Page 49 of To Dare a Duke

He frowned and looked away from her.

“Yes, that was what I told you.”

“And is that untrue?” she asked, drawing his attention back to her, unsettled by his expression. He looked less the gentleman without his coat on. He’d run his hand through his hair and the thick locks were dishevelled, the shadow of his beard visible even though he was clean shaven. The interior of the carriage had grown gloomy, shrinking somehow as a large cloud blocked the sun. Robert’s eyes were dark and intense, the hard planes of his face severe in the dim light.

“It was true then,” he said, the words careful, considered.

Prue’s heart picked up. “And now?” she asked, startled by the breathless quality of her voice. “What is true now?”

He shifted closer to her on the bench and she drew in a sharp breath as he reached out and touched her chin with a fingertip, lifting her head a little.

“The truth is,” he said, his voice low and slow and heavy with promise. “I don’t know, but I can’t get the idea of kissing you out of my mind. I’m desperate to do it again.” He inched a little closer, still touching her nowhere but the fingertip that burned beneath her skin, the slight contact electrifying. “I want to take you home and take you to my bed. I want to ruin you. Not in the eyes of the ton, not for society, not to force your hand… I want to ruin you, so you’ll want no one else but me.”

Prue swallowed, her breathing growing erratic. Good lord. She was alive with anticipation, with temptation, and with desire, whilst a teeny tiny part of her brain also longed for pencil and paper so she could write down what he’d just said in precise detail, as it was the most spectacular thing she’d ever heard.

“Well?” he said his gaze hot and urgent.

Prue racked her brain, trying to figure out if there had been a question there. She was distracted by his mouth, so close, remembering how it had felt against hers, soft and warm, tender and demanding.

“Er….” She felt as if she was on quicksand, sinking into a situation where her grasp on control would slip through her fingers at speed, and lead her into danger. Oh, danger, she thought with a sigh, staring up into those wicked eyes, thick, dark lashes framing desire and the promise of decadent pleasures. Yes, please.

“That was not an answer,” he said, his breath fanning over her. Her body was on fire, every inch of her skin alive with his proximity. Liquid, molten heat pooled in her belly, and there was a strange aching sensation between her thighs that was startling and strange and… not unwelcome.

“W-What was the question?” she stammered, licking her lips and trying to tamp down the urge to throw her arms around his neck and just agree to whatever it was he would offer her. She was not that woman.

Prue wrote about reckless women, women who gave into desire and fell into dramatic circumstances, but Prunella Chuffington-Smythe was not the kind of woman to be swept away by love and romance and passion. Certainly not. She was too sensible, too level-headed, too….

“Shall I kiss you?” he asked, interrupting her train of thought.

“Yes, please.”

The words were out in a rush, before sensible, level-headed Prue could even consider her answer. Somewhere inside her, another, braver, fiercer Prue had raised her head and taken charge, taken what she wanted. As his head lowered, his lips meeting hers, she couldn’t find it in herself to regret it.

Kissing was not something Prue had a great deal of experience with. There had been a boy at a party. They’d been young, barely thirteen, and he’d been cheeky and sweet and had stolen a kiss. Such innocence in that kiss, a dry press of lips. There was nothing innocent about this, or about this man. The more he kissed her the more she wanted, needed, him to continue. His mouth took and gave, all at once, sometimes gentle and caressing, then deepening, demanding things her body seemed to understand without question.

The thoughts that arose as that kiss grew wilder were shocking and delicious.

Prue knew the facts of life. She’d long ago decided she could not write about romance, sin, and temptation if she didn’t know the mechanics of what drove men and women to take such terrible risks with their reputations, their lives, and their souls. Yet discovering how two bodies fit together was no more helpful than reading a recipe. Prue might know the composite requirements, eggs, butter, flour… but she couldn’t smell the decadent perfume, couldn’t taste the sweet, tart, soft, crisp textures and flavours.

She couldn’t experience it.

She hadn’t had the slightest idea.

His breath was hot and urgent, her own coming in short, desperate little gasps, overwhelmed and wanting more. Good lord, what was she doing? Yet, if she was never to marry, this might be her only chance to experience this thrilling insanity. How could she write about passion without ever having tasted it?

Robert groaned, a low, wild sound deep in his throat that made fire chase through her veins. She was powerful, she had power over him in this moment, and yet she was out of control, driven by her own desire, which was far fiercer than she’d ever suspected.

Thoughts clamoured in her feverish brain, thoughts of the heat of his skin against hers, of the weight of his body over her, his hands on her. Madness. Utter, bewildering, divine madness. There were only two options: dare to face her own desire and succumb to it, or listen to reason and stop this at once.

Reason would have her accept the first offer of marriage she gained, no matter from whom.

Reason would never have allowed her to lift a pen and write a romantic story.

Reason would keep her polite, within the bounds of propriety.

Obedient.

Decision made.