Page 49 of The Forbidden Lord
After a moment of stunned silence, she said in a hushed whisper, “My word, he’s magnificent.”
Magnificent? He nearly choked. “You’re not shocked?”
She shrugged. “Why should I be? I’m from Scotland, where the men wear nothing under their kilts.”
Amazement followed upon amazement. How could Emily be spouting off about kilts with such nonchalance?
When she peered closer at the carving, he actually found himself jealous. “This half seems even more to your liking than the other.”
“Of course. The man is quite well-rendered.”
Well-rendered? Did she mean well-hung? “So his nakedness doesn’t bother you,” he said, unable to leave that subject.
“Certainly not. The human body is nothing to be ashamed of. The Greeks knew that, even if we aren’t so wise.”
She couldn’t be so calm about this. It was unthinkable! Then his eyes narrowed when he saw her rest her hand on the table as if to support herself. Ha—she was merely pretending not to be shocked. That was it. He’d try his other trick on her. “What you’re saying is, ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return there.’ And that makes it all right.” He held his breath, waiting for her to respond to the bit of scripture.
“I suppose. What poet are you quoting? This Lord Byron everyone seems so interested in?”
Byron! She thought it was Byron? Emily Fairchild would have been familiar with such a well-known Biblical passage—even if he’d had to spend hours looking for it in the Bible he never touched. But Lady Emma …
Her gaze traveled casually up the sculpture to fix directly on the man’s flaccid member, and he choked back a groan. His own member supplied the arousal the stone figure’s lacked.
Deuce take her! He could believe her lack of shock had been a pretense, and he might even believe she didn’t know the scripture he’d quoted—but there was no way Emily Fairchild would peruse a man’s privates with such curiosity.
Ian must be right. The girl was precisely who she claimed to be: Lady Emma. She was probably a distant relation of the rector’s daughter, nothing more.
He didn’t know whether to be disappointed or ecstatic. If she weren’t Emily, then he’d been right about the rector’s daughter and her purity. The young woman hadn’t been deceiving him; she was probably still tucked up in her rectory reading Bible verses. And Emily was the woman he wanted.
Or was she? He watched as Lady Emma stepped back from the sculpture to take a better look at the overall effect, and a surge of lust hit him as strongly as before. Good God, he was still attracted to the chit! Why was that, if she wasn’t his Emily?
Because she was exquisite, with a mind like a man’s and a body decidedly female. The women he met in society paled next to her. She inflamed his senses and tempted his wicked loins. And she was accessible. He needn’t be careful of her the way he’d been careful of Emily. Lady Emma was no innocent.
She sighed, a darling utterance that sent hot urges careening through his unruly body. “I suppose we’d best return to Mama before she sends the museum guard after us.” When she pivoted toward the door, he caught her arm to halt her.
“Don’t go yet, Emma,” he said softly.
“I mustn’t let Mama worry about me?—”
“You weren’t so concerned about your mother at Merrington’s ball. As I recall, her wishes didn’t affect you one way or the other.”
Her gaze swung to his, full of fear and something else. Panic. What had happened to the flirtatious wanton?
As if she’d read his thoughts, she flashed him a sudden coy smile. “If Mama charges in here with half the museum guards in tow, you won’t be happy, I assure you.”
“I won’t be happy if you leave without giving me a kiss.” He tugged her toward him, his heart thudding erratically. “Just one. I went to a great deal of trouble to have the chance for it. Surely you won’t disappoint me by turning missish all of a sudden.”
He clasped her chin lightly, then rubbed his thumb over her moist lower lip, feeling her suck in an urgent breath. She wanted him, too. She pretended otherwise, but she wanted him. The desire was like a primeval force between them, going out from him and reflected back by her.
“You don’t play fair,” she whispered, her eyes wide and needy.
“I never have.” Then he brought his mouth down on hers.
She tried to break the kiss at once, but he clasped her head in his hands, dislodging her bonnet and sending it tumbling to the floor. He held her still to explore her lips. They were warm … pliant … luscious, like marzipan hot from the oven. Not nearly enough to satisfy his sudden, unbearable sweet tooth.
He pressed his tongue against her tender, adorable mouth, feeling triumphant when she opened it and moaned. Driving his tongue deeply into the velvet warmth, he reveled in the way she accepted him.
But it still wasn’t enough. After days of burning and aching for her, he wanted more, needed more. Dropping his hands to her waist, he clutched her close, melding her body to his fromchest to thigh as his hands roamed freely over her ribs and waist and hips.
