Page 58 of The Duke Meets His Match

She whirled to face him. “We cannot risk being caught alone like this,” she whispered.

“You’re right. I’m probably half mad.” He stepped close and his gaze lowered to her mouth. Alarm slammed into her. Whether it was because of the tingle of excitement that warmed her blood at his nearness or her concern of being discovered she wasn’t certain. “You should go before we are discovered missing.”

“You mean by Henry or one of your sisters?”

“Perhaps Lady Willowby,” she blurted out, then bit her lip.

He eyed her curiously. “Are you jealous?”

She raised her chin and glared at him.

An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You have no reason to be jealous. I merely tolerated Lady Willowby so that the others would not suspect my affection for you. Now, are you going to tell Henry the truth, or shall I? I fear I cannot wait much longer. It’s difficult to converse with Huntingdon and not tell him.”

She squared her shoulders. “If you must know, I plan to tell Henry tonight outside in the gardens.”

“Good. Because now that I have come to my senses and proposed, it’s hard to be in the same room as you and not touch you.”

She couldn’t suppress the lurch of excitement inside her, and her face grew hot from his words. “We must be careful. And you must be patient.”

“You’re right. I thought I’d mastered the virtue. Until you.” He took another step forward, and her back pressed against the wall. He reached out but didn’t cage her in, rather he caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers—his touch infinitely gentle and seductive. His leg brushed the side of hers, and all her senses heightened. She saw the sharp cheekbones, the indent in his chin that made a woman want to press her lips there. She noticed the fine wool of his evening coat pull taut across his broad shoulders and caught the tantalizing scent of his cologne—sandalwood and cloves—and his unique masculine essence.

“What is it about you, Chloe Somerton?” His voice was a husky whisper, his gaze imprisoning hers.

Her lips curled in a smile. “What is it about you, Your Grace?”

He leaned in, and his lips hovered above hers. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

He pressed closer, and her breasts brushed against his broad chest. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric of her gown, and her body ached for more of his exquisite touch. His breath heated her cheek, then his lips grazed the sensitive shell of her ear.

His voice was a husky whisper. “If I could toss you over my shoulder and claim you as my own, I would. Right here. Right now.” She could see the torment inside him, the same warring emotions that coursed through her—desire, need, an emotional bond between two similar souls.

Despite her nervousness at being caught alone with him, his medieval, possessive words caused the blood to rush through her veins and heat her thighs and groin.

Goodness.

“I want to kiss you. May I?” he asked simply.

Her control was melting like snow in a hot bath. His hot touch…his seductive words…all served to turn her into a boneless mass of need.

“Say yes…”

In that instant, she forgot about the risk of discovery, forgot that her sisters were a few rooms away. The only person that mattered in the world was the man before her.

“Yes,” she breathed. Kiss me.

At last he complied. Standing on tiptoe, she met his kiss. She welcomed him, parting her lips, and giving herself freely to the passion that raged through her. Her fingers clung to the soft wool of his coat before rising to sink into his thick, dark hair. His tongue met hers, gliding and exploring in a sensual swirl. His lips lowered to sear a path down her neck and throat, then the swell of her breasts above her bodice.

His hips pressed against her, his erection hard and demanding. She vividly remembered what it felt like to have him inside her, stretching her. Love flowed through her, and she wanted him again. Wanted more. Now that he’d shown her the pleasure to be had in his arms, she feared she would never be satisfied.

“Michael,” she breathed.

He lifted her leg to wrap it round him, and she pressed against him in blatant invitation. His warm palm skimmed her calf, up her thigh, then stopped at the top of her garter where the bow ended and the soft skin of her thigh began. His touch made her wild in her skin, and she arched closer. His hand traveled higher, higher until his fingers parted her curls between her legs, and he touched her there. Pleasure rippled through her, and she released a cry that was part moan, part sigh.

“Ah, yes,” he groaned.

He watched her, and desire darkened his eyes to almost black as he took in every gasp and his fingers worked their magic. The need to touch him grew. Reaching down, she cupped him through his trousers. He groaned low in his throat. Savage. Primitive. His fingers continued to stroke her, and she feared sliding down the wall in a pool of lust.

“Chloe,” he rasped against the heated skin at her throat.