Page 46 of The Lady Knows Best

The tip of his tongue touched the center of her bottom lip. And when her lips parted on a sigh, his tongue ventured farther still, sweeping right into her mouth. Surely such a sensation ought to be appalling to a gently bred young lady. So why did she tilt her head, open wider, moan with pleasure as his tongue tangled with hers?

He was a rake, practiced at the arts of seduction. Nothing more, nothing less.

His hands, which had bracketed her ribs, slid slowly higher, beneath her bosom. He must feel how her heart raced, how her breath had quickened. And when he swept one thumb over the curve her breast, then higher, over her nipple, her borrowed dress suddenly felt much too tight.

He dragged his mouth along her jaw and down her neck, peppering the thin skin there with sharper kisses that made her pulse threaten to leap from her throat. “Checkmate?” she managed to whisper in his ear, a plea for mercy, a surrender. She had neither the strength nor the desire to push him away.

He chuckled softly. “My dear, that was only the first move.”

You might find you quite enjoy being ruined.

But he did take half a step back, and his hands slid to her waist. Hardly enough space for her to catch her breath, to say nothing of gather her thoughts, which had scattered to the four corners of the earth.

He was studying her face, and she hardly knew how to describe his expression: surprised but triumphant was the closest she could come. “I am glad to know that your siblings weren’t perfect saints in their own courtships. They won’t have much room to complain when they see you looking so thoroughly kissed.”

She released his lapels with the intent to reach up and smooth her hair. But she found herself smoothing the fabric of his coat instead, her palms sweeping over his firm chest.

And when she at last dragged one hand away, he caught it before she could cover her mouth with it. “It’s not your lips that give you away,” he insisted, kissing her fingertips. “It’s your eyes.”

Even his own pupils were flared—and she couldn’t imagine how many women he’d kissed. What could be new and exciting about the experience to him? But if he looked like that, then she—why, she must look like Eve in the Garden, after her first taste from the Tree of Knowledge.

Hungry for more.

No matter how many cross-outs and crumpled sheets of paper it took, she was going to have to find the words to explain everything that a rake had the power to make a young lady feel. Ruination, she was discovering, did not exactly come in the form young ladies were taught to guard against.

Her body was far more prone to betrayal than she had been led to expect.

Her mind had turned out to be no firmer or more dependable than a bowl of porridge.

Thank God her heart remained her own. At least, for now.

Attached as it was to the rest of her, she no longer felt certain even of that.

“Come,” he said, letting go of her, tugging his coat into place, and holding out an arm. His wry expression told her that he had guessed at least a fraction of her thoughts. “It’s best if we rejoin the others before someone comes looking for us.”

She nodded and slipped a hand around his elbow. Rather different from their furtive, separate departure from Lord Estley’s study. Now everyone was meant to know....

Upstairs, in the family parlor, there was no pretense of distraction, no books or cards or tinkling pianoforte. The men were all still on their feet, and every head swiveled to face the doorway the moment she and Miles crossed the threshold. Even Zwolf, who had been lounging in front of the fire, rose and ambled toward them.

“Well?” Paris demanded.

Ignoring the question, Miles released her arm, crouched, and rubbed the dog’s ears. “And who is this good boy?”

“Zwolf,” Daphne whispered, moving her mouth as little as possible. She laid a hand on Miles’s shoulder, to urge him to rise, and darted a quick glance around the room at her siblings’ astonished stares. Only Gabriel looked amused by his attention to the dog—perhaps even approving.

“Oh, right,” Miles said, as if suddenly aware of the pressure of Daphne’s fingers. “Sorry.” He straightened, dusted off his hands, and nodded toward Paris. “Your sister has agreed to make me the happiest of men.”

She wasn’t exactly surprised to see something other than relief in her family’s faces as they took in Miles’s perfunctory announcement. (He had resumed scratching the dog’s broad head.) Only Bell clasped her hands in excitement and started forward, but she stopped herself even before Cami could raise a staying eyebrow.

“Allow me to extend an invitation to my home, Lyneham Park, in Hertfordshire. I know you are not all at liberty to travel, particularly on such short notice,” Miles acknowledged, with a slight dip of his head toward Erica, whose condition was just beginning to be evident beneath her fashionable high-waisted gown, “and this is not the usual season for a house party. But I’m sure Daphne will wish to see the estate of which she is soon to become mistress. And I—well, I confess it has always been my fondest wish to marry in my village church.”

His fondest wish?

Was that a teasing reference to Daphne’s claim that only young ladies thought about weddings? Or merely a satirical reflection on the fact that he’d planned one wedding already this spring?

“Before the end of the month, I take it,” said Tristan—merely to keep Paris from doing so, she thought. Away from Rosamund’s softening influence, her brother’s features were hard as granite.

“Just so, Your Grace,” Miles replied, with a smile that revealed yet another reason why he was called that devil, Deveraux. “Now, allow me to thank you for your hospitality, Lady Ashborough, and wish you all good night.” He snatched Daphne’s limp hand and lifted it almost to his mouth. Even without the brush of his lips, her fingertips tingled. “Hurry to your packing, my dear.”