The Royal Conquest(7)
A startled laugh squeezed from Payton’s throat. She knew that story well. And as far as she was aware, only close intimate friends and family were acquainted with the scandalous manner in which Jocelyn had landed her duke.
He continued, “Her Grace gave birth to twins a couple months ago, and they are both dark haired and possess Sebastian’s eyes. Lady Malory was first born by a mere two minutes, and Lord Julian was a pleasant surprise to the duke and duchess.”
Who was he to hold such knowledge? Payton had been a guest at Sherring Cross a few times, and she had never encountered this man. But his revelations had the desired impact. Slow relief twisted through her, tension eased from her shoulders, and the defensive way she had been standing was relinquished. “You are friends with Sebastian and Jocelyn?”
“Sebastian and I have been close since childhood. I have only just met his duchess.”
Payton thought of his words, carefully assessing him, realizing if he had wanted to attack her he could have taken her already. For all her bravado about knowing how to fight, he would have subdued her with little effort. Another sneeze rushed from her.
“Allow me to assist you in drying your hair.” He pointed to a towel resting on a small burled walnut table.
His handsome face displayed no emotion, but there was an air of anticipation about him.
Everything about their encounter was already highly improper. She could set aside decorum this one time, and who would be privy to the knowledge that he assisted in drying her hair? Or that he had cut her trousers from her limbs. Hot color flooded her face, and she swallowed. “Thank you for your assistance. I am grateful. You must swear you will tell no one of what has occurred here.”
Her capitulation had that strange light glinting in his eyes once more before he masked his expression.
“You have my word, Miss Peppiwell.” He stood, graceful yet predatory, grabbed the towel, and stalked to her.
She met him in the middle of the room, breathing too heavily for comfort. Slipping past him, a death grip on the voluminous blanket, Payton sat in the chair closest to the fire.
Oh God, what am I doing?
Chapter Three
Miss Payton Peppiwell wore sensuality like a second skin, unstudied and wholly natural. She was the most exquisite young lady Mikhail had ever seen. She was neither tall nor short, just about the right height to fit perfectly into the curves of his shoulders. Her voice was rich and smoky, laced with carnality and wickedness. She had deep auburn hair, brown eyes so fathomless they would appear black, if not for the flashes of dark gold at their center, a delicate nose, and elegant cheekbones. Her honeyed skin was unblemished and radiant, and even swaddled in blankets, her curves were so richly pronounced his mouth dried. When he’d cut away the wet clothes, he had barely spared a glance at her naked body, too concerned with stopping the terrible shivers that had been shaking her form, but now all he could do was stare like an untried youth.
Why was she at Sherring Cross? Certainly she was not a lady of the haute monde. Her hauteur would have been more evident, and she would have selfishly persisted in demanding he left the cabin, despite the inclement weather.
A shudder went through her as he started to dry her hair. He glanced down and suppressed a smile. She had the blanket clutched almost to her chin. A brutal fist of lust had slammed into his gut when he’d caught a tantalizing glimpse of her breasts earlier. Though she was skittish, the dark gold of her eyes glittered with interest and sensual awareness.
With the right seductive touch, her ripe curves could be his for the taking. He could coax her into parting her thighs, then bury his aching length to the hilt. The knowledge settled in Mikhail’s groin, hardening his cock into painful need, disturbing him with the strength of his response. It had been years since a woman had the ability to rouse him without him mentally allowing it. Anger at his lack of temperance over his passion twisted through his veins.
What the hell is wrong with me…concentrate. He buried the flare of unease. It would not do to unsettle her further with the dark edge trying to wind itself into his heart.
He did his best to dry her hair without tangling it, trying not to linger over its softness and beauty. Her hair was thick and gloriously abundant. An image of how she had looked seated atop his horse rushed through him. He could picture the curtain of her hair shimmering around them in cascading waves as she rode him, trembling on his cock from the pleasure he would give her.
Arrgh, cease!
Mikhail tried to subdue his lurid thoughts. Probably he needed to step outside into the squall and endure the frigid rain to clear his head. Miss Peppiwell’s hair jerked from his grasp as she glanced at him quickly, then away to gaze into the fire. More than once she’d shifted to peek up at him while clutching the blanket to her throat, her exquisite heart-shaped face filled with desire…and uncertainty.