* * *
Fenella's resistance dissolved in an ocean of wildfire. Everything was heat, strength, dominance.
Mr. Townsend crushed her against him while his mouth plundered hers. For too long, shock held her rigid. Then she made a muffled protest and struggled to push him away. He only growled deep in his throat and folded her closer into that big body.
She felt seized, conquered, compelled. And wickedly, unforgivably excited.
Her hands closed into fists and she beat on those wide, straight shoulders. When that didn't work, she pulled sharply at his thick, black hair and struggled to ignore its silky texture against her fingers.
He wrenched free and stared down at her with an appalled expression. His arms fell away from her. She sucked air into her lungs and prayed that her knees supported her. Her heart banged crazily against her ribs.
"Oh, hell, Fenella, I'm sorry."
She slumped breathlessly against the door, the oak hard against her back. As hard as Mr. Townsend's body. His rich male scent, brandy and sandalwood and clean healthy skin, teased her overstimulated senses.
"You…you shouldn't have done that," she said unsteadily.
She raised a shaking hand to lips that still burned. The kiss had lasted a mere sizzling second—although it had seemed an eternity. She'd forgotten the way huge, potent maleness could wrap around her and exclude the rest of the world. Although when it came to size and potency, Mr. Townsend completely eclipsed dear, loving Henry, the only other man she'd ever kissed.
The thought, however accurate, struck her as disloyal. Self-disgust straightened her backbone in a way nothing else could. "You didn't act like a gentleman."
"But then I'm not a gentleman."
She should be furious that he'd manhandled her, yet strangely, she wasn't. Perhaps because while he'd been masterful, he hadn't been rough. Which should be no excuse.
"I must go."
Except that her feet remained stubbornly glued to the floor. And Mr. Townsend remained far too close. Close enough for his warmth to entice her.
When Henry died, a great and eternal coldness had descended that not even her love for Brandon could vanquish.
Apparently the chill wasn't eternal after all. Cold was the last word to describe her reaction to that impetuous kiss. She'd never imagined she could feel like this again. She'd never wanted to feel like this again.
"Damn you, Fenella," he rasped. His body vibrated with tension, and he looked ready to fight an army single-handed. "If you're going, go. Or take the consequences."
Staring up at him, she flattened her palms against the door behind her. She should be terrified. But fear, like anger, proved elusive. Instead she was curious to discover if that immense strength could cherish as well as insist.
How brazen.
And dang
erous. Mr. Townsend blazed with desire. She shouldn't encourage him. But dear heaven, that warmth drew her, reminded her that through nearly six empty years, no man had placed his hands on her in passion.
She shivered. His ferocious need was shamefully thrilling. Henry, for all his bravery as a soldier, had been the gentlest of men off the battlefield. Mr. Townsend looked ready to gobble her up with one snap of those strong white teeth.
He misunderstood her trembling silence. "After that gaucherie, you have no reason to believe me, but you're safe."
"I know I am." She hardly recognized the reedy voice as hers.
His face, all harsh angles and hard male determination, filled with a tenderness that reminded her how careful he'd been with Carey. Even now, when he burned for her, he kept his hands off her.
Which suddenly struck her as a pity.
Misgivings receded under a wave of need. With breathtaking daring, she lifted one hand and laid it on his fine black coat above his thundering heart.
"Fenella? You're playing with fire."
"Oh, I do hope so," she murmured, stretching up on her tiptoes to brush her lips across his.