"I knew this was a bad idea," she said shakily, fingers lacing through his hair.
"It doesn't feel like a bad idea."
Except, damn him, it did. If he had any claim to honor, he'd roll off her and exile her to her chaste widow's bed.
But he wasn't averse to taking risks—otherwise he'd still be running an obscure, not particularly profitable shipping firm. And while he was neither lunatic nor hopeful enough to imagine she'd surrender all at the first invitation, he wasn't ready to stop. Even if kissing her was an agonizing combination of delight and frustration.
* * *
This kiss was no longer teasing. It demanded that she counter Anthony's heat with her own. When his tongue traced her lips, Fenella opened in helpless pleasure. He tasted delicious, brandy and desire.
Sensations repressed too long overwhelmed her. Banishing the proper widow, and reviving the young girl, in love with her handsome husband. She'd forgotten what this sweet itch for a man's touch was like.
She remembered now. Dear Lord, how she remembered.
Except this was different. Perhaps five years of denying that ardent girl built this wild release. Or thirty-year-old Fenella was a more complex woman than the innocent who had pledged herself to Henry Deerham.
Whatever the reason, Anthony's kisses stirred a dark tide of response she'd never known. When she plunged eager hands into his thick hair to bring that seeking mouth closer, he released a grunt of surprise. But she was past false modesty or pretend reluctance. For the first time in five years, she had blood in her veins, instead of rivers of cold salt tears.
She tugged at Anthony's neck cloth until his shirt fell open. When her hand found hot, smooth skin, she made a sound of satisfaction. She nipped at his lips, then sucked his tongue into her mouth.
This was like magic. This was like flying. This was like…
Betrayal.
A stifled protest escaped her, and the embrace turned alien and unwelcome. This time, when she caught his shoulders, she didn't mean to caress but to deny. Although surely no man would heed her when only seconds ago, she'd lain in his arms, delirious with rising passion.
To her relief, Anthony shifted away. He stared down at her, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Pleasure softened his rough-hewn features, giving him the look of a sleepy lion. "Fenella?"
Until Anthony—Mr. Townsend—had kissed her, she'd had no idea how desperate she was for a man's touch. Since losing Henry, she'd lived frozen but safe. Now the ice melted forever. She hated to be so weak. So demanding. So pathetic.
Her hands clenched against those broad shoulders and sick with shame, she closed her eyes. His legs remained tangled in her filmy pink skirts and on the narrow chaise longue, she couldn't avoid the massive weight of his arousal.
"Please…let me go."
With a powerful surge, he rose to his feet. "Forgive me."
Shakily she pushed up against the back of the chair. Sliding her feet to the floor didn't help her feel any more grounded. Her heart still raced, her blood simmered, and her lips throbbed from his kisses.
Much as she'd like to blame him for her loss of control, honesty prevailed. "No. I should have stopped you at the door. I've behaved disgracefully. What must you think of me?"
Unexpected humor twisted his lips. "It's not as bad as all that, surely. You haven't murdered anyone, lass."
"I beg your pardon?" she stammered. Part of her wanted to bewail her lapse. Another part wanted to slap him. And one tiny element wanted to cling to that superb form and let his kisses find their natural end.
"No need." His cheerful smile made the urge to clout him paramount. "I had a thoroughly nice time."
She spluttered like an outraged dowager hearing an off-color joke. "I meant I must have misheard what you said."
He laughed and extended his hand. "I know what you meant. But there's no need for all this breast beating."
"I let you touch me."
"And you enjoyed it."
"I know," she said desolately, and without thinking curled her fingers around that capable, callused hand. It was a working man's hand, reminding her again how different he was from her London beaux. But those large, blunt fingers had their own grace—and breathtaking skill on a woman's skin.
"Be a mite kinder to yourself, Fenella. Succumbing to a moment's temptation doesn't consign you to the lowest circle of hell."