Page 28 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

The contact grounded her even as the kiss unmoored her.

“And now,” he said, his voice dropping, “the kiss your painting lacks. Passion.”

Her breath caught at the promise in his voice.

The word settled between them like a spark upon tinder.

She ought to have stopped him and stepped away while she still possessed her senses. Instead, she lifted her face, only slightly, yet enough to offer a silent invitation he did not hesitate to accept. His mouth claimed hers, not with the earlier gentleness or any lingering restraint, but with heat, hunger, and a slow, deliberate intensity that unraveled every careful thought she had ever possessed.

His hand slid from her cheek to the nape of her neck, holding her there with unmistakable firmness but no roughness as his lips moved over hers with devastating purpose. Darcy gasped against him as the kiss deepened, her senses overwhelmed by the sheer force of it, by the way it seemed to consume her from within.

He did not rush, and that was what undid her most.

He took his time, coaxing, pressing, drawing from her a response she did not know she possessed. When his mouth parted hers, she yielded as though guided by instinct alone. A soft, broken sound escaped Darcy as sensation flooded through her, warm, consuming, and impossible to resist. When his tongue touched hers, she moaned, the sound torn from her before she could suppress it.

Her fingers tightened in his coat, clutching at him as though he were the only thing anchoring her. Without conscious intent, her other hand slid upward to the back of his neck, her fingers threading into his hair as she held fast, certain she might otherwise come undone.

And she kissed him back.

Not with skill, nor with any practiced knowledge, but with something raw and instinctive, something that rose from deep within her and answered him in kind. It was unguarded, unrefined, and utterly devastating in its reality.

By the time he drew back, she was breathless and unsteady, her strength having deserted her entirely. She leaned into him, her forehead coming to rest against his shoulder, her fingers still curled at his nape as though she feared she might fall if she let go.

Her breath came unevenly, her pulse still racing as though it had yet to accept that the moment had ended.

Slowly, too slowly, Darcy lifted her head from where it had rested against him. The loss of his warmth was immediate and disquieting, as though something steady and vital had been withdrawn, leaving her abruptly bereft.

“I must go,” she whispered, swallowing as she gathered what fragile composure she could.

Darcy could not look at him. She did not trust herself to do so when she could scarcely comprehend what had just passed between them, nor how something so fleeting could leave her feeling so entirely shaken. She took several steps backward before turning away, determined to retreat at a measured pace rather than betray the almost overwhelming urge to flee. She wanted him to believe her unflappable, entirely untouched by what had passed between them, and not glimpse the truth still betrayed by the frantic pounding of her heart or the lingering heat and ache in her body that shamefully yearned for more.

“Red, wait.”

Darcy faltered and turned to him, temptation beating through her in fierce, insistent waves. “I must go,” she repeated, more firmly, though a tremor still lingered beneath her words.

A brief silence followed.

“I will have my carriage brought round,” he said, the earlier provocation softened into something quieter and more considerate. “Let me see you safely home.”

Alarm stirred at once, sharp and unyielding.

“No,” she said quickly, the refusal escaping before she could temper it. Drawing in a steadying breath, she forced calm into her tone. “No, my lord, that will not be necessary. Madam Rebecca has already arranged my conveyance and protection. I shall be quite safe.”

The silence that followed seemed to linger, weighed with something she could neither name nor face.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I will not press you.”

Darcy inclined her head, though she still could not meet his gaze. “I thank you, my lord, for the lesson,” she managed, though the words felt wholly inadequate.

Before he could answer or her resolve could falter, she turned and fled the room with more haste than dignity, the taste of him still warm upon her lips.

CHAPTER 11

An hour later, Darcy’s bedchamber felt oppressively small, too still and far too quiet. When she had slipped inside and checked on her sisters, she found them asleep together in Emelia’s room, still unaccustomed to separate chambers and solitary beds.

Darcy had returned quietly to her own chamber and pressed her back against the closed door, her breath unsteady, her chest rising and falling too quickly as she struggled to master herself. Her fingers curled into the fabric of her gown, as though sheer force might anchor her.

It availed her nothing. She removed her mask and eased out of her gown, then slipped off her slippers and peeled down her stockings until only her chemise remained. With hurried steps, she crossed to the bed and sank upon it, her limbs heavy, her thoughts chaotic. Even after several minutes, the darkness brought no comfort. With a weary sigh, Darcy turned onto her side, then her back, shifting again when rest continued to elude her. The sheets tangled about her as she moved, her body betraying a disquiet she could neither soothe nor understand.