This close, it was impossible not to recall his body sliding into hers. His masculine scent teased, made her dizzy with desire she didn’t want to feel. Her hands clenched in her petticoats as she struggled against touching him.
She prepared for aggression. But he was too subtle for that. A man lacking subtlety couldn’t have seduced her. A man lacking subtlety would have stolen the jewel that first night and saved her a mountain of heartache.
Oh, how she abhorred a subtle man.
His lips were soft, reminding her how careful he’d been when he’d taken her. His gentleness brought tears closer than they’d
hovered since his confession. Impossible to cling to anger when he kissed her.
She told herself to break away. He wasn’t holding her tightly. If she fled, he wouldn’t pursue.
At least not tonight.
She closed her eyes and familiar dark delight flowed through her veins, drowning outrage in desire. She fought to stay rigid and unresponsive. But as he sipped from her lips with endless patience, her iron backbone bent, melted, turned to honey. She struggled to recall his deceit, but pleasure flooded her mind, turning her blind to all other considerations.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips, tasted the corners, flicked against the sensitive philtrum. She trembled and a moan crammed against her closed lips. But he heard. She knew he did. His hands moved in her hair, stroking away tension, hatred, resentment, and luring her toward surrender.
Inevitably, her lips parted and her body curved toward his, crushing her underclothing between them. His hands slid around her back, bringing her closer, but not close enough. Lost to everything but physical need, she made a muffled protest.
The contact stayed light, teasing. She’d sensed temper when he’d seized her, but this was all persuasion and sweetness. His hands played up and down her spine in a beguiling rhythm that set her heart racing like a greyhound. She made another wordless complaint, desperate for those provoking lips to settle, plunder, ravish.
He taunted her until she was near mad with need. Then at last his kiss turned to fire. Arousal streaked through her like flame in a dry hay field. Heat flooded her body. She was at the point of flinging her arms about him, insisting that he take her.
When he wrenched free, she’d forgotten everything except hunger. He was panting and pale, apart from a flush along his high, slanted cheekbones.
Acrid shame flooded her, made her belly heave. How could she have done that? She forced herself to meet his eyes. They were dark and intent and alight with knowledge of her weakness. For one trembling moment, she stared at him, hating him more than she’d ever hated anyone. Even Lord Neville.
“And that was the cruelest game of all,” she said through lips that felt made of glass.
Genevieve saw him whiten as she firmed her grip on her petticoats. She bent to collect the lantern before she shoved past him toward the door. All the time, she raged at herself and the scheming Sir Richard Harmsworth, curse his black soul to hell.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Papa, Lord Neville assaulted me last night.” Genevieve placed her hands flat on her father’s desk and leaned forward to capture his attention.
She’d only had a couple of hours’ fitful sleep, pistol under her pillow in case Lord Neville returned. Or that wretch Richard Harmsworth tried his luck. But nobody had appeared until Dorcas arrived with tea.
Some foolishly optimistic corner of her heart had imagined that her father might check that she was unharmed. Instead, after returning from Leighton Court he’d retreated to his library. By now, she should be inured to her father’s disregard, but every time he proved how little he cared, it cut anew. Her aunt had fussed about her all morning, horrified at the abduction and cursing Lord Neville for a villain.
“What nonsense.” Her father looked annoyed as he glanced up from his book. “You caused a deal of trouble last night, Genevieve. I can’t be pleased with you. It quite spoiled the evening.”
“Lord Neville pressed his attentions.” This morning she felt completely battered. Her body sported bruises, and more insidiously, the untried muscles between her legs ached. “You must forbid him the house. And Greengrass too.”
Her father looked troubled. “His Grace made this ridiculous claim last night. I don’t know what you all hope to achieve with this slander. I told him then that Lord Neville is a gentleman.”
“What about this?” She straightened and touched the mottled bruise on her cheek with a trembling hand. A fichu hid the bruises on her neck. “I’m not in the habit of imagining men attacking me.”
“Genevieve, his lordship wants to marry you.” Her father’s hands twisted in his lap.
“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” Outrage choked her. Surely her father couldn’t think that after last night she’d want to be in the same room as Lord Neville, let alone marry the swine. “He tried to force me.”
Her father shook his head in disbelief. “It’s a good match, Genny. If you marry him, you’ll be settled, secure. What will become of you when I’m gone? There’s no money.”
Her father hadn’t called her Genny in years. The nickname only pressed the knife deeper into her heart. She considered telling him of the offers for the Harmsworth Jewel, then realized that he’d still choose toadying to his patron over protecting his daughter. Anyway, she couldn’t sell the artifact. Not knowing what she did.
“Even before last night’s events, I couldn’t marry him,” she said dully. “He’s too old for me.”
Her father’s anger flared. Not, she noted with chagrin, on her behalf. “He’s been generous.”