How to Capture a Duke(29)

Fiona was everything he always should have dreamed of, but never had.

"You're amazing," he blurted, and he slammed his teeth onto his tongue before he could also proclaim his love for her.

The woman seemed sufficiently overwhelmed by his previous statement. Her eyelashes swooped up, and her mouth parted.

She gave a nervous laugh and bent her head, so her luscious red curls  hung over one of her eyes. A rosy flush grew on her cheeks, and she  shook her head.

"I mean it." Heat prickled the back of his neck, but he continued on.  Some things needed to be said, no matter how much they caused his heart  to gallop, as if wild horses had taken charge of it. He stumbled from  his chair and strode toward her.

Her eyes were wide. They sparkled and shimmered like emeralds, and he  settled onto the bench beside her. Only a narrow width separated them,  and the space between their faces lessened. He took her hands in his. A  flurry of warmth jolted through him at the contact, and he smiled.  Everything about her was wonderful. "Fiona Amberly, you are the most  wonderful woman I've ever met."                       
       
           



       

"I-"

He smiled. She had no idea how marvelous she was. He stroked her hands  and then leaned toward her. Soft lips touched his, and a sweet sigh  escaped.





Chapter Seventeen




She was being kissed.

It was ridiculous. Men didn't go around kissing Fiona. And not handsome  men like Percival. Their eyes weren't supposed to cloud over in  something that mirrored desire, and they weren't supposed to gaze at her  in reverence.

Firm lips caressed hers, exploring the shape of her lips with his own.  Just as she was getting used to the tender game of sucking and  caressing, even as she debated whether she had the courage to stop this  blissful sensation, Percival's tongue stroked her own in a manner so  intimate that warmth catapulted through her body, tightening at her most  intimate portion.

They'd kissed before, but that had been at the tavern, before a group of  strangers. This was real. No one was questioning Percival's  masculinity. If he was kissing her, it was because he wanted to. Her  heartbeat raced, and she felt like one of the audacious heroines in the  Loretta van Lochen novels. She smiled. The fact was not unpleasant.

Percival drew her nearer to him. No, things were decidedly pleasant.  More pleasant than anything she'd ever experienced, and her eyes  flickered shut.

She swore she could feel every muscle in his body. She certainly felt  his warmth spread over her, even through his robe. Wide shoulders that  extended past hers gave her a sense of stability she'd never known she  craved, but which she was unwilling to let go.

His morning stubble brushed against her cheeks. The rough texture  reminded her that this was not a dream-not some wild fantasy she  shouldn't be having, but completely real. Her breath quickened, and she  tightened her grip around him. Percival moaned, a low, deep sound that  stirred every portion of her body. Her blood sizzled.

Her whole life centered around the ecstatic sensation of Percival's  lips, Percival's touch, Percival's scent. There was nothing more. This  was it. This was life. This was what brought havoc and scandal to some  of the ton, this is why even the most matronly members had expressed  surprise when she had said she had no desire to marry.

They all knew about this. They all adored it.

"Fiona-" Percival's deep voice was hoarse, and his long fingers gripped  her gown. The adjourning door was still open, and it was still winter,  but she swore she'd never been so warm in her life.

"One moment." She staggered to her feet, and he blinked back up at her.

She took unsteady steps toward the door and stared at the opening. It  would be easy to escape from it, easy to make Percival leave, but  instead she kicked it shut.

They were alone. Her heart crescendoed, and Percival yanked her back to  him. Her long dress swished against the chair, and he pulled her into  his arms. She was sitting on a man's lap. She, Fiona Amberly, had  abandoned all propriety.

"Is this fine?" He brushed his hands over her back. His scent filled the  small space, and she closed her eyes, allowing the smell of pine  needles and cotton to waft over her. He stroked her cheek bone, finding  fascination in her face that she did not believe possible, and his hands  moved toward her hair. "I've dreamed about submerging myself in these  locks."

He peered at her. His eyes were wide, their gaze soft, and she stared at  the flecks of gold that danced with the deep blue color. He pulled her  against his chest, wrapping his burly arms around her. She pressed her  body against his, her heart relaxing its frantic pace as it became  soothed by the man's presence. Warmth emanated from him. Perhaps she'd  never been in such a position before, and perhaps being alone with a man  like this was everything her former governesses would have warned her  against, but right now all she could concentrate on was the delicious  manner in which he held her.

His hand cupped her jaw, and his thumb rubbed against her cheek. His  eyes didn't waver from her face, and his lips parted in something that  resembled awe. "I wanted to do this yesterday."

His voice was hoarse, and she blinked back at him. Words vanished, and  all she concentrated on was the sweetness of his presence. She'd never  expected to find herself on a man's lap. Grandmother was down the hall,  and the servants were working, oblivious to the fact everything in her  life had changed.

His head tilted, and she barely had time to gasp before they were once again kissing.

"You're astonishing." The words flew from him, and Fiona waited for him  to withdraw them. She waited for his cheeks to tinge pink, and she  waited for him to avert his eyes. She waited for him to inhale his  breath, and she waited for him to quickly add a "but."                       
       
           



       

Yet no rebuttal, no modification ever came. Instead he continued to fix  his gaze on her, and when a small giggle escaped her, because Lord, what  else could she do in the face of so much seriousness, his lips rose.

"I mean it!" he said.

"But-" She paused. He was supposed to give the rebuttal, not her.

He smiled again and stroked her hair. "No more speaking."

Happiness spread through her, starting slowly, but then leaping on to an  ever quicker pace, until she was practically grinning at him. She must  look a fright, but he only returned her grin, mirth shining through his  deep blue eyes.

"You could have anyone."

"You have a good impression of my masculine charms." Percival leaned  toward her, and his hot breath brushed against the lobe of her ear.

She tried to smile back. His eyes were soft, almost in wonder, and she  exhaled. Maybe she could believe him. Maybe this was indeed all real.

Though didn't a man compliment a woman in any seduction? Wasn't that  what made it a seduction? Reality would come this evening, after the  ball, when he returned to London. To marry the woman he was supposed to  be with.

Guilt ratcheted through her, and she clung to his arms. She told herself  that this was fine. He hadn't met the woman yet, they weren't formally  engaged, and goodness, he was a man, and wasn't this just what they did?

She should be forcing him out, telling the servants, or just leaving  herself. And yet-perhaps this would be her only experience with a man?  Perhaps this was it?

He stroked her cheek, and her eyes flickered shut. She couldn't leave.

"You're beautiful," he murmured, and her heartbeat ratcheted up.

His hands glided against her, stroking her firmly. She looped her arm  around him. Her fingers explored his hair, and then she moved downward  to the solid planes of his muscular back. Like her, he'd only worn a  robe, and the thin material left little to her imagination.

Except-she wanted more. The silky robe and undershirt-all of those  seemed like an excessive barrier, even though she knew the thought was  ludicrous.

His fingers brushed against the buttons of her nightgown, and the space  between her legs tightened further. She rolled her body against him,  trying to alleviate the pressure, and he groaned.

"That gown better come off," he growled, undoing the buttons and pulling the material up.

"I-"

For a moment the idea seemed dreadful, for he stopped kissing her, and  her body was cold when he busied herself with her gown, instead of  pressing her as close to him as possible.

He swooped the material over her head. She was naked. Before him.

She shifted, self-conscious.

But his eyes flared, and he stroked her cheek with reverence. His hand  trailed down her body, skimming over the curve of her chest, moving to  her nipples. He pulled her toward him and kissed her again, this time  more forcefully, as if he wanted to meld his tongue with hers. He pulled  her back, staring at her, and an open smile spread over his face.