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Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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returning his gaze to her eyes, he raised a hand and, with the pad of one finger, traced the tempting alabaster curve.
He watched her eyes flare, heard the hitch in her already shallow breathing. And wished the light was sufficient for him to see more, to be able to read her awakening desire.
Her lips, rosy and ripe, parted. Softened in instinctive, reactive invitation.
He could kiss her now—could commence her seduction here, in this moment.
Temptation whispered, more potent than he’d expected. His mouth all but watered with the urge to take hers.
But he wasn’t ranked among the ton’s greatest lovers because he didn’t understand what seduction truly was.
Seduction wasn’t about tempting a lady to surrender to her lover’s desire.
It was all about inducing her to surrender to her own.
She had to want him.
She had to come to him.
And she would.
To him, for him, with her especially, it had to be that way.
He needed her to want him every bit as much as he was starting to realize he might come to desire her.
Drawing breath, he mentally stepped back from the brink he’d brought them to.
Lowering his hand, he closed his fingers about her elbow. “Come.” Gently, he turned her to the steps. “I’ll escort you back inside.”
She drew in a sharp, slightly shaky breath, considered him for an instant—no doubt debating whether to protest his caress . . . or leave it lying unacknowledged between them. He wasn’t surprised when she chose the latter option. Eyes narrowing, she nevertheless allowed him to steady her down the steps, then he released her and, head rising, she fell in beside him.
They walked back toward the house.
“Via the terrace,” he murmured, waving her that way.
She obliged and headed back the way she’d come, but a few steps on asked, “Why?”
He took two more paces before replying, “If we were seen coming out of the garden hall, there would be talk—it’s an obvious place for an assignation and sufficiently illicit to arouse the imaginations of the gossipmongers, regardless of your age.”
She mulled that over, then observed, “But you escorting me in from the terrace won’t raise eyebrows?”
“No. Not at all.” He glanced at her, met her eyes. Eventually replied, “That’s one benefit of a reputation such as mine. Unless we do something too jarringly blatant—leaving the garden hall together, for instance—then given my well-known predilections, anyone seeing me escorting you in, entirely mundanely via the terrace, will simply assume that I’ve obliged in escorting you outside for some air—as, indeed, I did earlier. Nothing in the least gossip-worthy.”
Rounding the corner of the house, they climbed the steps to the terrace and saw two couples heading for the French doors. They brought up the rear.
When Mary halted to allow him to draw back the gauzy curtain, he reached around her, but paused with his arm blocking her progress, the curtain a translucent screen between them and the occupants of the ballroom.
She shot him a questioning glance.
He caught it, trapped her gaze. Lowering his head, his voice soft, his tone conversational but private, said, “So, you see, no one would ever imagine that I might seduce you.” He held her widening eyes. “You’re too young, too innocent.” His let his lips curve. “And entirely too marriageable. Very definitely not my style of lover.”
She stared into his eyes, then her gaze traveled over his face, fastened on his lips, lingered for an instant, then she sniffed, faced forward, and, when he drew back the curtain, walked calmly into the ballroom.
He followed, his gaze on her slender back. And omitted to add that he was, however, increasingly sure she was his style of wife.
Chapter Three
“I had no idea we’d have to race off to Wiltshire, and Simon and Portia are keen to go, too—mostly to take the children out of London, to give them a break from town.” Across the breakfast table, Henrietta looked
He watched her eyes flare, heard the hitch in her already shallow breathing. And wished the light was sufficient for him to see more, to be able to read her awakening desire.
Her lips, rosy and ripe, parted. Softened in instinctive, reactive invitation.
He could kiss her now—could commence her seduction here, in this moment.
Temptation whispered, more potent than he’d expected. His mouth all but watered with the urge to take hers.
But he wasn’t ranked among the ton’s greatest lovers because he didn’t understand what seduction truly was.
Seduction wasn’t about tempting a lady to surrender to her lover’s desire.
It was all about inducing her to surrender to her own.
She had to want him.
She had to come to him.
And she would.
To him, for him, with her especially, it had to be that way.
He needed her to want him every bit as much as he was starting to realize he might come to desire her.
Drawing breath, he mentally stepped back from the brink he’d brought them to.
Lowering his hand, he closed his fingers about her elbow. “Come.” Gently, he turned her to the steps. “I’ll escort you back inside.”
She drew in a sharp, slightly shaky breath, considered him for an instant—no doubt debating whether to protest his caress . . . or leave it lying unacknowledged between them. He wasn’t surprised when she chose the latter option. Eyes narrowing, she nevertheless allowed him to steady her down the steps, then he released her and, head rising, she fell in beside him.
They walked back toward the house.
“Via the terrace,” he murmured, waving her that way.
She obliged and headed back the way she’d come, but a few steps on asked, “Why?”
He took two more paces before replying, “If we were seen coming out of the garden hall, there would be talk—it’s an obvious place for an assignation and sufficiently illicit to arouse the imaginations of the gossipmongers, regardless of your age.”
She mulled that over, then observed, “But you escorting me in from the terrace won’t raise eyebrows?”
“No. Not at all.” He glanced at her, met her eyes. Eventually replied, “That’s one benefit of a reputation such as mine. Unless we do something too jarringly blatant—leaving the garden hall together, for instance—then given my well-known predilections, anyone seeing me escorting you in, entirely mundanely via the terrace, will simply assume that I’ve obliged in escorting you outside for some air—as, indeed, I did earlier. Nothing in the least gossip-worthy.”
Rounding the corner of the house, they climbed the steps to the terrace and saw two couples heading for the French doors. They brought up the rear.
When Mary halted to allow him to draw back the gauzy curtain, he reached around her, but paused with his arm blocking her progress, the curtain a translucent screen between them and the occupants of the ballroom.
She shot him a questioning glance.
He caught it, trapped her gaze. Lowering his head, his voice soft, his tone conversational but private, said, “So, you see, no one would ever imagine that I might seduce you.” He held her widening eyes. “You’re too young, too innocent.” His let his lips curve. “And entirely too marriageable. Very definitely not my style of lover.”
She stared into his eyes, then her gaze traveled over his face, fastened on his lips, lingered for an instant, then she sniffed, faced forward, and, when he drew back the curtain, walked calmly into the ballroom.
He followed, his gaze on her slender back. And omitted to add that he was, however, increasingly sure she was his style of wife.
Chapter Three
“I had no idea we’d have to race off to Wiltshire, and Simon and Portia are keen to go, too—mostly to take the children out of London, to give them a break from town.” Across the breakfast table, Henrietta looked
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