For the first time in five days, she felt whole.
His tongue tangled with hers as she sagged against the wall. He made a sound of unmistakable satisfaction and swept her up against him, devouring her with rapacious concentration. She countered his blazing passion with her own, no longer pretending she didn’t want him as much as he wanted her. Her arms circled his back, drawing him closer.
She wanted him closer. She wanted him inside her. Primitive need was like a mallet pounding on her heart.
Just as she thought her legs would fold under her, he raised his mouth. He sighed and pressed his cheek against hers.
She gasped for air, lost in the wild memory of the kiss. She felt the faint roughness of his beard. She smelled the fresh warmth of his skin, the heat of his desire.
“Why didn’t you send me a message?” His voice grated like stones across gravel, his breath brushed her ear, stirring tendrils of hair. “Why did you make both of us wait?”
She swallowed and opened her eyes and strove to put two words together. He was hot and hard against her skirts. She stroked his back in a rhythm that soon developed suggestive momentum.
She closed her eyes again and basked in the quiet, glorious communion. So stupid to feel she belonged here, in Ashcroft’s arms.
“Diana, tell me why,” he whispered.
Why hadn’t she contacted him? She should have. Lord Burnley insisted she go to Ashcroft’s bed as soon as she returned to London. The marquess would be furious to know what little use she’d made of the last days. Given he had her watched, he probably did know.
She’d left Cranston Abbey determined to bring this snarled scheme to an end. That meant spending every hour with Lord Ashcroft in the hope his seed took root.
With a man like Ashcroft, out of sight meant out of mind. If she didn’t entertain him while he expressed interest, he’d likely look elsewhere. She was an idiot if she expected him to wait in chaste expectation like Sir Galahad praying for the appearance of the Grail.
Yet still she hadn’t pursued her conquest.
On the first day, she’d claimed a headache and retired to her room. Not completely a lie. Guilt and emotion had tormented her all the way back from Surrey.
Then at her suggestion, she and Laura had set out to sample the delights of the capital. She knew it was childish to avoid her task, but she couldn’t bear to fling herself back into the sea of deceit.
Desperately, she searched for some lie to explain her tardiness in contacting Ashcroft. Instead, she found herself answering honestly.
“I can’t tell you,” she replied, hating the sadness in her voice. She settled more closely against him. He was so big and strong, he made her feel no harm could befall her while he held her. “Don’t ask me.”
How could she admit that sheer terror stopped her contacting him? Terror of this overwhelming joy she felt holding him, touching him, kissing him. Terror of how helpless she was against her unwelcome fascination. When she’d made her devil’s deal with Lord Burnley, this wasn’t what she’d bargained for.
Five minutes, Laura had promised. If not Laura, the countess would appear with her stentorian voice and cold eyes.
He’d been careful of her reputation with his aunt. Now her brain functioned again, she knew he wouldn’t compromise her here where discovery was so likely. She smothered the insidious warmth that filled her at the knowledge.
Slowly he drew away. Only far enough to look into her face. He framed her cheeks in his palms and stared into her eyes. Dear heaven, let him not see the falsehood there.
“Were you torturing me?”
“No!” she said before she thought that the role she played, of a woman learning worldly games, supported such a claim. Her hands dropped to his hips. She yearned to feel his bare skin under her palms, test his heat and power.
“Are you going to torture me tonight?”
She’d regained enough of herself to react with amusement. Where had she learned that low, sensual chuckle? “Only if you ask
.”
He laughed and pressed his mouth to hers in another intoxicating kiss. “It’s torture having you here and not being able to do more,” he said, confirming her assessment of his intentions.
His reputation indicated he was a man without honor, he might even believe that was true. But she came to the realization that Lord Ashcroft followed a code of ethics as immovable as any biblical morality that guided a fire-and-brimstone preacher.
A sardonic smile twisted his beautiful mouth. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
The question surprised a startled cough of laughter from her. “I’m sure there’s a lot I’m not telling you.”