Page 11 of A Lady's Lesson in Scandal
When he would have pulled back, she gripped his jacket, bringing him even closer. She licked the seam of his mouth. He opened, letting her tongue play a tantalising game of discovery with his own.
Bold and brave, even in this.
Drake hadn’t been with a woman since Nora, but he recognised the skill of experience. Millicent may not have kissed many men, but Drake definitely wasn’t her first. The knowledge granted him an unexpected freedom. He wasn’t debauching a complete innocent. It also filled him with determination to eclipse whoever had gone before him.
Stepping forward, he backed her against the stone railing. It was delightful to embrace a woman so tall and strong. With Nora, he had always worried his brutish power would dominate and crush her. But Millicent was altogether different. He didn’t have to bend to reach her. When he thrust his thick thigh between her legs, she squeezed him tight between lithe limbs.
Fucking hell.
Her ability as a horsewoman was apparent and inspired illicit images racing through Drake’s feverish mind. How would it feel to have her long legs wrapped around his waist as he unleashed the full power of his passion? To let her ride him like a wild creature until they both shattered and reformed into completely new beings?
He growled low, biting her bottom lip hard enough to blend pleasure with pain. It only seemed to enflame her growing ardour. She scraped her nails over his scalp, and his hand delved lower, filling his palm with the flare of her firm bottom. They were two equally matched warriors engaged in a fierce battle for dominance. She gave him no quarter, and he plunged deeper into the fray.
I’m in trouble. Big trouble.
He needed to pull back, regain control of his body, restore some semblance of order. Soon. Any moment. Maybe never.
An audible gasp behind him doused the flames of his passion.
Miss Millicent pulled away, her hand pressed against a flushed cheek, eyes wide with shock. Or was it regret?
‘You wilful, wanton, awful girl.’ A familiar, shrill voice rose into the cold night like a banshee’s shriek.
Drake didn’t have to turn around to know Patricia Whittenburg stood behind him. And while he was the rake responsible for Millicent’s ruin, it came as no shock that her poisonous stepmother would lay all the blame at Millicent’s slippers.
Dread filled Drake as the reality of their situation crystalised like raindrops in a blizzard.
Fucking hell.
One moment of weakness and his world shifted on its axis. The very last thing he expected to find at this ball was a bride. The very last thing hewantedto find at this ball was a bride. But Drake was a gentleman despite the brutality embracing his soul. He would face the repercussions of his actions with his head held high and his shoulders squared.
He turned, shifting so Millicent was hidden behind his back, providing her whatever protection he could from the voracious glare of half the beau monde. His gesture was futile. Of course. The damage had been done. The consequences inescapable. For both of them. And while most of him recoiled violently at the thought of what he must do, a small, hidden piece of his fractured soul exhaled in a whisper of relief.
No. That isn’t right. I’m certainly not relieved to be marrying Millicent Whittenburg.
But the whisper got louder.
Drake shook his head. He didn’t have time to ruminate on the inner workings of his clearly broken psyche. He was in the middle of a complete mess. Thanks to his lack of control. Which was clearly Miss Millicent’s fault.
Lord and Lady Whittenburg, Viscount Tread, the Duchess of Dorsett, and Reynard all stood in a shocked huddle just outside the French doors. Behind them, half the assembly strained to see what was happening in the silvery moonlight on the veranda.
Lady Whittenburg screeched loudly, fanning herself with her bejewelled hand.
Lord Whittenburg blinked like an owl, his lips crimping at the corners, creating a stern parenthesis.
Viscount Tread’s mouth opened and closed like a carp out of water. His face was mottled red. Drake worried the man might suffer an apoplectic fit.
Reynard sipped whiskey from a crystal glass in an effort to hide what Drake could only guess was a wicked smile.
The Duchess of Dorsett thwacked her fan against her hip. While her mouth was set in a firm line, her cobalt eyes twinkled with mischief.
His suspicions increased. Something was terribly amiss.
Drake turned his gaze to Millicent, and the worst happened. Her coffee eyes filled with tears.
‘I’m so very sorry,’ she whispered.
The heat burning through Drake’s veins and clouding his thoughts dissipated like vapour. Cold comprehension dawned.
