After long moments of endless pleasure, she floated back, and he deftly untied his cravat. He pulled down her dress and eased her into a sitting position. Sensuality was etched in his features, but there was an aloofness there that unsettled her.
Without giving much thought to her actions, she rose from the bench and pressed her lips against his. He stilled, and then his arms slowly banded around her, deepening the press of their lips. Her soft sigh was swallowed by his lips. She needed it, the gentleness after the storm he had just carried her body through. His tongue twined with hers in deep, languorous strokes. Her shivers subsided and lethargy invaded her limbs. His retreat was slow, as if he was unwilling to release her.
“I do not share,” he said against her lips.
She smiled, her heart surging with a sort of gladness. “Neither do I,” she responded, tipping to nip at his ear. “I want adventures. I want to tour the teeming life that is London. I want to visit the famed Decadence gaming hall and watch the women dance the cancan.”
“I do not think it is adventure you seek.”
She arched a brow, admiring the way the moonlight threw his patrician features into sharp masculine beauty.
“You desire complete ruination, Miss Peppiwell.”
“Is this disapproval I hear from the man who just lifted my skirts and kissed me between my thighs on a stone bench at Lady Blade’s soiree?”
“Never,” he assured her. “I heartily approve of your wicked behavior, my sweet.”
She loved how easily he laughed. “How will we meet? My aunt chaperones me almost all the time. She may be searching for me, even now.”
“You won’t be missed in this crush.”
He spun her around, and she held still as he artfully rearranged her hair. He did so with an expertise that flummoxed her. “It is unusual for a gentleman to know how to coif a lady’s tresses.” She wondered if he’d done these sorts of things with his mistresses.
He grunted. “I have a sister.”
She twisted around, trying to make out his features in the moonlight. “You arranged your sister’s hair?”
“Constance has an inquiring spirit. She was the youngest, and as secluded as we were at Sherring Cross, it fell to me and my brother to entertain her, which included a lot of designing her hair to befit a princess.”
He nudged Phillipa to indicate he was finished, and she turned to him, captivated. “So you played tea parties?”
He gave a lazy smile. “We did everything with Constance. We dressed her hair, played with dollies, and had tea parties with the Queen and her ladies in waiting. Believe me, it was a blessing when it evolved into swimming and fencing.”
“She sounds very accomplished.” Phillipa inhaled, then plowed ahead. “Anthony, why do you want me?”
Even though she had decided on this affair with him, she still doubted his motives. She wondered if she would take back her offer to be his lover in the cold light of morning without the sensual strain of music in the air, and his tempting presence luring her to unknown pleasures.
He shuttered his gaze quickly enough, but she saw her question had startled him.
“For my part, because of my views on marriage I’ve wanted to take a discreet lover,” she explained, “which I know you’ll be. You’re breathtakingly handsome and interesting and irreverent, and I wanted you from the moment I saw you at Lady Calvert’s ball. I want to throw propriety in the wind and simply enjoy my life.” She tilted her head and regarded him. “But why are you interested in me?”
“You are available,” he drawled blandly.
She jerked back, stung. Pain sliced through her at his callous answer. “I—” She hated that he’d said it that way, as if she were a common doxy. She did her best not to show her profound hurt. “I see.”
The familiar feeling of shame tried to rise up, but she refused to indulge it. Ice crept over her, chilling the warm satiety in her flesh to cold indifference. She straightened her spine and started to walk away. “I bid you good evening, my lord.”
“Most young ladies would have slapped me for my temerity,” he said.
She halted, anger flushing her cheeks. “You were testing my reactions?” she demanded.
At his silence, she spun and walked with rapid steps out of the garden.
“Phillipa.”
“Go to hell,” she said, and kept walking.
In an instant he had grasped her arm, spinning her to face him.
“I’ll tell you why. You captivate me. I admire your thirst for adventure…your joy for freedom, your vivacity. I want you because you rouse me as no other woman has done in years, if ever. And I want to burn in the passion I see beneath your cool gaze, a passion I suspect will satiate my every need. I want to see you bound to my bed with silken ropes as I spank you, fulfilling your every dark fantasy. Then I want to ride you hard and deep, until neither of us can move for spending.”