Page 16 of Her Wicked Marquess

She couldn’t care less.

She opened further, glued closer, demanded whatever she would get.

He broke the kiss for his sensual lips to slide down to her earlobe, leaving a tragic trail of thirst in their wake.

He pulled the lobe lightly with his teeth. “You belong with me.” He rasped as the heat of their bodies clashed and burned hotter.

Everything in her urged her to agree, to give in, surrender her soul if only for a moment. But she couldn't go this far, she was the weaker link in this white-hot chain. "I belong where I decide." She countered with that point one per cent of clarity still left in her brain.

His mouth trailed back, that perfectly aristocratic nose connected with hers, their steamy breaths mingling, their eyes colliding.

“Give me that tart tongue of yours.” He commanded and hawk-dived for another earth-shattering kiss.

And she gave. Her tongue, her mouth, her moans and everything else she had. Her spine arched into him while the long, thick ridge of him marked her softness. How would she ever forget how snuggly he fit in her and how crazy he drove her in the height of passion?

Their mouths devoured each other as though the world would explode if they didn’t. Their kiss never let up, on and on it went.

When he came up for a

ir, the tip of their noses reconnected, ragged breaths puffing between them. His eyes were dark and heated, focused on hers.

“It’s only a kiss or two, and we’re done in.” His pupils darkened even more as she looked at him.

That had the power to throw her back into reality. Good gracious! They were lying in the middle of a stage, in a wide-opened theatre in broad daylight, out of their minds with desire. Her head cleared as though a bucket of icy water had splashed on her. Restlessly, she moved from under him and scrambled to her feet. Breathless, dishevelled hair, too-bright eyes, flushed to the roots of her hair, she stared at him wondering how they came to this point.

Like a panther in a jungle, he stood up, his eyes still clasped on hers.

“And it won’t repeat.” She blurted with the little wit she gathered.

Pivoting, she strode stiffly out.

The tea party couldn't have bored Drake more as he held a delicate china cup in his large hands and looked at Lady Millicent across the room. Their private ruse wasn't the only reason he forced himself into this uninteresting function. His dear mother also attended, which gave him the chance to talk to her and not be in private. Alone, she'd use the occasion to lecture him on marriage as she'd been doing for nigh ten years. He was familiar with the perpetual script and theatrics of it. Who knew he didn't develop a taste for the scenic arts because of his tenacious parent?

This unbidden thought brought the memory of what happened before he left the theatre earlier this afternoon. What started as a mere way to goad the little rebel into reacting to him, had escalated into a full-blown upheaval of his senses. He’d fallen in his own trap and wouldn’t even regret it. If anything, he just craved more regrets. Or more of the woman who stood up to him and put fire to his blood.

Bleeding hell! If this was the reward for his jabbing, he’d no doubt repeat it. But next time, he’d be sure to do it in a quieter setting, so he’d obtain the whole woman for himself. Over and over because his want of her grew to unbearable levels. And their explosive kisses told him she felt the same even if she denied it on mere principle. Not that he didn’t understand her misgivings. London was abuzz with talks of his impending betrothal, showing that the intended bride would achieve her goals. But the price to his, say, personal interests proved a little too high.

Hester didn’t have to listen to her misgivings though, did she? She might just, well, go with the flow. Accept to stay with him, regardless. But no, she had to prove that her morals were above everything. And why he respected that, he had not the slightest idea.

As these musings roiled inside his head, he’d neared his partner in crime. “Lady Millicent,” he greeted and bowed over her gloved hand.

“Lord Worcester,” she answered graciously. “I didn’t imagine you’d be attending.”

“Your presence alone would have convinced me, my lady,” he said, aware that they’d be overheard.

“My father is most adamant that you should dine with us as soon as we can arrange it.” She signalled her aggravation at that.

That her father took gossip as a fact showed how eager he was to get rid of his own daughter at the first opportunity. The usual would be for Worcester to ask for permission to court her before anything else happened. But the Duke of Haddington seemed not to care for any of it. Drake truly hoped that Lady Millicent knew what she was doing by burning her bridges towards matrimony.

They talked until the lady excused herself to join the Duchess of Brunswick, the Countess of Thornton, and Mrs Darroch.

As he watched the debutante bond with those ladies, someone approached him. “Who knew my strategy would produce the desired fruits.” His esteemed mother crowed with no small amount of satisfaction.

“It’s amusing how the ton is willing to rely on mere hearsay.” Unwilling to compromise, he chose a neutral comment.

“It serves to attest to my wisdom in doing it.” His mother confessed unashamedly.

“At this rate, I’ll have to sell your townhouse and ban you to your dower house in the country.” He quipped unapologetically. Drake wasn’t about to allow his mother any further interference in his life. He was old enough to make his own decisions, he’d taken over the marquisate a decade ago after all.

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