Read Online A Wicked Lord at the Wedding by Jillian Hunter - Free Book Online
Authors: Jillian Hunter
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him first?
She suspected she had, which did not bode well for her planned revenge. Up until then, they had both shown remarkable control. She hadn’t wanted to break first.
Her thoughts dissolved. Male power dominated her. Not an evil twin. This
was
the man who had taught her everything she knew about love and loss. Wasn’t she supposed to teach him a lesson? Didn’t he need to know that he couldn’t pop in and out of her life with impunity?
The carriage rounded another corner. Sebastien’s body steadied hers while her senses spun; her pulses throbbed in painful need. He exploited her response. He drew her closer, crushing her breasts to his chest, kissing her shoulders, promising her she wouldn’t be sorry that he’d come home. Her head dropped backas his hard mouth demanded more than she’d intended to give. At the very least he could tell her why he’d gone.
“We’re almost home,” she murmured.
“Thank God.”
His mouth captured her helpless moan. She melted into reflective submission, her hope for a forceful response less likely by the moment. With artful seduction he kept kissing her until it was torment not to ask for more. Finally she placed one hand around his neck and sank slowly back. He bent over her. His thick erection strained against her stomach. Her body responded eagerly to his potent sexuality.
He trailed his gloved fingertips across her collarbone, into her neckline, between her swollen breasts where her heart fluttered. A stinging flush rose to her skin, his caresses incendiary, a flagrant beguilement. She lifted her head to stare up into his strong-boned face.
No safety there. His eyes glittered down at her with an elemental desire that laid her heart bare. Her husband, a man she did not recognize, but hungered for all the same. He had hurt her.
“I have never kissed a woman with whiskers before,” he said softly.
She had to laugh. “And I’ve never kissed a rat.”
“Then we must be very desperate.”
“Or married,” she said, wriggling back into a sitting position.
He sat back, his expression watchful. “You’ll be glad to get out of that costume when we get home.”
“That depends,” she said after a pause.
His brow lifted. “On?”
“On what I shall be getting into.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” His rich voice resonated in the dark confines of the carriage. “We’ve just turned off Brompton Road.”
She glanced over his shoulder to the window. That
was
the old tavern on the corner. Surely she could last a minute or so more. But she could not fend him off indefinitely as she had the past few weeks.
What to do? Engage? Escape? But to where? The marriage laws, as deeply rooted in Anglo-Saxon autocracy as he appeared to be, provided no feasible escape from living with her husband.
Why he had waited until tonight to pursue his marital rights seemed irrelevant. She suspected she’d given him more than a little encouragement. He slid back against her. She opened her mouth to object, then stopped at the naked longing in his look. Raise the drawbridge. Call out the guards.
His hand cupped her chin. “Elle,” he said gently, using his pet name for her. “You still want me.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And I want a gold-wheeled carriage, a palace in India, a hundred servants at my beck and call. I want wine with every meal and—in my father’s words—things that are not always good for me.”
“I’ll be good for you.” He stared at her in conviction. “And good to you. Please say that you want me.”
The carriage slowed.
“Very well,” she said. “I want you in the way that you probably mean. But even more I want to know that you won’t walk in and out of my life again and expect me to wait, or to be the same.”
“I realize that now.” He paused. It seemed too easy. “Is that all?”
“Well, you have to prove it.”
“Can’t I have you now and offer proof later?”
She shook her head in exasperation. The carriage rocked to
She suspected she had, which did not bode well for her planned revenge. Up until then, they had both shown remarkable control. She hadn’t wanted to break first.
Her thoughts dissolved. Male power dominated her. Not an evil twin. This
was
the man who had taught her everything she knew about love and loss. Wasn’t she supposed to teach him a lesson? Didn’t he need to know that he couldn’t pop in and out of her life with impunity?
The carriage rounded another corner. Sebastien’s body steadied hers while her senses spun; her pulses throbbed in painful need. He exploited her response. He drew her closer, crushing her breasts to his chest, kissing her shoulders, promising her she wouldn’t be sorry that he’d come home. Her head dropped backas his hard mouth demanded more than she’d intended to give. At the very least he could tell her why he’d gone.
“We’re almost home,” she murmured.
“Thank God.”
His mouth captured her helpless moan. She melted into reflective submission, her hope for a forceful response less likely by the moment. With artful seduction he kept kissing her until it was torment not to ask for more. Finally she placed one hand around his neck and sank slowly back. He bent over her. His thick erection strained against her stomach. Her body responded eagerly to his potent sexuality.
He trailed his gloved fingertips across her collarbone, into her neckline, between her swollen breasts where her heart fluttered. A stinging flush rose to her skin, his caresses incendiary, a flagrant beguilement. She lifted her head to stare up into his strong-boned face.
No safety there. His eyes glittered down at her with an elemental desire that laid her heart bare. Her husband, a man she did not recognize, but hungered for all the same. He had hurt her.
“I have never kissed a woman with whiskers before,” he said softly.
She had to laugh. “And I’ve never kissed a rat.”
“Then we must be very desperate.”
“Or married,” she said, wriggling back into a sitting position.
He sat back, his expression watchful. “You’ll be glad to get out of that costume when we get home.”
“That depends,” she said after a pause.
His brow lifted. “On?”
“On what I shall be getting into.”
“We’ll find out soon enough.” His rich voice resonated in the dark confines of the carriage. “We’ve just turned off Brompton Road.”
She glanced over his shoulder to the window. That
was
the old tavern on the corner. Surely she could last a minute or so more. But she could not fend him off indefinitely as she had the past few weeks.
What to do? Engage? Escape? But to where? The marriage laws, as deeply rooted in Anglo-Saxon autocracy as he appeared to be, provided no feasible escape from living with her husband.
Why he had waited until tonight to pursue his marital rights seemed irrelevant. She suspected she’d given him more than a little encouragement. He slid back against her. She opened her mouth to object, then stopped at the naked longing in his look. Raise the drawbridge. Call out the guards.
His hand cupped her chin. “Elle,” he said gently, using his pet name for her. “You still want me.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And I want a gold-wheeled carriage, a palace in India, a hundred servants at my beck and call. I want wine with every meal and—in my father’s words—things that are not always good for me.”
“I’ll be good for you.” He stared at her in conviction. “And good to you. Please say that you want me.”
The carriage slowed.
“Very well,” she said. “I want you in the way that you probably mean. But even more I want to know that you won’t walk in and out of my life again and expect me to wait, or to be the same.”
“I realize that now.” He paused. It seemed too easy. “Is that all?”
“Well, you have to prove it.”
“Can’t I have you now and offer proof later?”
She shook her head in exasperation. The carriage rocked to
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