Page 59 of The Viscount's Seduction
“Did you know the O’Brians also worked for Shaldon?”
She went even colder, deep into her core, and all of her fingers and toes numbed. Walter and Josh worked for Shaldon?
And then a hot pounding started inside her head. Bakeley was lying, tripping her up. Conspiring with his Awful Lordship to trap her.
She’d tied her cart to this horse for the rest of her life. What had she done? Oh, dear God, what had she done?
He noticed her fear, of course he did, because that paddle hand stroked her back like he was settling a horse, and the motion inflamed her more. She struggled. He tightened his embrace.
“Let me off.”
He’d trapped her arms at her sides, and was setting his lips to her face. She turned her head to move out of his way, bucked. Squirmed. All to no avail.
Rage built within her. There was no one to help, no housekeeper to lace his brandy with laudanum, no butler ready to bash him.
She opened her mouth to let out a scream. He planted his lips there.
“Get off,” she tried to say, but it came out garbled, and tasted like spirits, and his lips in spite of it all were gentle.
The scent of him flooded her, brought all of her senses alive. The horses outside clopped along steadily. She was surrounded by men—Shaldon’s men. Screaming would not help her.
She should think. But, oh, the rascally man would only allow her tofeel.
His lips moved to her cheek, and between kisses he murmured, “Be still,” and “I’m sorry,” and “It’s what Shaldon said,” and “We’ll do this together.”
And then, “Do not cry, love.”
Damn, damn, damn.
She wiped the back of her hand over her eyes, soaking her glove. “I’m a bloody fool. Shaldon’s son? I’ve married Shaldon’s son. What was I thinking?”
He handed her a handkerchief. In the dim light of the coach’s lantern, his eyes sparkled like fairy dust.
“You weren’t thinking. Neither was I. Marriage is usually a rational endeavor, but not in our case. You were using your woman’s intuition. Here’s a strong, sensible man, you said, rich, too. And he genuinely wants me.”
“Oh, yes? And what of you? Were you using your man’s intuition?”
“Oh, yes.”
The kiss that followed was less gentle, more determined. His hand at the back of her head kept her fixed and held her in place when the coach turned a corner and threatened to topple her. A sigh worked its way from inside her, and when her mouth opened, his tongue touched hers and began to explore.
It was…oh. His hand moved up her bodice, still spanning her side and keeping her stable, while his thumb began to search for her nipple. The layers of fabric—her pelisse, her petticoat, her gown, her stays, her chemise—intruded. She grasped the back of his head and hitched herself closer.
He traced the line of her bodice and trailed his fingers under the fabric. The deep curve of her décolletage made the journey a short one, and soon she was gasping while pleasure streaked through her.
He let go of her lips then and nibbled her cheeks down to a spot on her neck, and the feel of it made her groan.
This was not Shaldon’s son. This was James, Lord Bakeley, the man she’d just entered into mad holy matrimony with to save her men from his father, the Spy Lord. Only they were really Shaldon’s men, not hers. And now the crafty old Lord wanted her to call himself Father.
It was beyond madness, even for an Irish girl.
He gave up on her breast and before she could cry out in protest he had captured her mouth again, distracting her so much she didn’t notice his hand had moved up under her skirt to above her knee, where he was wreaking a havoc of sensation. She swept her tongue against his and gave back completely, burying her fingers in his thick hair.
His hand made a rapid advance to the crux of her legs and began a gentle assault, sending such bliss through her that she groaned with it.
When he stilled his hand, she pulled back, and realized the carriage had stopped.
He opened the shade. The lights of the townhouse poured brightly through the open front door where the housekeeper and her husband stood waiting.
“We’re home.” Eyes glittering darkly, he straightened her skirt and bodice, eased her onto the seat and rearranged his trousers.
