Page 57 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
“For a woman who loves murder and mayhem, you’re quite the philosopher.”
“I like to understand how things work. Why people behave as they do.”
He digested that for a moment. “I happen to think that some of us, like Rockton, are born with a wicked bent.”
She chose her words carefully. “That certainly provides Rockton with a convenient excuse for his behavior.”
His features turned stony. “What do you mean?”
“Being moral and disciplined is hard work. Being wicked requires no effort at all—one merely indulges every desire and impulse, no matter how hurtful or immoral. By claiming to be born wicked, Rockton ensures that he doesn’t have to struggle to be good. He can just protest that he can’t help himself.”
“Perhaps he can’t,” he clipped out.
“Or maybe he’s simply unwilling to fight his impulses.And I want to know the reason for that. That’s why I keep reading Minerva’s books.”
Did Oliver actually believe he’d been born irredeemably wicked? How tragic! It lent a hopelessness to his life that helped to explain his mindless pursuit of pleasure.
“I can tell you the reason for Rockton’s villainy.” Oliver rose to round the desk. Propping his hip on the edge near her, he reached out to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear.
A sweet shudder swept over her. Why must he have this effect on her? It simply wasn’t fair. “Oh?” she managed.
“Rockton knows he can’t have everything he wants,” he said hoarsely, his hand drifting to her cheek. “He can’t have the heroine, for example. She would never tolerate his . . . wicked impulses. Yet he still wants her. And his wanting consumes him.”
Her breath lodged in her throat. It had been days since he’d touched her, and she hadn’t forgotten what it was like for one minute. To have him this near, saying such things . . .
She fought for control over her volatile emotions. “His wanting consumes him preciselybecausehe can’t have her. If he thought he could, he wouldn’t want her at all.”
“Not true.” His voice deepening, he stroked the line of her jaw with a tenderness that roused an ache in her chest. “Even Rockton recognizes when a woman is unlike any other. Her very goodness in the face of his villainy bewitches him. He thinks if he can just possess that goodness, then the dark cloud lying on his soul will lift, and he’ll have something other than villainy to sustain him.”
“Then he’s mistaken.” Her pulse trebled as his finger swept the hollow of her throat. “The only person who can lift the dark cloud on his soul is himself.”
He paused in his caress. “So he’s doomed, then?”
“No!” Her gaze flew to his. “No one is doomed, and certainly not Rockton. There’s still hope for him. There is always hope.”
His eyes burned with a feverish light, and before she could look away, he bent to kiss her. It was soft, tender . . . delicious. Someone moaned, she wasn’t sure who. All she knew was that his mouth was on hers again, molding it, tasting it, making her hungry in the way that only he seemed able to do.
“Maria . . .” he breathed. Seizing her by the arms, he drew her up into his embrace. “My God, I’ve thought of nothing but you since that day in the carriage.”
His mouth found hers again, sweeping away every objection. Her hands slid inside his coat to hold him at the waist—she hardly knew how. What was wrong with her, that she seemed incapable of resisting him? How easy for her to speak of morality and discipline, yet how hard for her to practice it! He made her want to throw caution to the winds with just a kiss.
Notjusta kiss. His mouth devoured hers, taking whatever it wished with bold purpose. His hands swept over her body, as if relearning every curve and bend, every sensitive stretch of skin that ignited at his touch. And she reveled in it. He was so commanding, so unlike the cautious Nathan.
It made her want to touch him, to know every inch of him. As he explored her, she explored him through his shirt, marveling at the muscles that tightened beneath her fingers. It never ceased to amaze her that he was no soft, indolent aristocrat, but a man of fierce strength who clearly had mastery over his body.
So why had he no mastery over his soul? Why did he not see how much more he could be, if only he let himself?
As if to demonstrate just how little he desired to be better, he cupped her bottom, urging her between his thighs until she felt the evidence of his desire imprinted on her soft flesh.
That gave her the strength to tear her lips from his. “We can’t do this.”
Deprived of her mouth, he trailed warm, sensuous kisses down her neck. “We can do as we please.”
She pushed away from him. “Youcan do as you please. I cannot. I’m still bound by a promise to another man. I may have forgotten it the last time we were together, but I shouldn’t have.”
As she turned for the door, he caught her around the waist, dragging her against his body. “Forget Hyatt,” he said harshly, a note of desperation in his voice. “We both know he isn’t the man for you.”
“It doesn’t matter. I made a promise. And I have to keep it.”
