Page 23 of The Forbidden Lord
He glowered at her as if to frighten her into telling the truth, but when she said nothing more, he set his lips into a determined line. “Very well. You force me to take more drastic action.”
She laughed coyly. “What shall you do to me? Torture me? Throw me in a dungeon until I say what you wish?”
For the first time that evening, he smiled, though most devilishly. Angels must cry every time he loosed that smile on unsuspecting women. “I can think of more pleasant ways to get the truth from you.”
Too late, she realized they were dancing along the edge of the room, where doors of cut crystal opened onto wide, marble balconies. Somehow he had maneuvered her there without her even noticing.
He danced her onto the balcony, then stopped. Furtively, Emily looked back into the ballroom, praying that Lady Dundeehad seen her, but too many people were dancing for anyone to notice one couple’s absence.
She tried to wriggle away, but he merely snaked his arm more tightly about her waist and dragged her toward the steps that led down into the garden.
“I thought you wanted to dance,” she said acidly, though her heart was pounding loudly enough to be heard in China. “You behaved in a most rude manner to gain a waltz with me.”
“I require more than a waltz from you, as you well know. And for what I intend, we need privacy.”
Privacy. The last time they’d had privacy, he’d kissed her senseless. If he kissed her again, she was likely to fall apart and confess everything.
But Lady Emma wouldn’t balk at going into the garden with him. She was much too sure of herself to do such a ninny thing. Indeed, the woman would probably delight in a private assignation with an unmarried earl of Jordan’s consequence.
Centering her mind on that thought, she let him draw her down the stairs, her legs moving mechanically beside him. When they halted behind an oak that hid them from anyone who might be watching from the balcony, however, she felt a moment’s panic. Thiswasprivate, wasn’t it?
“Now then, Emily.” He released her arm and faced her with the expression of an older brother chastising a child. “What do you have to tell me?”
The condescension in his voice provided her with a jolt of courage. How dared he treat her like some simpleton?
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know what to tell you. This is your little fantasy, Lord Blackmore.” Flipping open the ivory fan attached to her wrist by a slender cord, she worked it with languid motions. “A rector’s daughter? Is that who I’m supposed to be? I don’t guess you’d settle for an opera dancer, would you? A rector’s daughter is such a tiresome role.”
Her reward was the stunned look on his face. “Deuce take it, woman,” he growled, grasping her shoulders roughly. “Stop this pretense! I know who you are!”
“Oh, I don’t think you do.” Casting him a flirtatious smile despite the somersaults in her stomach, she walked her fingers up his silky coat lapel. “If you really knew anything about me, you’d lose interest in this Emily person at once.”
He blinked, then scanned her again, as if to ascertain where he’d made his mistake. Then his face cleared, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “You won’t mind if I determine the truth in the only way I can think of.”
“Oh? And how is that?”
His hands closed about her waist, drawing her hard against him. “Like this.” He lowered his head to hers. “By kissing you as I kissed her.”
She had no time to prepare herself before his mouth caught hers. Though she’d already half expected it, the touch of his lips came as a shock. It was exactly like that night in his carriage … the same dizzy pleasure stampeding over her restraints, the same hot, hard thrill linking her to the man forbidden to her. She melted and sizzled against him like butter in a hot pan.
But when his mouth left hers and he murmured “my sweet Emily” in a tone that left no doubt of his certainty, her heart sank. She was doing this all wrong. Emily Fairchild melted. Emma Campbell burned.
“It’s Emma,” she whispered, correcting him. Releasing her fan to dangle from her wrist, she boldly slid her arms about his neck and drew his head forcefully back for another kiss.
He went rigid at once, though he didn’t pull away. Remembering how he’d kissed her in the carriage, she opened her mouth and ever so lightly touched her tongue to his, then smoothed it along his unyielding lips in a repetition of his actions that night.
For a moment, she feared she’d gone too far. His body was rigid, frozen, as unyielding as an iceberg as she stood there on tiptoe, her mouth joined to his with embarrassing intimacy.
Then a growl erupted from his throat as he opened his mouth over hers, hungering, needy. Grasping hands anchored her against his taut, lean body, and his mouth began an assault so wild and furious it stunned her.
She rose to his kiss, a fever gripping her blood. It was easy to become Lady Emma, the bold half-Scottish lass. Forgotten was Emily Fairchild’s shy uncertainty and virgin manner, blown into the distance like a bit of goose down. He’d primed her for more, and it took only a tiny shove to thrust her over the edge into passion.
So when he drove his tongue deeply, she tangled her own with it, then went further, slipping her tongue between his open lips to explore the warm, silken dangers of his mouth. His kiss grew almost brutal, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. Over and over he devoured her mouth, and when that no longer seemed to satisfy him, he stamped hard, possessive kisses along her cheek and down her neck. His rough skin rasped against her, and his musky scent mingled with the flowery perfumes dancing in the garden air.
His hands roamed where they wished, gliding down her ribs and over the contours of her hips. No longer bound by any restraint, he left off kissing her neck to scatter kisses along her collar bone, then lower, along the neckline of her bodice until he reached the dip between her breasts.
She nearly pushed him away, surprised by his forwardness. Then she caught herself. Forcing herself to arch back, she allowed him to explore the inner curves of her breasts with his firm, knowing lips.
Pleasure pooled low in her belly like warm honey. Goodness gracious, why must wickedness be so delicious? The more hishot mouth caressed her, the more she wanted it against parts of her body that only some unnameable future husband should be allowed to touch. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She was rapidly losing control of this battle.
