Page 61 of The Wolf and the Wildflower
He stepped back. “Follow me, Southby.”
James turned around and walked toward the main house. She walked beside him, holding her curiosity in check. Once inside the house, he went down the hallway to the library. He opened the door, stepped back, and allowed her to precede him inside. He closed the door with asnick, and she faced him.
“What is it that you…oh!”
He snagged his hand around her waist and drew her against his body. He didn’t need to tell her of the need pummeling him. His Wildflower seemed to understand because she flowed against his body, wrapping her arms around his nape. Their mouths came together in a burning kiss. James became lost in her taste, scent, and the sounds of startled pleasure she made, as if with each kiss she uncovered something wonderful.
He broke their embrace, breathing raggedly.
“Kissing you is rather incredible,” she said with a shaky laugh, her eyes gleaming with delight.
“It is rather interesting kissing someone with a moustache,” he murmured, pressing another hard kiss against her lips.
James swallowed her muffled laugh and soft moan of pleasure. He couldn’t stop touching her, caressing her throat, tugging at the neckcloth, and loosening it to feel the frantic pulse at the hollow of her throat. She sucked at his tongue, and he groaned his pleasure. His Wildflower was stealing something he had not planned to hand over, and he did not understand what alchemy she used to do it. Was it by her smiles, the intent way she listened without pressure? Her lush scents, the hot wicked sounds she had made when he’d licked her into orgasm?
Or was it this…that long moan made against his mouth, the way she shivered in his embrace and slid her tongue against his? James spun, pressing her against the door, coasting his hands over her body, wishing to rip the jacket off and consume her. His Wildflower smelled hot and sweet and arousing. James could tell that she was wet and aching for him. That lush scent of sun-ripened peach wafting from her made his mouth water and his cock throb beneath his trousers. He kissed her over and over, short, fierce kisses that would possibly bruise her mouth.
Dragging his lips down, he touched his tongue to the base of her throat and groaned, for she tasted like honey. Closing his eyes, he breathed her in. Then he bit into her flesh tenderly. She sighed against his chest, a soft little sound that wrenched complex sensations through his heart.
“We must stop,” she whispered shakily. “We should never be here where we might be discovered and unable to bear the consequences of being thought of as two men caught in intimacy.”
James released her. “I can shoulder any consequences, Wildflower.”
Her expression was one of bemused wonder and need mirrored in the gaze that looked back at him. “Icannot.”
A knock sounded on the door and she jolted, instinctively patting her hair.
“Wulverton!” a gruff voice called. “Open the door!”
James canted his head and stepped forward.
“Do not open it, James!”
He glanced at his Wildflower. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips red and swollen. Anyone with a keen sense of observation would conclude they had been kissing.
“Am I presentable?” she asked, smoothing over her moustache, and retying her cravat.
“You are lovely.”
Her eyes lit with humor; she took a steady breath and went over to the windows, giving the room her back. He opened the door and stilled at the familiar face peering at him in disbelief.
“Wolfe,” Stephen Foxley, the Marquess of Linfield, said, shaking his head, his light brown eyes gleaming with disbelief. “I just got the news upon my return from abroad, but I did not believe it. You are really alive.”
The man who had been his closest friend during his years at Eton stepped inside the library. The last time James had seen Linfield was the week before his departure to Canada. They had raced their carriages recklessly through the streets of London, some sort of rite as their fathers, who were also close friends, had done some twenty years before them.
The marquess was still staring at James as if he were a creature from the marshlands.
“My God, man,howdid you survive it? Are there any truths to those damn newssheet articles?”
“Some,” he said, knowing it sounded more mysterious than he intended. James held out his hands, and his friend slapped him against his palm in a handshake. Something inside him recoiled but he ruthlessly pushed through it.
“I am damn glad you’re alive, my friend,” Linfield said with a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corner. “Marsden and Sutton will be damn glad to know the news is true.”
He’d hardly taken the time to recall distant friendships during those cold, bitter years of survival. Yet now, the memories of himself, Linfield, the Earl of Marsden, and the Earl of Sutton’s revelry as young men on the cusp of starting Cambridge roared through his thoughts. They had gone wild through London drinking and carousing, bemoaning that they would one day have to take wives and could not be as free and rakish as they should. A warmth kindled inside his chest, and James found himself smiling. “Allow me to introduce you to Jules Southby.”
It was then the marquess realized they were not alone in the room. Jules turned around and, to her credit, was composed and appeared a slim and thoughtful gentleman, even if wet behind the ears.
“Jules, this is the Marquess of Linfield. A friend.”
