You May Kiss the Bride(15)

He was clearly furious, and so naturally she had to say, with an exaggerated simper: “Oh, sir, but why? To sit that close to an Orr! Me! I declare, I was near about to faint with excitement an’ all! To think there was so, so much to learn about snuff, sir! Do ye take it? Mr. Tom says he sneezed quite a bit at first, but I’m sure ye never did, sir, for ye’re far, far too fine a gentleman.”

“Not that fine,” he said in a low growl. In three long strides he was before her. Roughly he lifted her up and the next thing Livia knew, she was being held against a hard, muscled chest—the elegant fabric of his waistcoat and shirt did little to conceal that—and being ruthlessly kissed.

How dare he!

Horrible, terrible man!

Furious, Livia pushed against his shoulders with all her strength—which didn’t seem to deter him in the slightest—and then, abruptly, the grip of her hands loosened as her mind, her being, was flooded with new and vivid impressions.

The shock of his intimate proximity.

Being held by strong arms with bold confidence.

The scent and the feel and—good heavens!—the taste of him.

It was some mysterious, intoxicating blend of wine and chocolate . . . and pure masculinity. Could that even have a taste? If so, the horrid Mr. Penhallow did. He angled his mouth more firmly over hers.

Yes, a most masculine taste.

It was delicious, really.

Absolutely delicious.

Livia knew what she ought to do—scream at the very least, like a proper young lady—but then, swiftly and sweetly, came the startling realization that she liked how it felt. Liked feeling the hardness of his body against her own yielding softness, and liked the feeling of his tongue within her, warm, wet, blindingly sensuous: her thoughts melted away even as her body seemed to—well, honestly, it felt as if she’d caught on fire, like a piece of paper tossed into a flame. She was happily going up in smoke. Burnt into pure sensation.

More.

She wanted more.

With a small sound of satisfaction, she slid her hands around the back of his neck and allowed her fingers to glide slowly, so slowly, along the warm skin there. Goodness, how exciting a man could feel, and how marvelous it was when he gathered her even more closely to him, his hands big and strong upon her, seeming to send their possessive warmth radiating into her, the thin material of her gown no barrier at all.

Rocked off his balance by her responsiveness, Gabriel grasped the silky thickness of that auburn hair and deepened his kiss into the lush sweetness of her mouth. This was wrong. He knew it was wrong. She was an annoying, impertinent girl and he knew almost nothing about her except for the fact that she made him angry and she made him feel alive.

Had he been angry with her just a few minutes before? Why? He couldn’t recall. Rather, he only knew he never wanted this kiss to end. Never wanted to release her, this bewitching nymph of the woods. But then an all too familiar voice came floating from across the shrubbery with piercing clarity:

“I knew, dear Mr. Stuart, that you’d wish to be made aware of this regrettably shocking situation. Poor little Livia should not have crept off with Tom. He, of course, is equally to blame, but I thought it would be best for you to see it with your own eyes.”

It was Miss Orr, sounding more than a little officious. She sounded, in fact, rather pleased with herself.

“Indeed, indeed,” rumbled a deeper voice in reply, and before Gabriel could do more than release Livia Stuart, Miss Orr and a red-faced man of middling height had together rounded a shrub and were upon them.

Explosively the man said, “Damn it, Livia, what’s this?” just as Miss Orr, her mouth hanging open in astonishment, burst out: “Mr. Penhallow! What are you doing here?”

Gabriel repressed the urge to tug his waistcoat into place or to check if the lapels of his jacket had been crushed. What ridiculous madness had possessed him? His behavior had been rash and wrong and unforgivable. And he didn’t even like the girl!

He glanced at Livia Stuart and saw—oh God, no—that her glorious, shining hair was tumbled and one of the delicate white sleeves of her gown had slid down to reveal a bare shoulder. Despite himself, he badly wanted to touch his lips to that smooth, pale skin and it was only with a strong effort of will that he looked away.

“As you see,” he replied coolly, with a deliberate (and slightly desperate) understatement, “I am with Miss Stuart.”

There was a hurried rustle on the gravel path and with an agitated swish of purple satin skirts, Lady Glanville swept into view. “Where,” she demanded, scowling at Miss Stuart, “is my son? What have you done with him?”

“More to the point,” said the red-faced man belligerently, pointing rudely, “what’s he done with my niece?”