Page 63 of His Runaway Duchess

Edward was still staring at her, his eyes narrowed.

“Yes,” he said, at last. “What woman would want romance, companionship, and a family? What a nonsensical idea.”

She flushed. “You were the one who told me how things would be.”

Abruptly, he pushed off the door, taking a step forward and closing the distance between them. He would have pressed against her if she hadn’t taken an involuntary step back.

“To be clear,” he drawled, “your only concerns here are legal ones, yes?”

She turned redder than ever, probably resembling a ripe beet at this point.

“Of course,” she managed.

He took another step forward, and she took another step back. She bumped against the newel of his bedpost, but he kept coming, looming over her. If only the wretched man were not sotall.

“So, you’d like our marriage to be official,” he continued, half speaking to himself. “And so we must bed each other for tonight, at least?”

She cleared her throat. “It’s not an unreasonable request.”

“No, but I suspect that you don’t mind making unreasonable requests, my dear Duchess.”

“Stop that.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Stop what?”

“Stop calling me things other than my name. Duchess, My Lady, dearest—all that nonsense. I don’t like pet names. The leastyoucan do is use my name.”

He tilted his head. He was entirely too close now.

The bedpost was digging into the small of Daphne’s back, but if she breathed too deeply, her chest would brush his. It was terrifying and exciting all at once.

There was now a small furrow between Edward’s eyebrows, and she felt the wildest urge to reach up and press it with the pad of her thumb, smoothing it away.

When she felt his fingertips graze the side of her neck, entirely without warning, she jolted.

“Why did you have to come into my life, you wretched minx?” he ground out. “Everything was fine before. And now…” he trailed off.

Daphne swallowed thickly, unable to tear her gaze away from his. Never one to let things lie, she had to speak.Of course.

“And now what?” she prompted.

He grinned, a slow, tired grin that revealed sharp teeth. His fingers ghosted over the front of her throat—an odd but not entirely unpleasant sensation.

“Now, all I can think about is you,” he breathed. “What I want to say to you, what I want to do to you… It’s rather bothersome, I can assure you.”

She swallowed again, and this time he must have been able to trace the movement with his fingers. He lifted his hand, the pad of his thumb swiping across her chin, and then slowly, so slowly across her bottom lip.

Daphne was sure her eyes were as round as teacup saucers, and she was equally sure that she hadn’t breathed for at least a minute.

“Oh,” she managed. It felt woefully inadequate.

Between that heartbeat and the next, everything changed.

Edward swooped down, pressing his lips roughly to hers. Daphne felt the release of desire inside her, powerful enough to make her feel wobbly. She clutched his shoulders for support, and he slid his arms around her waist. His lips were dry, tasting of brandy and salt, and when Daphne caught his lower lip between her teeth—which he had done to her before, and which she had liked a surprising amount—he made a low sound deep in his chest. It made the desire pooling in her gut spike higher, and the pulsing between her legs seemed to intensify.

Abruptly, she found herself lifted off her feet and into his arms. Daphne had assumed, of course, that he was going to stand there, holding her tight, as he had when they were in the pond.And so when she was wrenched away from him and tossed bodily into the air, she let out a surprised, undignified squeak.

She landed on the bed, bouncing once or twice. The fur was smooth against her cheek and her bare legs. It occurred to her that her nightgown had come up around her knees, rather shockingly displaying her calves.

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