Page 54 of The Duke
Her scent invaded his lungs. Lavender and lilacs. Bitter and sweet. The combination intoxicated him as it mingled with the particular scent of her flesh. Warmer than a flower, muskier than the earth.
Her shallow yet even breaths feathered over his cheek in damp little puffs, and Cole battled a slew of disquieting and humiliating urges. Ones that somehow reached beyond the primitive.
As a virile man, he should want nothingmorethan to ravish her. To hone in on the press of her soft breasts to his chest and to fantasize about all the indignities a mouth so lush could perform upon his person.
And he did. Sweet Christ, hedid.
But he also was strangely aware that if he turned his neck just so, his rough cheek would press against her astoundingly smooth one. Her neck, just below him, was the perfect size and placement to rest his weary chin. Her hair was a sheet of smooth silk the color of the sunlight behind the pall of coal smoke on a still London day. Though caught in the cogs of his metal prosthetic, it sifted through his fingers as fluid as water.
Her color returned in slow increments, roses dusting her prominent cheekbones.
Lord but she was lovely. He’d never truly stopped to study her before, especially not up so close. Never had he seen such flawless skin. Not even upon the pallid women who’d rather die than allow a glimmer of sunlight to pierce their parasols.
She was covered in the sun, burnished that unfashionable shade of honey, and dusted with a sparse array of freckles. Why was porcelain skin so admired, anyway? Who had gazed upon a sun-kissed beauty with such vivacious hues and wished her to be one of the colorless waifs so ubiquitous in England?
An imbecile, he decided.
You did,his inner voice reminded him.
Ginny had been white as the driven snow, and it had suited her. He’d pined for her pale delicacy and the contrast of her dark, unruly locks.
But the woman beneath him was a different shade. Her shape, her scent, even her manner was quite singular, and the sun worshipped her for it.
How queer that he should like to do the same. That he should want to peel the garments from her if only to ascertain just how much of her was burnished dusky and how much remained pale.
He thought about kissing all the places the sun had touched.
And then the places left untouched.
She did not remain placid in his arms for long. Her lids twitched and trembled, her fingers curled against his vest a heart-stopping moment before her multifaceted irises were uncovered, and she regarded him with an unfocused gaze.
Cole froze like a thief caught in torchlight.
Then she whispered the absolute last thing he expected.
“Hello.”
“You fainted,” he blurted rather witlessly, then cringed.
“Don’t be silly,” she gently admonished with a tongue that sounded heavy. “I don’t faint.”
“You did today,” he gently explained. “Now be still, my prosthetic is tangled in your hair. I’m almost free.”
“You’re tangled in my…” A wrinkle appeared between her brows and she was silent for a protracted moment.
“I carried you here when you fainted,” he repeated.
She put a hand to her forehead. “I fainted?”
“That’s what I said.” Had she sustained a head wound?
“I fainted… because… someone wants to hurt me,” she whispered. “Maybe even… murder me.”
“That isn’t going to happen.” The words left him with more vehemence than even he realized he felt. But as she blinked up at him in uncertain assessment, he realized he was in earnest. This woman was not the Machiavellian opportunist he’d initially judged her to be. And even if she were, no one deserved what had befallen Lady Broadmore.
She winced as he accidentally tugged at a lock of her hair in his struggles.
“Forgive me,” he muttered, feeling both awkward and churlish.
