Page 24

“Henry,” he corrected her softly. The words were whispered without censure. “You can call me Henry.”

Her eyes widened at the intimate request. “I don’t think that would be wise, Your Grace,” she replied finally, though her voice held a tremor that sent heat coursing through his veins.

“Wisdom has apparently abandoned me where you’re concerned,” he said, closing the distance between them until scarcely a handspan separated their bodies. “…Annabelle.”

Her name on his lips felt like a transgression and a prayer all at once. She inhaled sharply, and her eyes darkened as they fixed on his face.

“I should go back inside,” she said, though she made no move to step away. “I think this discussion will breed nothing good for?—”

“I disagree,” he whispered. “I?—”

The sound of approaching voices from the hall made them both freeze.

Without thinking, Henry grasped her arm and pulled her into the shadows beside the balcony door. Her back pressed against the wall, he placed one hand over her mouth to silence her instinctive protest and used his body to effectively shield hers from view.

Lord Wexford’s voice drifted out: “…absolutely outrageous behavior from Marchwood. Defending that bluestocking as though she were some injured innocent rather than a woman with decidedly questionable judgment.”

“Oh, he’s merely being gallant,” came Lady Carmichael’s dismissive reply. “You know how these military men are. They can’t resist playing the hero. But I’ve never seen him so animated before. Perhaps there’s more to it than mere chivalry.”

“Surely not,” Lord Wexford scoffed. “A man of his position and a woman of her reputation? Unthinkable.”

Their voices faded as they moved to the other end of the hallway inside the house.

Henry became acutely conscious of Annabelle’s body pressed against his, the soft curves molding against his harder frame, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the silken texture of her skin beneath his palm.

He removed his hand from her mouth but didn’t step away. Instead, he leaned closer until his breath stirred the tendrils of hair at her temple.

“I’m not being gallant,” he whispered while allowing his lips to nearly brush her ear. “I meant every word.”

A shiver coursed through her at the intimate contact, and he felt it echo through his own body.

Still, Henry didn’t move away. Couldn’t move away. The scent of lavender rising from her skin intoxicated him, filling his senses until he could think of nothing else. Her breath came quick and shallow, stirring something primal within him.

When he dared to look down at her face, the moonlight revealed her parted lips and the desire that glowed in the depths of her wide eyes.

“Annabelle,” he murmured, as his hand came to rest at her waist. He felt the warmth of her through the fine silk of her gown.

The soft gasp that escaped her lips at his touch nearly undid him completely.

“Henry,” she whispered, his given name on her lips sounding like both question and answer—a surrender and an invitation.

The sound shattered the last of his restraint.

His mouth found hers in the darkness, and he claimed her with a hunger that had been building since their first contentious meeting.

The moment his lips touched hers, something elemental shifted between them, as though all their previous encounters, all their arguments and challenges and reluctant truces, had been leading inevitably to this very moment.

Her lips were soft beneath his, yielding yet responsive in a way that sent fire racing through his veins.

Her response transformed into ardent participation.

Her hands came up to grasp his shoulders, and her fingers dug into the fine wool of his coat as though anchoring herself against the storm of sensation.

And, oh, what a storm it was. It was such that Henry felt his control slowly slipping as very improper thoughts flashed across his eyelids. Of her on her knees in front of him, her nails raising welts in the skin of his thighs as she?—

“Henry.” Her moan short-circuited what was left of his propriety, and his responding groan was guttural.

The kiss deepened then, consuming them both. His tongue swept into the sweet heat of her mouth, tasting her and claiming her with a thoroughness that surprised even him. She tasted of champagne and desire, intoxicating in her response as she melted against him.

His hands slid from her waist to the small of her back as he drew her firmly against him until every curve of her body aligned with his own, until he could feel the rapid beating of her heart echoing his.

Annabelle made a soft sound in her throat—half surrender, half demand—that resonated through him like the sweetest music. She was kissing him back with a fervor that matched his own. Her inhibitions fell away as her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her as she arched against him.

This temptress was hellbent on driving him over the edge of madness!

His hands moved restlessly over her curves. He learned the shape of her through the layers of silk and muslin that suddenly seemed an intolerable barrier.

She gasped when his thumb brushed the side of her breast, and the sound sent a fresh surge of desire through him so powerful it left him dizzy.

He wanted— needed —to hear that sound again, to draw every possible response from her lips, and to worship her body with the same devotion he now lavished on her mouth.

His hand came up to cradle her cheek, and his thumb stroked the delicate skin as their lips moved together in perfect harmony. He felt as though they had kissed a thousand times before rather than never until this moment.

“Annabelle,” he whispered her name as a prayer and a plea.

He could not remember ever feeling so utterly undone by a kiss or so completely captivated by a woman. All his careful control, his rigid propriety, his determined isolation…all of it had crumbled beneath the simple power of her lips against his.

He captured her lips in another kiss, this one gentler, sweeter, but no less profound; and she melted against him with a sigh that seemed to come from her very soul, her arms twining around his neck as she?—

“Annabelle?” Lady Oakley’s voice called from within, breaking through the haze of passion that had enveloped them. “Are you out here, my dear?”

Reality crashed back upon them with jarring force. They broke apart, breathing heavily, and staring at each other with identical expressions of dazed desire and dawning realization.

“I—I must go,” Annabelle whispered, her voice unsteady.

Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her hair disheveled where his hands had tangled in it, and her eyes were still dark with the remnants of desire. She looked thoroughly, gloriously kissed, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to pull her back into his arms.

“Annabelle—” he began, though he had no idea what he meant to say.

What could he say?

“I have to go,” she said again, and slipped out of his arms. Hastily, she turned to hurry back inside, leaving Henry alone on the balcony with the taste of her still on his lips and the certainty that he very much wanted to do it again.

He very much wanted to kiss her again.