Page 5 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

She exhaled on a sigh, then caught her breath when he clasped her shoulders to draw her closer.

In a futile attempt to dispel the fog forming in her brain, she turned her lips away, but he only shifted his mouth to drop short, delectable kisses along the curve of her cheek to her earlobe, following the line of the mask.

“Sweet Emily,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. “Sweet, innocent Emily.”

Her name sounded foreign to her ears when he rasped it like that. How did he know it anyway? Oh, yes, he’d overheard her conversation with Sophie. “You mustn’t c-call me that,” she stammered. He nibbled on her earlobe, and she gasped. “You ... you must call me Miss Fairchild.”

“All right. Kiss me, Miss Fairchild. Or I shall surely kiss you again.”

“I ... I would prefer that you not ... kiss me, Lord Blackmore. It’s not proper.”

“As if I care about propriety.” He planted a kiss on the pulse in her neck. “Remember my scandalous reputation? And my name is Jordan. Say it.”

“I-I can’t. It’s too intimate.”

“Exactly.” Sliding one arm about her waist, he tugged her close, then tipped her chin up with his free hand until she was staring into his glittering eyes, her heart beating a wild, staccato rhythm.

“Say my name,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want to hear you say it.”

“Jordan,” she breathed. If they continued this much longer, he wouldn’t have to ruin her. She’d gladly rush to ruin herself. “Jordan, we mustn’t do this. You ... you mustn’t kiss me.”

“I want a taste of the woman who’s to be my downfall.” As she stiffened, preparing to protest, he caught her mouth with his once more.

There was less softness in his kiss this time.

He kissed like a man with a purpose, single-minded and thorough.

His mouth drew on hers hungrily, his tongue outlining the seam of her lips as his hand swept from her chin to her throat, lingering there to stroke the bare skin of her arched neck with his clever, knowing fingers.

When she gasped at the sheer intimacy of his caress, he slid his tongue inside her mouth.

Some Puritan part of her insisted that she protest this indignity. But protest was impossible. The Earl of Blackmore was kissing her deliciously and provocatively. She’d never even expected to meet him and now to have him kissing her …

Her mind went blank as he swept the inside of her mouth with his tongue, finding and conquering every sensitive part.

His kiss deepened, grew more daring, and she became his willing accomplice.

Dear heavens, the man certainly knew what he was doing.

Like a ninny, she found herself welcoming each heady stroke, each masterful thrust.

Then she was curling her fingers into the crisp superfine lapels of his tailcoat, clinging to him like a wretched wanton.

And she no longer cared. So this was desire.

Like drinking champagne for the first time, she discovered that the varied pleasures of his kiss roused new and unfamiliar cravings.

She strained against him, needing those cravings answered, and he gave her more than she knew to ask for, bending her back until she was half-reclining on the brocade seat.

Then the carriage lurched, throwing him off-balance and forcing him to break off the kiss.

He stared down into her eyes a long moment, the desire leaching out of his face like color from bleached linen.

A thin shaft of moonlight played over his stark features, highlighting the carved planes of his cheekbones and nose.

Her hands still gripped his lapels, but now that he was looking at her as if in a state of shock, she became painfully aware of their scandalous position. Embarrassed, she released his coat and turned her head.

He spoke in a tortured voice. “My God. I had no idea how sweet one kiss could be.”

Sweet? It was magical. So why was he staring at her as if she were a Jezebel?

Uttering a low curse, he dragged himself off her and threw himself into the opposite seat. “What the devil was I doing? I must have lost my infernal mind.”

Ashamed by his words, she sat up and tried to straighten her clothing.

Never had she felt so small. It had been so delightful she hadn’t stopped to think how mundane such kisses were to him.

Even with her poverty of experience, she had recognized the wealth of his.

No doubt he’d found her kisses painfully pathetic.

“I’m sorry I got so carried away,” he said in a stiff voice. “I had no right to take advantage of the situation.”

“Please, it doesn’t matter.” Tears pooled in her eyes. Now he was trying to be kind, curse him.

“But it does matter. You’re not the sort of woman ... I mean—”

“I’m not your usual preference,” she whispered in utter mortification. “Yes, I know.”

“That’s not what I mean. Let’s just say that your sort of woman is forbidden to me, all right?”

That wasn’t true. He could involve himself with anyone if he truly wished. But he wouldn’t. An earl with a nobody like her? It was unthinkable. She wasn’t forbidden to him. But he was most certainly forbidden to her.

Jordan watched her, trying futilely to gather his scattered wits. Judging from her hurt expression, he was saying this all wrong. No doubt she’d expected him to swear his undying love. That was precisely why he avoided virginal, respectable women.

Experience had always been paramount in his encounters with women. A lusty woman whom he could forget as quickly as she forgot him—that was all he’d aimed for in a lover. He knew better than anyone that seducing virgins was a dangerous sport.

But with Emily ... Good God, he could still taste her on his lips, apples and cream and a hint of champagne.

And when she’d parted her lips for him .

.. He sprang to life just thinking of it.

Lust raged through him, tearing down his barriers of sense and reason.

Even now, he wanted to toss her down on the seat and bury himself inside her. And he couldn’t.

He felt like a child who couldn’t get his fill of sweets, even though he knew they would make him ill.

Her lavender scent filled the carriage, enticing him even further.

He wanted to taste all of her, to strip the clothes from her and press his mouth against every inch of her pale, delicate body. The damned hunger—

He clenched his jaw. It was so intense, it hurt. “Look here, Emily—” he began, wondering how to explain his lapse in judgment.

“Please don’t say any more. It’s all right. I suppose the full moon affected ... both of us.”

“Yes, the full moon.”

It was as good an explanation for complete insanity as any other. Only complete insanity could make him lose control. And for a prim little rector’s daughter!

A prim little rector’s daughter who might end up his wife if he weren’t careful.

He tightened his jaw as he glanced out the window.

Pray heaven no one was in the garden now.

A marriage to Emily Fairchild would be sheer disaster.

She barely knew him and couldn’t hope to be happy with him.

She would chafe at a forced marriage. Being a starry-eyed innocent, she would want more from him than he could give.

Before long, they’d be locked in the same kind of disastrous battle that had ruined his parents’ marriage and destroyed his mother’s life.

A memory flashed before him, of his mother screaming in his face that he was the reason she couldn’t have fun, the reason she was in hell, the reason for her misery. And though he’d long ago realized that it was the drink that made her say that, he also knew it was partly true. If not for him ...

Forcefully, he drove back the pain. Perhaps Emily would react differently to such a marriage. But perhaps not. Pray God he never had to find out.

Besides, for all her softness and easy capitulation to his kisses, she was still a sweet-faced gentlewoman with firm ideas about proper behavior.

If he married her, he’d be making love with the candles snuffed and asking permission to attend his club.

And the more he wanted her, the worse it would be.

He’d rather shoot off his deuced cock than face a lifetime of that.

Still, she’d defended him without even knowing him. No woman except his stepsister Sara had ever defended him. Raged at him, yes. Gossiped about him and lusted after his money and title, most definitely. But not taken his side.

“Lord Blackmore, may I ask you one question?”

Ah, so they were back to formalities, were they? Hard to believe that scant minutes ago, she’d whispered his name with something like affection. But then, this entire evening had been like a dream, and it was time for it to end. “Ask whatever you wish.”

Her gaze dropped to her hands, clasped demurely in her lap. “You ... said you prefer indecent women to decent women. Yet you danced with Lady Sophie.”

She was too polite to call him insincere, but he knew what she thought. “Lady Dryden asked me to dance with your friend, so I did. I’m not so rude as to ignore my hostess’s wishes. But that’s all it was, I assure you, no matter what Lord Nesfield made of it.” He smiled. “Why? Are you jealous?”

That got her dander up. “Of course not. I’m not that foolish. I know I am ... I know this was ... merely a fleeting flirtation for you. We move in entirely different circles. If I do manage to reach the house without being noticed, I doubt I’ll ever see you again.”

Her bald description of what he’d already been thinking irritated him. “I’ll be here for a week more. We could—”

“Have more scandalous tête-à-têtes in your carriage? I think not.” She glanced away, the fluid light catching the porcelain stillness of her face, a stillness betrayed by eyes that showed every emotion. “I don’t think I could survive any more such meetings.”

Nor could he. Good God, if he had another chance at it, he’d probably make a complete fool of himself. He refused to lose his head over any woman, especially an upstanding young gentlewoman.

But the carriage was rapidly approaching the gardens again, and as the horses clopped nearer, his heart dropped into his stomach. He wished he could know her better. What a shame that was impossible.

All too soon, the carriage was slowing, and she was staring out the window. “Thank God, they’re gone,” she said, her relief evident.

Did she find the idea of being forced to marry him so distasteful? Of course she did. She thought he was the kind of scoundrel who could have a “flirtation” with a young woman, kiss her senseless, then send her off without a thought.

Very well. Let her think it. It was better that way.

He knocked on the carriage ceiling and ordered Watkins to halt.

Then he sat back in his seat. “I’ll go in first. If anyone asks me about you, I’ll declare I have no idea what they’re talking about.

You wait a while, then stroll in from the gardens as if you’d been out there all along.

With any luck, you won’t have to tell any lies. ”

“Thank you,” she said primly, then turned the handle, opened the door, and descended from the carriage.

“Emily—” he began as he followed her out, wanting to stop her, yet knowing it was pointless.

She faced him with a look of expectation.

He didn’t know what to say. What could he offer her?

What did she want from him? Did she want him to throw caution to the winds, ask her if he could call or announce his intentions to her father?

If she did, she wouldn’t get it. As she’d said, this was an interlude. And he wouldn’t change the outcome.

When he remained silent, she flashed him a wan smile. “Thank you for a very enlightening evening, Lord Blackmore. I shall never forget it.”

Nor shall I. He watched as she hurried into the gardens, a quiet grace in her movements even when she raced to be away from him. There she went, his charming rector’s daughter, disappearing into the night like Cinderella after the ball.

Except for one awful difference. She’d left him without even a glass slipper to remember her by. And there would be no future between them. None at all.