“We shall reconvene here in twenty minutes.” Evan placed his hand at Miss Hart’s lower back and guided her into the hall.
The heat of her body warmed his palm. It was impossible to concentrate on the figure in gold who stopped in the corridor to pass pleasantries with a sailor. All thoughts led back to the same pressing question. How would he survive another night without making love to Vivienne Hart?
Then the countess glanced along the corridor, forcing Evan to pull Miss Hart into an alcove. Their bodies collided. She grabbed hold of his shirt. Obscene thoughts bombarded his mind. The need to devour this woman’s mouth gripped him like an opium addiction.
“Vivienne,” he whispered as he pressed her soft, pliant body to the wall, let her feel the length of his growing erection.
Her breath caught. “Mr Sloane, I …”
“Tell me what you want, Vivienne. Tell me what you crave.”
The swell of her breasts rose to greet him. “I want … I want you.” She held her mask in place and touched her lips to his—a kiss so gentle, so sweet, so damn arousing.
His cock jerked in response.
Mother of all saints!
He smoothed his hand over her hip, reached around to grip her bottom.
Lust, the overwhelming need to push into her warmth and thrust to the hilt, robbed him of all logic and reason. Perhaps it was the taste of champagne on her lips or the lawless air of the masquerade that left him playing out a host of erotic fantasies in his head. He traced her lips with his tongue, ready to plunge deep—until a cough from behind brought him crashing back to reality.
Evan dragged his mouth from Miss Hart’s and turned to meet Ashwood’s mocking stare. “Your quarry is on the move, Sloane. Might I suggest you save the pleasantries for later?”
Chapter 12
Strange how a chaste kiss could awaken one’s primitive desires. Strange that when deeply attracted to a man, a lady forgot about propriety and thought of nothing but her carnal cravings. The pulsing between Vivienne’s thighs was so intense she didn’t give a fig why Cleopatra had slipped into the library with a Roman emperor.
“Might the emperor be Lord Hollinshead?” Mr Sloane whispered as they stood outside a door on the first-floor landing. “Might they seek a private moment to indulge their whims?”
Vivienne watched his mouth move, remembering the earthy taste she found so compelling, remembering the gentle stroke of his tongue across her lips, just how delicious—
“Miss Hart? Might the emperor be the countess’ husband?”
“What? Oh, no. I highly doubt it.” Lord Hollinshead was a known philanderer who kept more mistresses than horses. “Surely you’ve heard the gossip. They live in separate houses and rarely attend the same functions.” The countess had persuaded Vivienne’s mother to move to London to ease her dreadful loneliness. “The lady hates her husband with a vengeance.”
“Does she have a lover?”
One did not pry into such a powerful lady’s affairs.
Vivienne was about to reply, but Mr Sloane touched his finger to her lips. “Hush. I can hear raised voices.” Yet he made no attempt to listen.
Fixated on her mouth, and with a look one might describe as salacious, he breached the seam of her lips with his finger, ran the tip slowly over the wet flesh inside.
Her nipples hardened at the sensual invasion. Her legs trembled as she waited for him to slip deeper. She gave in to her urges, flicked her tongue against his finger, bit down on the tip.
“Minx,” he mouthed, fixing her with his ravenous gaze. “Let me come to your bedchamber tonight. Let me show you the power of my tongue.”
Vivienne swallowed deeply. Climbing into bed with this pirate seemed more than appealing. What harm could it do? What reason did she have to hold on to her virtue? And wasn’t it better to make love to a man she desired than to suffer the fate of most ladies her age?
“You’re lying!” came the feminine screech from beyond the door. “I demand you put a stop to this at once.”
“Madam, what my rakehell cousin does is his affair. For years, I’ve strived to avoid any association with the scoundrel and couldn’t give a hoot who he marries.”
“Will you not at least confirm the rumour is true?”
Vivienne leant closer to Mr Sloane and lowered her voice. “That’s definitely Lady Hollinshead. Only two people could have told her about our decision to marry.”
“Three. Ramsey, Golding, and the drunken sot Wicks.”