Page 49 of About a Rogue
“Crispin was my grandfather, and Augustus his father,” he answered readily. “Maximilian—Maxim—was my mother’s father.”
She had to wet her lips to go on. “Why do you go by Max?”
His mouth curved. “Did you not hear the other options? I liked that grandfather better than the others.” He paused, then added, almost reluctantly, “I never met the others, though. I understand they were proper tartars, and there was little to be gained by knowing them.”
“Were you close to Grandfather Maxim?”
“As close as anyone could be, I suppose. He was a gruff old man.”
Bianca nodded. “What happened to your mother?”
He was silent for so long she thought he wouldn’t say. “She died when I was young. My aunt took me in, and sometimes I stayed with my grandfather.”
She knew he’d not been wealthy, despite his connections to the Duke of Carlyle. It was the darkest charge she had laid against him when he proposed to marry Cathy, that he was a penniless rogue after her fortune. “Are they in London?”
“No. My grandfather died years ago. What did Lady Dalway say that unsettled you?”
“She— Nothing,” protested Bianca. “It was clear she knew you very well—they all did—and I felt a fool, not knowing anything about you!”
“Go on,” he said. “Ask it.” She looked at him warily. “Ask the question that’s been festering in your breast all evening.”
She took a deep breath. Might as well do it and be done with it. “Is Lady Dalway your lover?”
“No,” he said. “Nor was she ever. Neither were Lady Carswell or Mrs. Farquhar,” he added as Bianca slowly exhaled. “Never any wife of a friend.”
“But you’vehadlovers,” she charged.
“I did,” he agreed after a slight hesitation. “Before I decided to marry.”
It felt like she could breathe again. Bianca tried to hide it. “That doesn’t surprise me,” she said, striving for brisk practicality. “Marslip is so small, any indiscretion would be obvious—”
“Because now I want you, and no one else,” he said in a low, rough voice.
And like that her thread of composure snapped. She didn’t understand it, and she didn’t like it, but she was horribly attracted to this man. It was too much to expect of anyone, rejecting him when he declared that he wanted her, and wanted her more than any of the elegant, beautiful society women who had just sat in their drawing room. “Blast it,” she said under her breath before stepping forward and pulling his face down to hers.
He let her do it, bending to her will without resistance. But his mouth was not passive. He kissed her softly, almost tenderly. She had envisioned something far more debauched and indecent, but this... this was mesmerizingly lovely. She felt worshipped. Treasured.
His hands came to cup her face, so lightly she barely realized it. “Bianca,” he breathed, his lips brushing hers.
“What?” she whispered, just as his mouth claimed hers again. This time he tasted her, his tongue sliding into her mouth. Bianca moaned, her grip on him slackening. Deliberate, unhurried, flavored of brandy and coffee, he kissed her. His thumbs traced whorls on her jaw, his fingertips subtly tilting her head to the best vantage for his ravishment.
Because it was. He kissed her deeply, one hand cupping her head now. Bianca thought she was falling, but it was him, bearing her backward. When she hit the wall, she instinctively arched her back, and his arm was there, drawing her tightly against him.
And instead of feeling restricted, the pressure of his body on hers only sent her pulse spiraling faster. She went up on her toes, kissing him back, shivering as her tongue slid roughly over his.
When he whispered her name again, Bianca’s sense flickered back to life. What was she doing? His hands were in her hair. Her hands were behind his neck, pulling him closer. His mouth was on her throat, her skin was glowing like live coals, and her blood was racing. Her good sense was nowhere in evidence.
She twisted loose, and he made no effort to restrain her. “Oh,” she said stupidly, putting one hand to her mouth. Her lips were soft and tender, and the touch of her own fingers sent an echoing shock of sensation through her.
Max said nothing. He didn’t have to. Hunger streamed off him, evident in every taut line of his body, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the color in his face. Bianca sensed that at one word, even just a nod, from her, he would carry her off to his large, inviting bed and show her all those pleasures he’d teased her about on their wedding day.
The room seemed to spin and wobble. She wanted to know what those pleasures were—desperately. Her body was throbbing in anticipation. Her thoughts raced in dizzying circles, wondering what he would do and how pleasurable it could be and why was she this indecisive when she had promised herself she wouldn’t let him seduce her because shedidn’twant to go to bed with him and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on her, his mouth on hers, how good he tasted, how heart-stoppingly gorgeous he was when he looked at her that way—
“Good night,” she said thinly, because it was all she could manage to get out, and then she turned and hurried up the stairs, her heart hammering so hard she was sure she would never make it to the safety of her room.
Chapter Eighteen
London had never been so good to Max.
