Page 28 of Pride: The Rogue
There’d been a clear eagerness in each moan that eased past her lips and in the way she’d rubbed herself against him, like a cat trying to climb inside its master’s skin.
His breathing grew ragged. Eventually, her ladylike outrage won out—outrage that’d put to an all-too-quick end of his plans for he and lonely Mrs. Lovelace. But it was too late. The lady’s eager body had revealed her truths.
She’d been responsive to even Latimer’s slightest touch.
Would that same enthusiasm be welcomed by her pompous husband?
Or did the lady feel compelled to suppress her innermost longings, which accounted for her response to being in Latimer’s arms?
Which only served to remind him, that just a short while ago, she’d lain on this very mattress and with these same sheets and blankets draped over her delectable body.
Now, he lay here alone, lusting for the lovely, Mrs. Lovelace, whose first name he’d never know.Shenow slept in the arms of some fine toff; a real-life gentleman,stupidenough to take separate rooms from his glorious wife.
At that unwelcome reminder, Latimer gritted his teeth.
It was too late. Unwelcome thoughts slithered forward of the pale-haired beauty slipping into staid Mr. Lovelace’s rooms. Was she even now riding the proper fellow? Her breasts dangling at his mouth, while he milked them, in a way, Latimer knew she’d love.
That unpleasant thought stirred a primal response inside him—something that felt damn near like jealousy.
Jealousy?
He choked.
If so, the only reason was because the other man was reaping the rewards of Latimer’s efforts.
Cursing long and roundly into the night, Latimer abandoned any effort at sleep. He climbed to his feet and headed for the bottle of claret that’d been left behind by Mrs. Lovelace.
Ignoring the glass that’d touched her lips, he made a grab instead for the entire damned bottle.
Tipping it back, Latimer drank. And drank.
Neither as strong, dark, or dry, as he favored when it came to spirits, it’d do.
With a grimace, he dragged the back of his hand over his mouth.
Latimer snorted. “The bloody irony,” he said, absently taking in each spot where they’d tussled.
He gave his head a wry shake. It should so happen a tart-mouthed, fearless, lady such as Mrs. Lovelace would leave him sideways.
He gave his head a wry shake. Not only that, but with Latimer stopped for the night on his journey to discuss and finalize a union between himself and the Duchess of Argyll.
Thoughts of the duchess managed to completely kill the remnants of his lust for Mrs. Lovelace.
He made to take another swig from the half-empty bottle, and stopped, with it halfway to his lips.
Mrs. Lovelace.
A frown formed on his lips.
Not Lady Lovelace, but ratherMrs.
As Latimer stared, his unblinking gaze fixed on the doorway, his body went absolutely still.
Part of his exchange with Mrs. Lovelace repeated in his mind.
“…I was out there, rescuing the young lad Mr. Lovelace sent out in search of your carriage, and who didn’t have the decency to inform the boy of your arrival…”
A little line furrowed Mrs. Lovelace’s gentle brow. “Mr. Lovelace?”
