“That’s mine.” She pressed her sweet curves against the length of his body, straining to retrieve the volume. “Give it back.”
Heat instantly swept through him, fierce and potent. The feel of her soft curves, the warmth of her breath on his neck, nearly undid him. How easy it would be to lock the door and strip every stitch of clothing off her body. He’d explore her with his mouth again, languidly, taking time to memorize every dip and freckle. Only after he’d wrung every last moan from her body would he release her.
Finally, she stepped back and plopped herself into a brown velvet wing chair. “You’re a cad.”
He sat on the edge of the desk and read the title. Fanny Hill, first edition. Astounding. “Poetry, is it?”
She glared. “I’d like it back, if you please.” She held her delicate hand out. He ignored it and she let out a sharp breath. “You look perplexed, my lord. Have I managed to shock you?”
He considered her for a moment, leaning against the desk again. “I’m only wondering how such a well-bred lady is acquainted with a book that was banned for its vulgarity some sixty years ago.”
She shrugged. “I suppose you could say it was my introduction to womanhood. On my seventeenth birthday, it appeared on my nightstand. My mother’s way of educating me, I suppose.” A faint smile touched her lips. “Or perhaps it was a warning against the opposite sex. She wasn’t a woman who spoke openly about such matters.”
“What’s it doing in the library?”
“Well, I can’t keep it in my room for a servant to find, now, can I? If it’s in here and someone runs across it, they’ll assume its James’s book. Heaven knows it isn’t the only vulgar book he owns.”
Clever. “And your mother, did she succeed in frightening you off men?”
Another long pause, then, “I’m afraid it merely piqued my curiosity.” She looked up at him. “Do you suppose that’s wrong?”
Suddenly, his cravat felt uncomfortably tight, as though the air or his throat had thickened. She glanced at him in that innocently alluring way, blue eyes sparkling with life, lips pressed into a firm line. What he would do to taste those lips again.
“No, not at all,” he said. “Your curiosity is quite natural.”
He pushed off the desk again and took a step toward her, prepared to alleviate that curiosity with a gentle brush of his lips against hers. Desperation to taste her again flooded him. He wanted to feel her lips beneath his, inhale her fresh, flowery scent.
“My sister will be looking for me.” She took a step back. “Please don’t talk to James about this, not yet.”
He didn’t answer. He wouldn’t make promises he didn’t intend to keep. If she thought he’d step aside, she’d be woefully disappointed. Their tryst had changed everything. No way in hell was he going to step aside for Wallingford.
* * *
Last night’s dalliance with Ashton meant nothing, if one looked at the situation rationally. And she certainly had no grounds for feeling the slightest bit guilty. Heavens, no! Strictly speaking, she’d already been with him intimately, so it wasn’t as though she’d committed any great crime—or any greater crime, rather. Last night was most innocent in comparison. Until that last bit, which had snatched the very breath from her lungs.
Good God, she was a harlot. One kiss from those perfectly sculpted lips and she’d been lost. More than that, she’d felt a sense of rightness in his arms, a sense of belonging that frightened her more than she cared to admit.
Daphne lay in the grass beneath the giant willow, listening to the tediously unvarying voice of Miss Katherine Wallingford, Edward’s sister, as she slurred her way through Hamlet. Daphne longed to snatch the book out of Katherine’s hands and pitch it into the lake. Instead, she resigned herself to thinking about Edward. Sweet, pliant, forgiving Edward.
But when her eyes closed, it was Ashton’s face that drifted into focus—his pale-green eyes and those tempting lips, drawn up into a devilish smile. She could still feel his hands on her, the warmth of his touch, the electricity of his kiss.
More than once she tried to push thoughts of Ashton out of her mind, but the more she tried, the more frequently they appeared.
A bell rang, signaling the guests to lunch. Groggy, she stood and brushed out her skirts, then headed to the white awning tent that had been erected for an al fresco lunch on the lawn.
As she approached, she realized the men had already returned from shooting and were milling about the tent. She spotted Edward immediately. He looked dashing as usual, in a pair of tan breeches, an eggshell waistcoat, and a blue jacket. And he was laughing at something his companion was saying. Her eyes drifted to the man speaking—Ashton!