Page 155 of A Perilous Passion

“What are you thinking about, minx?” he asked.

“You. About how you might be reformed.”

He laughed softly, and she loved the way it revealed his strong, white teeth. “And you think you might be the one to reform me?”

She smiled ruefully. “I suspect not. I don’t have much of a reputation for common sense. And that’s what you need—someone to talk you out of your madcap schemes. They’re liable to get you killed.”

“I’m gratified by your concern. I confess the game in which I’m currently involved is, indeed, fueled by suicidal lunacy. But so are all wars. Mine is just fought on a different kind of battlefield.”

She traced her finger across his lips again, fascinated at having his face so close to hers, eager to explore it, to investigate its different textures—the stubbled roughness of his jaw, the delicate skin of his eyelids, and the supremely silken, sensitive flesh of his mouth.

Suddenly, she found herself on top of him, lifted there in a single expert scoop of his arms.

She really ought to wriggle off, but she couldn’t imagine a better place to be than touching the full length of his powerful body, her breasts crushed with every lift of his rib cage, her nipples tightening at the contact and longing to be touched by his hands.

His stomach, flat and firm, pressed against her belly, and heat erupted there, pooling between her legs. Slowly, he pulled her farther up his body, and every nerve in her sprang to rich, sensuous vibrancy.

Then he kissed her. His lips slid over hers, caressing them, then slipped away to tease her cheek and temple, then came back and kissed her mouth again, harder than before, urging her to open. His tongue thrust in.

The throbbing between her legs heightened, and she moaned softly. She wanted something desperately, but didn’t know exactly what.

He intensified the kiss, pushing still harder into her mouth, and his body began to move with the same rhythm, his hips rocking slowly and suggestively against hers. His hands found her breasts and teased the nipples into full, aching awareness. She moaned again, and her hands raked up into his hair, clenching against his head.

Something pressed against her belly that hadn’t been there before, and she knew it was a sign of male arousal, a sign that his body wanted hers. She shivered in anticipation and wonder, eager to know more.

But he broke the kiss and rasped out against her hair, “No, be still. We’re playing with fire. If you have any consideration for me at all, I beg you, go to your own bed. And before you do, throw a bucket of cold water over me.”

Propping herself up on her elbows, she examined the face of the man whose body was giving her an invitation his mind denied.

His jaw was tight, and there was heightened color in his cheeks. “You’re too innocent to know the danger you’re in,” he said. “Yes, I know, you nearly eloped with a boy who kissed you and groped you. But this is different. I could so very easily bring about your complete ruin.”

“I’m sure I can rely on your discretion,” she said. “Unless you once again think to blackmail my family by compromising me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief second. “Forgive me for that particular piece of idiocy. But think of the possible consequences if we take this further. There’d be nothing discreet about a crying babe. How would your family cope with that scandal?”

She swallowed, potent desire warring with her good sense. “Are there not preventatives for such things? I’m certain Dr. L. E. Campaign must have something in his formidable arsenal.”

“You’re teasing me,” Rafe complained. “And I’m not of a mind to be teased. How can I risk getting you with child when we’re not wed? I wish it could be otherwise, but it would be a selfish cruelty to marry you and leave you pregnant when I could so easily end up dead in a ditch. You’re too young to be a widow with a babe to raise alone.”

She pressed her hands together above his breastbone and rested her chin on it. “These are not the words of a rake,” she said consideringly.

“You deserve better than a rake,” he replied with equal seriousness, then turned his head away and exhaled deeply.

Realizing that signaled the end of their conversation, she pushed out a frustrated sigh and removed herself carefully from his supine form. Without his heat, without his caress, she felt lost, like a candle smoking forlornly after its brilliance has been snuffed out.

She pushed her feet into her slippers and pulled her woolen shawl closely about her shoulders. “As you wish, my lord. I’ll see you in the morning,” she said, and left the room.

After closing the door behind her, she leaned back against it, seeking comfort from its sturdiness. Her heart was hammering fit to burst.

She’d been just a whisper away from giving herself to him entirely. Thank heaven Rafe had more self-control than she did.

Admittedly, he’d said he would marry her. But how could she possibly ensure he honored that promise?

Especially given her checkered background…

If the Earl of Beckport married her without knowing her darkest secret, their marriage would be built on a lie. And when the story came out—as it surely would—she’d be damned by him, and they’d both be cast from Society by the ton.

It might not matter to her because she was nobody. But how could she wish such a fate on Rafe, a man who was risking his very life to redeem his good name and resurrect his tarnished reputation?