Page 96 of A Virgin for the Duke of Thorns

“Do not ever refer to yourself in such a degrading way,” he implored her. “It was my fault. I hurt you, and that is a crime I will carry to my grave.”

He sighed and took something out from underneath his coat. “I would have stayed out in the rain longer, but I could not risk getting this wet.”

Alice stared at the nondescript package wrapped in brown paper that he handed to her. She took it with some confusion, feeling its weight in her hands.

With aching slowness, she unwrapped it, sucking in a harsh breath when she saw what lay underneath the lumpy packaging. It was La Philosophie dans Le Boudoir.

The translated version.

A harsh laugh erupted from her throat.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

Colin smiled gently at her. “I brought it to you, so we could read it together.”

“Together?” She laughed bitterly. “You must have been mistaken, Your Grace. We have already broken off our betrothal. There is no need for such gifts between us and certainly not one as inappropriate as this.”

“You are furious, I understand that. If you would hurl it at my face, I would not fault you for it. But Alice…” He took her hands in his and looked deeply into her eyes.

In them, she saw remorse and a sincerity that shattered the last of her defenses. She wanted so badly to believe him, to believe that she had a chance of capturing the elusive heart of the man before her, but pain had made her blind to almost everything else. It was her last shred of self-preservation that erected the wall between them, and now she stood wholly vulnerable once more.

Just as she always had been.

“I have hurt you,” he said hoarsely, “when I only ever meant to protect you from myself.”

She shook her head, her tears streaming down her cheeks. “Don’t you think that it was my choice to make whether I wanted to be with you or not?”

“I was a fool,” he admitted. “I had grown up witnessing my father’s jealousy and feared I had inherited the same madness that ran in his blood. When my parents perished in the fire at Blackthorn Estate, I was certain that it was his jealous rage that claimed their lives. I was wrong. My father loved my mother more than life itself. It was not his insanity I inherited. It was his passion.”

He reached out for her. “I know now that I could never hurt you, my dear, sweet Alice. I cannot live without you.”

“Well, it is too late for that now,” she said, angrily wiping her tears. “You’ve already done your worst. I must have been such a joke to you, the easiest conquest you’ve ever had!”

He reeled back as if she had slapped him physically. “Do not ever refer to yourself in that way!” he implored her.

“Oh, but is that not the truth?” she laughed harshly. “With other women, you would woo them with poems and all that romantic nonsense. Seduce them to come to your bed. You did not even have to spend half the effort to get me there!”

“Who told you that?” he demanded darkly.

“Lady Pembroke did!” she flung at him. “She did because she probably took pity on me for being such a fool for you!”

He cut off her angry tirade by reaching for the back of her neck and pulling her to him in a scorching kiss that blasted away all that was left of her resistance. His lips mashed against hers, his fingers digging almost painfully into her flesh.

They parted breathlessly, and Colin leaned his forehead against hers. He caught her hand gently in his and pressed it to his groin, where he was already hard and straining against his breeches.

“This is why I had not the forbearance to recite poems,” he admitted hoarsely. “Can you not see how much I want you, Alice? How could I think of any poem when all I could think of was you?”

Alice sucked in a deep breath, her fingers curling reflexively around his engorged manhood through his clothes, eliciting a tormented hiss from him.

“With other women, it had become a sort of game for me,” he confessed. “It was abominable of me, I know, but we were all players. With you, it is different. With you, I am consumed by passion. I have no control left in me. All I want is you, my little lamb, and my every rational thought is consumed by you.”

She looked up at him, to his eyes, which were dark with lust and want and something else. Something that went far deeper.

“You want me,” she murmured.

“More than reason,” he whispered hoarsely. “More than life itself.”

Her heart soared, and with a slight smile, she stepped away from him. Colin let out a soft sound of protest, but he held himself back.

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