The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell(15)
“You feel like silk,” he growled.
His voice was the catalyst she needed to save herself from his sensual spell. Horror slashed through her and she wrenched away, scrambling backward on the stone bench. She pressed her hands against her flushed cheeks, desperately hoping to cool them down. She could not believe she had allowed such intimacy. He must think her a wanton harlot!
She surged to her feet, wet and aching between her legs. Fear sank into her that she had allowed such actions. It mattered not that several times since their encounter at Lady Calvert’s ball she had thought about that audacious kiss he’d stolen. She knew very well that nothing good could ever come from trusting a lord. Certainly not in this way.
He was a scoundrel, and she had fallen prey to his caresses, a touch that even now she wanted to sink back into. She inhaled shakily, resisting the need.
It was her damnable adventurous spirit that continually tempted her with wickedness. She knew firsthand the perilous consequences of indulging in such folly. So why did her traitorous body persist?
“You, sir, are a blackguard.” Her voice came out shakier than she intended.
“And you have the sweetest lips I have ever tasted.”
She froze as desire surged through her. She spun, hastily fleeing back to the ball.
Slipping discreetly into the mansion from one of several balcony doors, she desperately wanted to avoid Orwell, but knew she might actually be safer in the ballroom where he was. She could easily resist Orwell, but Anthony’s touch aroused need.
“My dear, where have you been?” Her mother fluttered toward her, looking askance. “Lord Hoyt said you went for fresh air. He waited patiently, but now he has danced twice with Maryann Potter!”
“I went to the retiring room, Mama. All is well,” she rasped, still unsettled.
Several gentlemen had claimed spots on her dance card, and she eagerly accepted the distraction. She threw herself into enjoying the ball, dancing the quadrille and the cotillion several times. And yet, she kept an unwilling watch for Lord Anthony, and this greatly angered her.
An emerald waistcoat that glittered under the light of the chandelier drew her gaze. At last he entered the ballroom, unruffled as if he had not taken great liberties with her. His slow prowl across the room toward Lady Galveston had heat pooling low in Phillipa’s body. The roll of his hips and the power in his limbs had her imagination soaring.
What is wrong with me? Never before had she reacted to a man so.
She trembled as Lord Hoyt swept her into a quadrille. She danced almost mechanically, her mind swirling. What if Lord Anthony made a similar offer to Orwell’s because she had not controlled her unruly desires? Dread clouded her thoughts until she feared panic would snare her.
“What do you say, my dear?”
She forced herself to meet Lord Hoyt’s gaze. He had the most expectant look on his face, and his eyes glowed with happiness. She could not fathom what he had been talking about. She gave him a blank smile, to which he gave an approving grin. She must have passed muster to some concern of his.
“My dear, may I speak with your father tomorrow?” Lord Hoyt’s words finally broke through her fog.
Speak with my father? Phillipa’s muddled mind tried to understand what he spoke of. He looked so eager, his boyish smile making him more handsome. She assessed him as he waited for her answer. Hoyt did not rouse any feelings of lust in her. Orwell had not either, but she had once thought she could possibly be intimate with him.
This inappropriate, raging need to feel a lover’s caress and the force of his hips upon her, had only been brought on by Lord Anthony’s touch. She felt flushed from her head to toes. Probably her papa had been correct in his assumptions; she was indeed a harlot.
“No need to blush, my dear,” Hoyt murmured solicitously. “My mother understands the tendre we have formed. I know it is soon, but I am sure your father will welcome my suit.”
She stared at him, nonplussed. Surely, this was a jest. “Lord Hoyt.”
His hands tightened on her waist as he swung her around with unusual grace for someone so stocky. “Please call me Vincent, my love.”
She gave him a weak smile, reluctant to crush the earnestness on his face. She enjoyed his company immensely. But she did not want him to develop affections for her. She had been careful to not allow him any kisses at all, but he still was determined to move their relationship further. Rumors were whispered of his impoverished estate and she was an heiress. She had drawn swift conclusions about his interest. Yet, he seemed so genuine a person. “My lord, I do not think it wise to call on my father tomorrow.”
“Any man would consider himself fortunate to win your hand, Miss Peppiwell.”