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C hrissy was soft under his hands, shockingly so, and Nomansland found himself drowning in the taste of her. She kissed like a girl who’d only read about it in books—fierce, fumbling, entirely unguarded. He pressed her back against the paneling, and drank in her gasp as he nipped at her lower lip.

Chrissy’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as if she feared he might vanish should she let go.

The thought made him smile against her mouth.

He ran his hands down her sides, mapping every rise and fall, every shiver, until he reached the rigid boning of her stays.

He slid one palm between her body and the wall, spanning the small of her back, and drew her flush to him.

“Is this proper?” she murmured, though she made no move to stop him.

“Not even remotely,” he replied, voice rough with want.

She laughed, a sound so wild and bright he could feel it vibrating in his bones. He kissed her again, harder, letting himself want her for the first time in living memory. The shock of it nearly undid him.

He pressed her hand to his heart. “Feel that?” he asked, and she nodded, wide-eyed.

“It’s like a drum,” she whispered.

“You do that to me,” he said, nuzzling her jaw. “No one else. Just you.”

She bit her lip, glancing down between them, then back up. “You’re trembling.”

He was, and it shamed him, but it also set him free. He wrapped both arms around her, hauling her up until her toes barely skimmed the ground. She clung to him, giggling into his collar, and he wondered how he could have ever been afraid of this.

“I want to ruin you,” he said, the words a secret oath. “I want to be your first and your last and every one in between.”

She shivered, either from cold or from the promise. “I’d like that. You promised to show me what my grandfather wrote about.”

He groaned, shaking his head in disbelief. “You are the most dangerous girl in London.”

“I hope so. Show me.”

He had every intention of doing so, but the corridor was too exposed, the risk of discovery too high. He set her down, smoothing her skirts, and took her hand.

“Come with me,” he said, and together they slipped down the hall, past gilt-framed ancestors and a suit of armor that seemed to nod approval.

He found an antechamber—empty, dim, and just private enough. He pulled her inside and latched the door with a soft click. The hush was immediate, broken only by the distant thrum of the quartet.

He backed her against the door, kissing her again, this time slower, taking inventory of every sigh and every yielding inch. His hands cupped her face, then slid down to her shoulders, then to her waist, memorizing the shape of her.

She caught his wrist, pulling his hand up to her chest. “Here,” she said, guiding his palm to the swell of her breast, just above the edge of her bodice. Her skin was hot through the fabric. “I want you to.”

He obeyed, tracing the curve with his thumb, feeling the sudden, frantic beat beneath. She arched into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

She opened her eyes, dazed but wickedly amused. “You’re a boxer. You could crush me with one hand. I think I like it.”

He nearly lost himself then. With a growl, he bent and bit her earlobe, then trailed kisses down the side of her throat. She let her head loll back, baring herself without hesitation.

“God, Chrissy,” he said, words muffled by her skin. “You taste like sin.”

She laughed again, but it faded quickly as he cupped her other breast, kneading gently, feeling the nipple harden beneath the layers of linen and silk. She dug her nails into his arm, not enough to hurt, but enough to make him want more.

“I want to touch you,” he said. “All of you.”

“Then do it,” she whispered. “Before I lose my courage.”

He slid his hands down, gathering her skirts and lifting them just high enough to find her stockinged thigh. She gasped, the sound muffled against his shoulder, and he grinned in triumph.

Her leg was bare above her stocking, the simple garter holding the silk in place. He stroked her thigh, relishing the contrast of rough calluses against perfect skin. She trembled, her entire body alive with anticipation.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he warned, but she only smiled, reckless and beautiful.

“I want to know. Show me everything.”

He wanted to, desperately. But he forced himself to slow, to savor the moment. He leaned in, kissing her cheek, her jaw, the hollow at the base of her throat. His hands explored, mapping her body, committing every sensation to memory.

“Next time,” he said, “I want to undress you. Every layer, every button, every ribbon.”

She shivered, and he felt the heat rise between them. “And then?”

“I want to lay you on a bed,” he continued, “and taste every inch of you. I want to make you come apart for me, over and over, until you forget your own name.”

She made a small, hungry sound in the back of her throat. “That sounds like a challenge.”

“It is,” he said, kissing her again, this time with the full force of his need.

She met him with equal ferocity, her hands roaming his back, her body arching to meet his. He slid his hand up her thigh, finding the the heat of her quim. She gasped, hips bucking involuntarily.

He smoothed his fingers over her lips, gentle at first, then firmer as she urged him on. She was wet and ready, the proof of her desire intoxicating. He circled her clit with his thumb, watching her face for every flutter, every gasp.

“Oh,” she said, voice thin and urgent.

He pressed his lips to her ear. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “God, yes.”

He stroked her, slow and careful, learning what she liked by the way her breath stuttered, the way her nails raked his shoulders. She clung to him, desperate, as if afraid he might stop.

He didn’t.

She came with a gasp, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the sound. He held her, supporting her weight as she shook in his arms. He kissed her face, her hair, every inch he could reach.

When she finally opened her eyes, she looked utterly undone.

He helped her right her skirts, smoothing the fabric with a gentleness that surprised even him.

“That was…” she began, but words failed her.

“Only the beginning,” he promised, kissing her forehead.

They stood for a moment in perfect silence, hearts racing, bodies pressed close. Nomansland felt a fierce, wild joy—a sense of having seized something vital and precious.

Then, without warning, the door swung open.

He spun, shielding Chrissy behind him. A man stared, wide-eyed, at the tableau, the duke, disheveled and clearly in flagrante, Chrissy, cheeks flushed and hair half-tumbled from its pins.

The man grunted.

A woman’s voice behind him asked, “What is it? Go on in.”

“The room’s occupied,” he told her. Mumbling a hasty apology, he retreated, closing the door again.

Nomansland stared at Chrissy, then she burst out laughing.

“We’re ruined,” Chrissy said, her expression nothing like one would expect from a scandalized miss.

He closed his eyes. This was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid. What was it about this woman that made him lose control? He was too intelligent to seduce innocents, much less get caught doing so.

“We’d better find your sister and get you away from here.” He kissed her again, quickly and fiercely, then gathered himself. He offered her his arm, and together they walked back into the crowded ballroom, heads held high.

They found Dinah near the punch table, chatting with other chaperones. She spotted them at once, her eyes narrowing as she took in their appearance.

Nomansland leaned in toward Chrissy, whispering, “I’ll make it right,” then vanished into the throng before Dinah could do more than gape. He needed to distance himself from Chrissy before the gossips could connect them with that anteroom, once the other couple began to talk.

He also needed to distance himself before Abingdon found out. There would be a confrontation one way or another, but hopefully not before Nomansland had the chance to propose.