Page 35 of In the Prince's Bed

Not for one minute,she answered. Not if Paris’s touch had been anything like Alec’s.

Katherine wanted to hate it. She wanted to hate him for doing it. But how could she? It wasn’t all that improper. AndThe Rake’s Rhetorickhad never mentioned hand fondling as a tactic for seduction—though clearly it was.

Each sweep of his fingers was a whisper, each press of his thumb an endearment that inflamed her senses. She might actually burn a hole in the bench before the reading was over.

The longer it went on, the more she ached to explorehim.Casting him a furtive glance, she stilled his hand, then began her own discovery.

His gaze locked with hers. If there’d been even a trace of arrogance on his face, she would have tossed his hand aside. But his eyes shone with need and heat as her fingers moved tentatively over his rough masculine flesh.

He sucked in a harsh breath as her touch grew bolder. His hands were certainly not those of a gentleman. His skin bore hard calluses, and a scar split the knuckle of his thumb. When she stroked the raised ridge with her forefinger, Alec curled his fingers into hers, stroking, seeking.

By the time Sydney finished his Troy poem, her blood was thrumming wildly. She’d never been so aware of a man as amanin all her life. What would it be like to have Alec’s strong hands on her shoulders, her ribs, her breasts—

The applause began, and the blood flamed in her cheeks. Quickly, she tugged her hand free of Alec’s so she could clap.

And break his spell, before he turned her completely into mush. Because if she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be begging for his kiss—and that would not do at all.

Chapter Nine

Women are particularly susceptible to romantic verse. Never underestimate the power of a flowery sonnet.

—Anonymous,A Rake’s Rhetorick

Alec hated releasing her hand. The exquisite play of fingers had only whetted his desire. It had taken every ounce of his will not to flatten her hand on his inner thigh, then drag it to the embarrassing fullness growing in his trousers. He’d never been so aroused by something so innocent in his life.

By God, the woman would drive him mad before he got her to the altar. She had the curiosity of an innocent, but the passionate impulses of an experienced woman. If she were like this here, imagine what she’d be like in bed. He hardened instantly at the thought.

As soon as the applause ended, he recaptured her hand, intending to renew their reckless intimacies. Then Lovelace’s voice forced its way into his awareness.

“This next poem is dedicated to the most important woman in my life,” the man said.

Alec glanced to the podium, scowling when he saw Lovelace’s gaze fix on Katherine.

“The title is ‘The Muse,’ ” the poet added.

Alec rolled his eyes. If that idiot thought Katherine would fall for such a blatant ploy…

Then her fingers slipped from his. Alec shifted his gaze to her, wincing to see the mixture of pleasure and guilt on her face. With grim determination, he grabbed for her hand, but she held it back.

“Please, Alec…” she whispered.

God rot Sydney Lovelace. So the poet knew the way to her affections after all. She might respond to Alec’s caresses, but that blasted baronet all too easily made her feel guilty for it.

He relented and released Katherine’s hand, relishing the audible sigh that escaped her lips as she hastily dragged her glove back on.

But he felt bereft without her fingers entwined with his. Nor did the sound of Sydney’s voice, sure and strong, make him feel any better.

Sydney read with quiet authority:

When all my visions creep away

When verse eludes my fevered brain.

I seek my comfort in her voice,

That cadence is my cure for pain.

God rot Sydney Lovelace. It was simple, elegant, and most importantly, not silly. Instead—