Page 51 of The Heiress's Daughter
At some stage he released her mouth and leaned back, his arms still firm and strong around her. A good thing, too:she could barely stand. Slowly, dizzily, her awareness trickled back. Sothatwas a kiss. Oh my…
She was breathing heavily. So was he. Her hands were pressed against his chest. Was that his heart, beating under her palms?
She gazed up at him. He stared down at her, his eyes dark and unreadable in the shadows.
“Again,” she breathed.
He gave a kind of moan and then his mouth was devouring her, possessing her, and she could only cling to him and try to ride the storm, the glorious storm.
“So! This is what you were up to, you villain!”
They eased apart. Lord Randall still held her, one arm around her waist, supporting her.
Mr. Clayborn continued, “I should call you out for besmirching an innocent girl. For sport—that’s all she is to you, isn’t she, Randall? Filthy rake that you are!”
Clarissa couldn’t speak, she was still dazed by the glory of the kiss. She was distantly aware of Mr. Clayborn waiting for Lord Randall’s response, but he was silent, still breathing heavily. As was she.
With a disgusted sound, Mr. Clayborn grabbed her arm and pulled her away.
She felt suddenly cold.
Lord Randall made no attempt to stop him. He was staring at her with the strangest expression on his face.
Mr. Clayborn started tugging her back toward the ballroom, saying, “Come along, Miss Studley, you’re safe from this villain now. I have you.”
Race sank numbly down onto the nearby bench. Well, he thought. Well…
She’d certainly taken him by surprise.
He had long admired her, had known he was attracted to her, and had been looking forward to kissing her—especially seeing as it was her first kiss. He’d expected to enjoy it.
He hadn’t expected that it would knock him endways.
He’d kissed dozens of women—possibly even a hundred. But nothing—nothing!—had prepared him for kissing Clarissa. That combination of innocence and passion, sweetness and heat…He’d had no idea.
The feel of her in his arms: It was all he could do to keep himself under some kind of control. His body had ached to claim her.
But though she’d been gloriously responsive, she wasn’t yet ready for him. There was arousal, but also confusion—possibly doubt—in those beautiful clear eyes of hers. He had to win her trust before he could even dream of winning her heart.
But lord! That kiss had shaken him to his very bones.
He probably shouldn’t have let her go off with Clayborn, but he was damned if he’d let her be squabbled over, like a bone between two dogs. And though it was clear that Clayborn was itching for a fight—and while Race would love to punch the man—him and hiswe have an understanding—one simply didn’t knock down a former soldier wounded in service to his country.
Besides, it would distress Miss Studley.
Not that he believed for one minute that she had any kind of an understanding with Clayborn. No. She was a loyal little creature—loyal to the backbone—and had there been any hint of an understanding, he was sure she would have refused to go anywhere with him. And she certainly wouldn’t have let him kiss her, let alone returned it with such entrancing enthusiasm.
But she hadn’t refused, and she’d kissed him with such warmth, such eagerness, such unconscious sensuality—and oh, his heart rejoiced.
Rejoiced.
Race leaned back and took a deep breath of the coolevening air. He wasn’t used to all this…emotion. His life had been calm, relatively predictable, and so much easier, until that evening when Miss Studley had walked bravely across a ballroom in clear public support of her illegitimate sister—and the shackles had fallen from his eyes. And his heart.
He sat, staring unseeing at the fresh and lovely garden around him, aware of only one thing: his world had shifted.
As Mr. Clayborn pulled her along the shadowy paths of the garden, heading back toward the ballroom, Clarissa glanced back at Lord Randall. He was seated on the bench, still with that same strange expression on his face.
Didn’t he care that Mr. Clayborn had insulted him?
