Page 6 of Let Me Be Your Hero
Instead, a primitive growl emerged from his throat.Minewas the word that echoed through his skull. He proceeded not to kiss her so much as to devour her. She tasted of cherries, sweet and tart and utterly delicious, and he could not get enough of her. She felt so, so perfect in his arms. She was slight compared to his own hulking frame, but it would be a mistake to call her weak, for her kiss crackled with a vivacious energy that left him breathless.
He must have kissed her in thoughtless abandon for some minutes, for when Archibald was next aware of anything, he saw that he had pulled her close, pressing his body against every inch of hers, from throat to thighs. One of his burly arms was wrapped around her waist, and the other snaked across her upper back. His meaty hand was tangled in her hair, depriving her of any chance to escape.
He pulled back, regret and shame flooding him. He was ten times as strong as she, and he had just forced himself on her. “Lady Isabella, I… I’m so sorry.”
Her eyelids fluttered open. She was so dazed that she looked almost drunk, but her eyes slowly came into focus.
She stared at him for ten agonizing seconds as he sheepishly disentangled his fingers from her hair.
Just as he was preparing to step back, she said it.
“I’m not.”
And then she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him back to her.
CHAPTER 4
Whyhad she never noticed how gorgeous Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy was?
Perhaps gorgeous was the wrong word. He certainly wasn’t pretty, like so many men of thetonwho flitted about worrying about their meticulously windswept hair or spending a significant proportion of their waking hours trying to transform their cravat into a waterfall.
He was better thanpretty. He was powerful. Manly.
Virile.
And the way he kissed?
Being a fan of Gothic novels, Izzie knew certain things about kisses. They were supposed to change your life, for one. When you kissed your one true love, you would know it at once.
And a real kiss would make youfeelthings.
Being eager to experience these things for herself, she had specifically sought out opportunities to have one of those magical kisses. She had, in fact, kissed five young men before tonight.
And she had felt things, all right.
Primarily disappointment. But also, upon occasion, boredom, righteous indignation, and the desire to wash her face and hands with lye soap.
But Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy’s kiss was completely different. She loved the way it felt to be cradled against his muscular chest, to have his strong arms surrounding her. Moments ago, she had literally been running for her life, but in his arms, she feltsafe. He was the sort of man who made you feel absolute confidence in his ability to protect you. And, unlike so many men, he didn’t grab and paw at her. Only after she pressed herself against him had he enfolded her in his arms. He took no more than she was willing to give, and there was a reverence in the way he touched her, as if she were a precious treasure. His was a kiss that gave instead of took, that venerated instead of plundered, and it was exactly what she needed after her frightening encounter with Mr. Bassingthwaighte.
And dear lord, the man could kiss! He kissed her as if the explosions going off around them were cannonballs rather than fireworks. As if the world was about to end and kissing her was the last thing he would ever do, and he wanted to make itcount.
Everyone sneeringly said that he was little more than ablacksmith. He was built like a blacksmith, but he reminded Izzie more of a Viking, and she suddenly found herself wishing he would ransack her.
She couldn’t seem to stop touching him. God, but his chest was broad, and his shoulders? Magnificent. Every place her hands strayed was so firm, so warm. It made her wish they weren’t separated by so many layers of fabric…
Suddenly, he growled, hugging her body against his chest and lifting her off the ground as easily as if she were a rag doll. He carried her to one of the faux Greek ruins along the side of the path. This one looked like a cluster of columns, but, as this was Vauxhall, they were really logs with a little paint slapped on.
One of them had been sawed off at waist level, with a flat, smooth top. As he set her down upon it, it struck Izzie that it looked like an offering table, just the kind of place where the Ancient Greeks might have made a virgin sacrifice. The thought should have terrified her, but suddenly, the notion of sacrificing her virginity to Archibald Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy on a pagan altar in the moonlight did not sound like the absolute worst idea she’d ever had.
Without breaking contact with his lips, she tugged her skirts up so she could get her knees out of the way. He immediately stepped into the cradle of her thighs, and now things were gettinginteresting. Her pulse was flying, and her breath was coming in pants. She made a mewl of protest when he tore his lips from hers, but then he started kissing his way down her neck, which was equally delicious.
She could feel a hard ridge beneath the falls of his trousers. Having snooped through her brother Harrington’s room thoroughly enough to find the book of scandalous prints he kept hidden beneath his mattress, she had a fair idea whatthatwas, and the notion that Mr. Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy was having those sorts of thoughts while kissing her made her purr with satisfaction.
She scooted even closer to the edge of the column, her curiosity getting the better of her, as usual. He did not retreat but began to circle his hips, grinding his hardness against her softness, and… and… She did not have any words forthat.
She was gasping for breath as his hand slid up the silk bodice of her dress, his fingertips stroking her nipple through the cloth, and that was when she cried out.
And ruinedeverything.
