trembling.
“Is the fire too much for you, Lady Aubourn?” he asked softly, politely.
“No, I am fine, Mr. Ryland. Thank you.” How serene she sounded!
“I ask because you look a little overheated. You are flushed.”
Moira’s gaze flashed to his. Her heart thumped. “You are impertinent, I think, Mr. Ryland.” And she liked it.
His sculpted lips curved to the right. “No doubt you are right, but you have just reminded me of something, my lady.”
Dare she ask? “Oh, what is that?”
He leaned closer, as though he was about to impart something of a secretive nature. “You still owe me a kiss, and if you insist on looking at me as though you would like to cover me in chocolate icing, you had better be ready for me to collect.”
Moira’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She could only stand there and stare at him, burning from head to toe.
A slight flush crept up his cheeks as his gaze settled on her mouth. “Good Lord, woman,” he murmured. “You make me wish I was covered in icing.”
And then he was gone, taking his leave of them in a matter of minutes. After he left, Moira stood there, holding her plate, staring at the slivers of cake lying there. Wynthrope Ryland wanted her. Her . How could this be? And what did it say about her that she enjoyed the wicked things he said, the way he looked at her, as though…as though he wanted to eat her? Just the memory of his gaze sent pinpricks of sensation flooding the surface of her skin. Yes, he was a dangerous, bad, naughty man.
God help her, she more than liked it. She craved it.
“Octavia,” she said, holding out her plate to her friend. “Do you think I might have a little more of the chocolate?”
He should be thinking about Daniels, but instead his head was filled with thoughts of Moira Tyndale. The hours that had passed since the cake incident had not diminished his want, but intensified it. He had known she was at the party the minute he walked in, even though he hadn’t been able to see her.
The woman drew him in as though his will was no longer his own. He couldn’t help but flirt with her, make an idiot of himself. He would do anything to have her—anything. It was an awful feeling, knowing he was so desperate for a woman that he would reveal weaknesses to her.
But his past was something he would never admit, not to Moira Tyndale, not to anyone. Even North did not know the extent of things he had done, the shame he held so close. His brothers did not know the things he held inside, the fears he kept hidden from the world, save in the darkest hours of the night, when his entire life seemed to close in around him, crushing him. To give voice to such things would be the greatest humiliation he could ever face. He could not imagine ever making himself so very vulnerable to another person—he could barely do it within himself.
He was the kind of man who made himself wanted by others. Society matrons loved to have him at their gatherings, gentlemen liked to talk or play cards with him. Women found him charming and men found him amiable, but none of them knew him. He could stand in the middle of a crowded ballroom, such as the one he was in now, surrounded by people, and be totally alone.
Sometimes it felt as though this person he pretended to be, the person everyone knew him to be, was taking over, pushing the real him out. Other times he was just so bloody tiredof always pretending, of always having his guard up. But his true self was so pathetic, so vulnerable and easily hurt that it was easier to hide behind this charming mask.
But it wasn’t just vulnerability he sought to conceal. There were other things as well—things that weren’t so gentle—things that had hurt or scared the few people who had ever seen them. He kept those locked up tight, so tight that sometimes his head ached with the effort. He’d drink to ease his own suffering if he didn’t think the drink would allow all these things to come to the
“Is the fire too much for you, Lady Aubourn?” he asked softly, politely.
“No, I am fine, Mr. Ryland. Thank you.” How serene she sounded!
“I ask because you look a little overheated. You are flushed.”
Moira’s gaze flashed to his. Her heart thumped. “You are impertinent, I think, Mr. Ryland.” And she liked it.
His sculpted lips curved to the right. “No doubt you are right, but you have just reminded me of something, my lady.”
Dare she ask? “Oh, what is that?”
He leaned closer, as though he was about to impart something of a secretive nature. “You still owe me a kiss, and if you insist on looking at me as though you would like to cover me in chocolate icing, you had better be ready for me to collect.”
Moira’s lips parted, but no sound came out. She could only stand there and stare at him, burning from head to toe.
A slight flush crept up his cheeks as his gaze settled on her mouth. “Good Lord, woman,” he murmured. “You make me wish I was covered in icing.”
And then he was gone, taking his leave of them in a matter of minutes. After he left, Moira stood there, holding her plate, staring at the slivers of cake lying there. Wynthrope Ryland wanted her. Her . How could this be? And what did it say about her that she enjoyed the wicked things he said, the way he looked at her, as though…as though he wanted to eat her? Just the memory of his gaze sent pinpricks of sensation flooding the surface of her skin. Yes, he was a dangerous, bad, naughty man.
God help her, she more than liked it. She craved it.
“Octavia,” she said, holding out her plate to her friend. “Do you think I might have a little more of the chocolate?”
He should be thinking about Daniels, but instead his head was filled with thoughts of Moira Tyndale. The hours that had passed since the cake incident had not diminished his want, but intensified it. He had known she was at the party the minute he walked in, even though he hadn’t been able to see her.
The woman drew him in as though his will was no longer his own. He couldn’t help but flirt with her, make an idiot of himself. He would do anything to have her—anything. It was an awful feeling, knowing he was so desperate for a woman that he would reveal weaknesses to her.
But his past was something he would never admit, not to Moira Tyndale, not to anyone. Even North did not know the extent of things he had done, the shame he held so close. His brothers did not know the things he held inside, the fears he kept hidden from the world, save in the darkest hours of the night, when his entire life seemed to close in around him, crushing him. To give voice to such things would be the greatest humiliation he could ever face. He could not imagine ever making himself so very vulnerable to another person—he could barely do it within himself.
He was the kind of man who made himself wanted by others. Society matrons loved to have him at their gatherings, gentlemen liked to talk or play cards with him. Women found him charming and men found him amiable, but none of them knew him. He could stand in the middle of a crowded ballroom, such as the one he was in now, surrounded by people, and be totally alone.
Sometimes it felt as though this person he pretended to be, the person everyone knew him to be, was taking over, pushing the real him out. Other times he was just so bloody tiredof always pretending, of always having his guard up. But his true self was so pathetic, so vulnerable and easily hurt that it was easier to hide behind this charming mask.
But it wasn’t just vulnerability he sought to conceal. There were other things as well—things that weren’t so gentle—things that had hurt or scared the few people who had ever seen them. He kept those locked up tight, so tight that sometimes his head ached with the effort. He’d drink to ease his own suffering if he didn’t think the drink would allow all these things to come to the
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