could barely breathe. His stubble scraped against her chin, rough and masculine, while his other hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to deepen the assault on her senses. She could taste desperation on his lips, could feel the heat seeping through the fabric where her chest pressed against his. Her own pulse hammered so violently she was certain he could feel it too.
The kiss deepened, years of denied passion crashing through carefully constructed walls until Charlotte could barely remember her own name. His hands traced fire down her spine, and she arched into him with a soft gasp that seemed to ignite something primal in his touch. Time lost all meaning in the storm of sensation—the ridge of his hard length against her hip, his large hand exploring her body with abandon, the way her fingers had somehow found their way into his hair.
Reality crashed back like ice water when his hand found her bare thigh. Charlotte wrenched herself away, chest heaving. “Stop,” she gasped, pressing trembling fingers to her lips. “I can’t… Chatham—”
“Chatham?” Andrew rose to his feet and stepped toward her until her back met the bookshelf. He braced both arms against it, caging her with his body. “Don’t hide behind that excuse when what burns between us could set London ablaze.”
Color flooded her cheeks, but this time from anger rather than passion. “Hide behind?” The words cracked like a whip. “The duke has shown me nothing but respect and devotion, which is more than I can say for other men who claimed to care for me. I will not dishonor or hurt him.”
“Respect? Devotion?” Andrew’s eyes flashed dangerously as he leaned closer, his breath hot against her cheek. “Tell me, Charlotte, does your devoted duke make you tremble like this?” His fingers traced up her arm, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. “Does your breath catch when he enters a room? Does your heart race at the mere thought of him?”
“You have no right—”
“I have every right when you kiss me like that,” he growled, the raw need in his voice making her shiver despite herself. “Like you’ve missed this as much as I have.” His thumb brushed her lower lip, still swollen from his kiss. “Tell me you feel nothingwhen I touch you. Tell me you can kiss me like that and still claim to feel anything real for him.”
Charlotte forced steel into her spine, even as her body still hummed from his touch. “My loyalty lies with him,” she said, smoothing her skirts with hands that trembled. “This was a moment of weakness brought on by old memories and your…” she gestured vaguely at him, hating how her hands still shook, “your particular talent for provocation.”
His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath his skin. “Is that what you tell yourself? That I merely provoked you into feeling something that isn’t there?”
“What I feel for the duke is real,” she insisted, though the words felt like ash in her mouth after the fire they’d just shared. “He offers me security, protection, a future where I can practice law without fear—”
“Protection?” Andrew pushed away from the bookcase, releasing her. His laugh was harsh enough to make her flinch. “From threadbare clothes and shoes with more holes than an anthill? What kind of protection leaves you looking half-starved?”
The casual observation stung her pride more than she cared to admit. “He has offered financial support, but I had to decline. What’s more important is that he understands me, supports my ambitions—”
“Because he sees you as a novelty, a curiosity to parade before society!” Andrew’s words crackled with fury as he paced the room. “I see you, Charlotte. I see the fire that burns in you, the passion that consumes everything in its path. I feel it every time you’re near me, and you can’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”
“What I feel,” she said, forcing ice into her tone despite the heat in her body, “is gratitude toward a man who has shown me nothing but kindness and acceptance.”
“And do you love him?” Andrew’s voice dropped dangerously low as he stepped closer, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. “Look me in the eye and tell me you love him. Tell me what you feel for him is anything like what just passed between us.”
Charlotte lifted her chin, meeting his gaze even as something deep in her chest cracked. The lie came harder this time, each word a betrayal of her own heart. “I do love him,” she said, each syllable measured and precise. “What happened between us was… a mistake. A momentary lapse in judgment that will not be repeated.”
The silence that followed was deafening. She watched the fury drain from his face, replaced by something far worse—a cold, empty acceptance that made her want to take back every word.
“A mistake,” he repeated, his voice devoid of emotion. “Well then, Miss Morton, I shall endeavor not to make any more… mistakes… with you.” He stepped back, his withdrawal like a physical chill. “I wish you every happiness in your sensible, secure future.”
