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Authors: Loretta Chase
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mouth . . . then slid downward to her bodice.
Beneath layers of silk and undergarments, her flesh prickled under the slow perusal, and the sensations spread outward until her fingers and toes tingled.
He was trying to make her uneasy.
He was doing a splendid job.
But he faced madness and death, she reminded herself, next to which her own anxieties could not possibly signify.
By the time the potent golden stare returned to her face, Gwendolyn had collected at least a portion of her composure.
“I am not sure you have identified the correct voice as reason’s,” she said. “I am absolutely certain, though, that if Abonville tries to take me away, I shall take a fit. I went to a good deal of trouble to get ready for the wedding. My head is stuck full of pins and my maid laced my stays so tight it is a wonder my lips haven’t turned blue. It took her a full hour to tie and hook me into this gown, and I shall likely be three hours trying to get out of it.”
“I can get you out of that gown in a minute,” he said too quietly. “And 1 shall be happy to relieve you of your painful stays. It would be better for you not to put such ideas into my head.”
As though they weren’t already there, she thought. As though he hadn’t warned her: he hadn’t had a woman in a year.
Though she knew he was testing her maidenly fortitude, his low voice set her nerves aquiver.
He was taller than she. And heavier. And stronger.
A part of her wanted to bolt.
But he was not on the brink of a violent lunatic fit, she scolded herself. He was feigning, to test her, and allowing him to intimidate her was no way to win his trust.
“I do not see why it would be better,” she said. “I do not want you to be indifferent to me.”
“It would be better for you if I were.”
He had not moved an inch nearer, yet his low voice and glowing eyes exerted a suffocating pressure.
Gwendolyn reminded herself that the Almighty had been throwing obstacles in her path practically since the day she was born and had confronted her repeatedly with men determined to browbeat or frighten her.
That was sufficient practice for dealing with him.
“I know I am an infernal complication,” she said. “I realize you feel put upon, and I do understand your resentment of your—your masculine urges, which incline you to act against your better judgment. But you are not looking on the bright side. A lack of such urges would indicate a failure of health and strength.”
She caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes in the instant before he masked it.
“You ought to look upon your animal urges as a positive sign,” she persisted. “You are not as far gone as you thought you were.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I find myself in far worse case than I had imagined.”
He directed his yellow stare to a point on her left shoulder where the neckline of her gown left off and her skin began . . . and instantly she became hotly conscious of every square inch of her skin.
She heard a crackling sound. Looking down, she saw the paper crumpling in his tightly clenched hand.
He looked there, too. “It hardly matters what I sign,” he said. “Nothing matters that should.” He crushed the document into a ball and threw it down.
Her heart was pumping double-time, speeding the blood through her veins in preparation for flight.
“Damn me,” he said. He advanced.
She sucked in her breath.
He grasped her shoulders. “A pretty fellow, am I? Take a fit, will you? I’ll show you a fit.”
Before she could exhale, he clamped one hand on the back of her neck, pulled her head back, and brought his mouth down upon hers.
I T WAS HER fault, Dorian told himself. She should not have looked at him in that bone-melting way. She should not have stood so near and caught him in her scent, rich and heady as opium to his starved senses. She should have run, instead of staying so close and snaring him in awareness of the fine, porcelain purity of her skin.
He
Beneath layers of silk and undergarments, her flesh prickled under the slow perusal, and the sensations spread outward until her fingers and toes tingled.
He was trying to make her uneasy.
He was doing a splendid job.
But he faced madness and death, she reminded herself, next to which her own anxieties could not possibly signify.
By the time the potent golden stare returned to her face, Gwendolyn had collected at least a portion of her composure.
“I am not sure you have identified the correct voice as reason’s,” she said. “I am absolutely certain, though, that if Abonville tries to take me away, I shall take a fit. I went to a good deal of trouble to get ready for the wedding. My head is stuck full of pins and my maid laced my stays so tight it is a wonder my lips haven’t turned blue. It took her a full hour to tie and hook me into this gown, and I shall likely be three hours trying to get out of it.”
“I can get you out of that gown in a minute,” he said too quietly. “And 1 shall be happy to relieve you of your painful stays. It would be better for you not to put such ideas into my head.”
As though they weren’t already there, she thought. As though he hadn’t warned her: he hadn’t had a woman in a year.
Though she knew he was testing her maidenly fortitude, his low voice set her nerves aquiver.
He was taller than she. And heavier. And stronger.
A part of her wanted to bolt.
But he was not on the brink of a violent lunatic fit, she scolded herself. He was feigning, to test her, and allowing him to intimidate her was no way to win his trust.
“I do not see why it would be better,” she said. “I do not want you to be indifferent to me.”
“It would be better for you if I were.”
He had not moved an inch nearer, yet his low voice and glowing eyes exerted a suffocating pressure.
Gwendolyn reminded herself that the Almighty had been throwing obstacles in her path practically since the day she was born and had confronted her repeatedly with men determined to browbeat or frighten her.
That was sufficient practice for dealing with him.
“I know I am an infernal complication,” she said. “I realize you feel put upon, and I do understand your resentment of your—your masculine urges, which incline you to act against your better judgment. But you are not looking on the bright side. A lack of such urges would indicate a failure of health and strength.”
She caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes in the instant before he masked it.
“You ought to look upon your animal urges as a positive sign,” she persisted. “You are not as far gone as you thought you were.”
“On the contrary,” he said. “I find myself in far worse case than I had imagined.”
He directed his yellow stare to a point on her left shoulder where the neckline of her gown left off and her skin began . . . and instantly she became hotly conscious of every square inch of her skin.
She heard a crackling sound. Looking down, she saw the paper crumpling in his tightly clenched hand.
He looked there, too. “It hardly matters what I sign,” he said. “Nothing matters that should.” He crushed the document into a ball and threw it down.
Her heart was pumping double-time, speeding the blood through her veins in preparation for flight.
“Damn me,” he said. He advanced.
She sucked in her breath.
He grasped her shoulders. “A pretty fellow, am I? Take a fit, will you? I’ll show you a fit.”
Before she could exhale, he clamped one hand on the back of her neck, pulled her head back, and brought his mouth down upon hers.
I T WAS HER fault, Dorian told himself. She should not have looked at him in that bone-melting way. She should not have stood so near and caught him in her scent, rich and heady as opium to his starved senses. She should have run, instead of staying so close and snaring him in awareness of the fine, porcelain purity of her skin.
He
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