Page 2 of Mr. Darcy's Storm of Temptation

His lips parted, his eyes widening as they traveled over her disheveled state. She watched his gaze drop to where her dress clung to her breasts, saw his jaw clench as he forced his eyes back to her face. But the damage was done. That single, searing look had set her skin ablaze. Her breasts felt heavy, sensitive, and she was horrifyingly aware of how the wet fabric pressed against her body, revealing far too much of her form for any modesty.

"Miss Elizabeth." His voice came out rough, almost strangled. "You must be— that is, you must all come to Pemberley at once. It is less than three miles, and I can send for another carriage immediately."

"We could not possibly impose," Elizabeth began, her voice high and breathless.

"It is no imposition." His tone brooked no argument, but she heard the underlying strain. He was already shrugging out of his greatcoat with sharp, almost violent movements. Before she could protest, he was leaning into the carriage, bringing with him the scent of rain and horses and heated male skin.

The coat was still warm from his body as he draped it around her shoulders. His gloved fingers brushed her arm through the wet muslin, the barest touch, yet she felt it like a brand. Her skin erupted in gooseflesh that had nothing to do with cold. This close, she could see droplets of rain caught in his dark lashes, could feel the heat radiating from him despite his wet clothes.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over her thundering heartbeat.

Their eyes met and held. His pupils were dilated, making his eyes appear almost black. His hand still rested on the coat at her shoulder, and she watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. His fingers flexed subtly, as if he wanted to grip her, pull her closer. The air between them crackled with electricity that had nothing to do with the storm.

"We must get you warm," he said, his voice low and intimate, meant only for her. "You are shaking."

She was, but not from cold. Her whole body shook with awareness, with the sudden, overwhelming realization that she wanted his touch. That she had wanted it since reading his letter, since understanding the man beneath the proud exterior. He had said:"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Did he still?

Could he?

The Pemberley carriage arrived quickly, and Mr. Darcy himself helped Mrs. Gardiner in first. When he offered his hand to Elizabeth, she hesitated. Even through her glove, she knew his touch would undo her.

But she had no choice. The moment their hands connected, heat shot up her arm. His fingers tightened around hers, steadying her as she climbed down. For one moment, she was pressed against him, her body sliding along his as she descended. She felt the hard planes of his chest, smelled the intoxicating scent of his skin: soap and sandalwood and something wildly masculine that made her knees weak.

A soft sound escaped her, part gasp, part something else entirely. His breath hitched in response, his hand moving to her waist to steady her. The heat of his palm burned through the wet fabric, and she swayed toward him involuntarily.

"Careful," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.

The carriage was smaller than their hired conveyance, built for four but cramped with five. There was no choice. Mr. Darcy had to sit beside her, his thigh pressed along the length of hers. Every jolt over the rough road pushed her against him, her breast brushing his arm, her hip grinding against his.

She could feel every breath he took, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His hand gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white, the tendons in his forearm standing out with tension. She realized with dawning awareness that he was fighting for control, that their proximity was torture for him.

The knowledge sent liquid heat pooling low in her belly. Her skin felt too tight, too sensitive. Every point where their bodies touched burned. She could feel the humid warmth trappedbetween them, his sandalwood scent mixing with rain and pure male essence.

Another jolt, harder this time. Her hand flew out instinctively, landing on his thigh. Rock-hard muscle tensed beneath her palm. She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt his whole body go rigid.

"Forgive me," she gasped, snatching her hand back.

"Think nothing of it," he ground out, but his voice was strained to breaking.

She risked a glance at his profile. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and she could see the rapid pulse at his throat. His wet shirt clung to his chest, outlining every plane of muscle. She had never been so aware of a man's body before, never understood how the sight alone could make her mouth go dry and her core clench with unfamiliar hunger.

What is happening to me?

When Pemberley's lights finally appeared through the rain, she did not know whether to feel relieved or devastated. The thought of leaving this forced intimacy, of losing the excuse to be pressed against him, left her strangely bereft.

As they pulled up to the entrance, Mr. Darcy turned to look at her fully for the first time since entering the carriage. His eyes were wild, dark with something that made her breath catch.

"You are safe now," he said roughly. But the way his gaze dropped to her lips suggested safety was the very last thing either of them should feel.

2

The Blue Room was magnificent,but Elizabeth barely noticed the elegant furnishings. Her body still hummed from the carriage ride, every nerve ending alive and over-sensitized. She could still feel the ghost of Mr. Darcy's body pressed against hers, could still smell him on the coat she had reluctantly surrendered to a maid.

"This way, miss," the young maid urged. "We must get you out of those wet things."

Behind the dressing screen, Elizabeth's fingers fumbled with her fastenings. The wet fabric peeled away from her skin with obscene sounds that made her blush furiously. Her breasts felt full and heavy, her skin pebbled with sensation, and then there was the wetness between her thighs that had nothing to do with rain.