The remnants of a fire smoldered in the hearth. She set her light on the mantel, lifting the poker to jab at the dying embers. The October days could be balmy, but a chill settled into the evenings. The fire sputtered to life, and she tossed a log on it to chase away the bite in the room. Admiring the dance of orange flames, she replaced the poker in its stand.
She turned to lose herself in the shelves of books, but stopped short at the sight greeting her. No staid, boring tome was this, but rather a living, vibrant specimen of a man.
She froze, her gaze riveted to the sight. Daniel reclined, fast asleep, on the large settee. He wore only his trousers and an untucked linen shirt. He must have blithely waltzed through the foyer in his stocking feet. So typical of the man. On the table beside him were the remnants of a half-eaten treacle tart. He had undoubtedly raided the kitchen. The man had no regard for proper decorum.
That inexorable pull toward him tugged at her, like a fishing line hooked and reeled in. A book lay across his chest, one hand resting on it, the other draped across his taut waist. She crept closer to study him at her leisure. The fire bathed him in a golden glow, highlighting the hollows of his cheekbones, the waning purplish bruises circling his eye and his cheek. A lock of hair curled over his forehead. That dent in his chin tempted her. She wanted to press her finger into it, her lips to it . . .
She feared if she exhaled, he would awake, and she wanted to savor this moment. To study him without being under the scrutiny of those sharp green eyes that made her feel things that frightened and excited her. That moved her to feel desire and other feelings she did not understand but secretly wanted to explore.
She edged closer. He was beautiful. All sleek, well-toned muscle, like a cat at rest, a lion, usually poised to pounce.
Taking advantage of his rare stillness, she leaned down, smelling sandalwood soap and another elusive masculine scent that was all his own. She breathed him in. If she were blindfolded and he stood in a roomful of men, she could locate him from his scent alone. It had the power to send her pulse leaping.
She recalled his plea, teasing, coaxing, pleading.
Marry me, Julia. Just say yes.
She wanted to. He was brave. He had survived a wretched childhood. He was bright and inventive, growing Curtis Shipping into a successful enterprise. He was compassionate. She remembered his concern for the tenants. He was kind. She pictured him with her brother and Emily . . . and with her. He touched her. Moved her. Weakened all her resistance.
She wanted to say yes. And give him everything.
And she would. If only.
Holding her breath, she gently slid the book from his grasp. She froze when he shifted, settling himself more comfortably into the plush cushions of the settee. Releasing her breath, she set the book on the table. Then, unable to resist, she pressed her finger to the cleft in his chin, swallowing as she did so. His skin was surprisingly soft and warm.
Daring further, she ran her finger in a whisper-light caress along the bruised contour of his cheek. When he still did not awake, she edged closer and whispered the words of her heart. “Love me.”
She cried out as her hand was caught in a steel grip, and sharp green eyes speared her.
“I will.”
Daniel yanked her forward and she landed sprawled on top of him, his arm clamped around her waist, holding her in place. Her legs tangled with his, her breasts crushed against his chest, her belly flush to his. The scalding heat emanating from him burned. And then he kissed her.
It was passionate, exhilarating, wonderful. His kiss deepened, his tongue tangling with hers. A niggling voice reminded her about this not being part of her plans. There was a reason she was not ready for this. She dismissed it, had no interest in recollecting it at this particular moment. She was busy. Delightfully so.
Emboldened, she let her tongue dart out over his full lips, tasting him, savoring him. The softness, the warmth.
Emitting a guttural groan, Daniel tightened his grip and twisted around so that she lay beneath him.
She wondered if this was proper. Then stopped wondering anything at all, as the hard, delicious length of his body pressed into hers. It felt glorious. Decadent. He was heavy, strong, his back a long, sweeping curve to his waist.
She would soon be a ruined woman. There were advantages to her loss in status; she might as well enjoy one of them.
He tilted her head to the side to better align her mouth with his.
Good lord, he tasted good. The words her father had used to describe a good Bordeaux came to her, fresh, bold, and rich. More so, he reminded her of a sip of brandy she had sneaked once with Emily, for he was an explosion of burning heat careening through her in a scorching wave.
Feelings she had long suppressed sprang to life. Unfulfilled desire. Dormant longings. Flashing needs. She clasped him closer, opening her mouth as his tongue ran along her lips and he tasted her in small, delightful nibbles.