“I am not compromised. Beyond we two, no one need ever know I was here, in the library, in my dressing gown.”
“Looking at a naked man.”
His disapproval began to nudge aside her crushing disappointment of certainty that he would not, after all, ask for her hand. “He’s but a one-dimensional rendering, Your Grace. A few strokes of charcoal.”
Did he move closer still, or was it only her imagination?
“Ah, but the charcoal man is not the only one in the library, is he? There is me, Lady Jane, and I am far more than a few strokes of charcoal.”
He was definitely closer. She caught the vague scent of brandy on his breath and the lovely odor of his cologne. And him. Musky, and male. Her back was against the library door. “You are a gentleman. I’m not afraid.”
“Suppose I were not a gentleman? I might ravish you there on the sofa and you would be ruined.”
She’d never know what possessed her to say it, but before she gave it an instant of thought, she whispered, “Then I would delight in my ruination.”
He kissed her then, touching her with only his lips. She still held the candle. He still held the charcoal. A shot of desire pierced her center, far stronger than the faint quiver she’d felt when she first saw the sketch. Oh, my. His lips were soft, yet firm. He turned his head slightly and deepened the kiss, touching his tongue to her lips, gently forcing them open that he could slide it into her mouth. Oh, heaven. She tentatively touched her own tongue to his, some part of her brain wondering why such an odd thing could have such a powerful effect. The shot of desire became a demand. She lifted her free hand to rest it against his shoulder. He was warm beneath the coat. Solid. Hard.
His large hand slipped beneath her hair to close around the nape of her neck, holding her there as his mouth moved across hers and made her dizzy with longing.
Abruptly, he stopped. Stepping back, he raised one dark brow. “Just as I thought, Lady Jane. You’re a woman ruled by your passions. Most unfitting for a duchess.”
He’d sought to prove a point, and so he had. What he didn’t know was that she loved him. Otherwise, she’d never have allowed him to kiss her. Certainly she would not have responded with passion. She debated telling him, right out, but knew it wouldn’t help her in the slightest. A declaration of love would only further damage her already tattered chances, for it was surely not at all decorous to tell a man he was loved before the gentleman expressed the sentiment first.
The game was up. She had lost.
Anger replaced disappointment. Raising one brow, she stared him down. “Inexperience explains my response to your forced attentions. I daresay most women find their first kiss . . . stimulating.”
“You are wrong.”
“Am I to assume then, that other young ladies do not respond in kind, but rather, turn and run screaming into the night?”
“Not quite so dramatic an exit, but something like that.” He stepped close again. “They don’t allow a gentleman to open his mouth, nor do they answer by opening their own. Lady Jane, you have the disadvantage of being raised in a houseful of males. I would counsel you, for your own sake, to have a care where gentlemen are concerned. When you receive your second kiss, do not part your lips. The results could be dangerous.”
“You’re hardly in a position to give me counsel, Your Grace, considering it is you who just forced me to do what you advise against. I’d not thought you a hypocrite.”
“Ah, but I did not force you, Lady Jane. That is the point.”
“And you always make your point, Blixford, do you not? You’re a tiresome man.” Talking about the kiss was almost as stimulating as the kiss itself had been. He would not marry her, but she sincerely wished he’d kiss her again. Just once more. She moistened her lips with a swift swipe of her tongue.
His dark eyes became darker. Turning his face without his gaze leaving hers, he pursed his lips and blew out the candle in her hand. “Drop it,” he commanded.
Her fingers loosened and the moment the candlestick clattered to the floor, he enveloped her in his arms, crushing her against the hard length of him, from her knees to her thighs, her belly and breasts, all the way to her lips, which he kissed with barely leashed passion. He speared her with his tongue and she didn’t follow his advice. She opened her lips and drew him in, twisting her tongue with his, shaking with desire, her body yearning.
Hands twice as large as her own moved along her back, one falling to cup her buttocks and draw her closer, making her very aware that Blixford was at least as well adorned as the charcoal man. Perhaps he was merely making another point, driving home another lesson.