Page 21 of A Scottish Bride for the Duke
“I hardly see how that is yer concern, Yer Grace.”
“I disagree.”
“If and when I marry, it will not be to ye, and thus it does not concern ye.”
“You are staying in my house.” He stepped closer still, and she moved back to preserve the distance between their bodies.
Her back hit the wall, and she sucked in a deep breath.
“Does that mean anything?” she demanded.
“I believe it does.”
“Nowthatisn’t concern,” she said, lifting her chin. “Perhaps I merely wish to marry one because I find them more appealing.”
“I think,”—his voice lowered to a gravelly rasp—“that is a lie.”
Her breath caught. Somehow—she did not know how—he was close enough that she could feel his body heat. Close enough that when she tilted her head back, it was to find his face directly above her.
The candle flickered against his waistcoat and the delicate embroidery there.
He rested his hand against her head, and although she suspected it was supposed to intimidate her, instead, it made her stomach give a liquid twist.
“What do ye know about that?” she demanded, doing her best to sound unaffected by his presence.
“You did not seem enamored by those boys before.”
“Ye know nothing of the situation.”
“Oh? Am I wrong?” He drifted still closer. “Would you like to tell me in which ways I am mistaken?”
“Ye—”
“Did you want them to kiss you?” he murmured. “Did you want them to get closer?”
She reached up a hand to his chest to push him away, but instead, she found her fingers curling against his shirt.
This was the way Lord Moreton had pushed that poor girl against the wall, but that had been different. There had been none of this air of breathless anticipation; the girl had been struggling to escape while Isobel had the unrelenting urge to pull the duke closer, to wipe the smugness off his face.
Or perhaps she even wanted to know how it would feel if he gave into the hunger she saw in his eyes.
“No,” she confessed, hating herself for the admission.
His hand came to the curve of her jaw. “Is that so?”
Vicious desire burned in his eyes, and the hand holding the candle shook.
He should not look at her like that, not if he wanted them to go back to how they were before—hating each other, mistrusting each other. None of this would make any of that go away, and she did not have any desire to complicate things further.
But oh, she felt the answering call of her desire in her stomach.
Her breath shuddered. His fingers tightened against her jaw, flexing compulsively, and then his mouth was on hers.
There was nothing soft about this kiss. Nothing gentle. He parted her lips with his and took, took, took. His tongue plunged into her mouth, and his body pressed her against the wall.
Fireworks exploded behind the velvety darkness of her eyes, and her body lit as though it had held a match against her wick.
She burned, and the pain was nothing short of delicious.
