Page 53 of Guilty Pleasures

He tore his lips from hers and trailed kisses along her jaw as his hand shaped and caressed her breast. Her soft curves burned him wherever her body was pressed against his. Her hips moved, arching against his weight, and shudders of pleasure fissured through his body.

All he wanted was to pull her down onto this hard, dusty floor and feel her hips move like that beneath him, feel those long legs wrap around his body. He wanted her to say his name, over and over while he made love to her. He would not let it go that far, he could not, but he wanted just a few more tastes of her before he let her go.

He tore his lips from hers and buried his face against the warm skin of her throat, kissing her skin, savoring the tiny gasps of pleasure she made as he shaped her breast against his palm. When he closed his thumb and finger over her nipple, teasing with a slow, coaxing motion, her gasps became tiny moans, the sweetest, softest sounds he had ever heard. Each one shattered a piece of his resolve, reminding him that he was going to stop. But not yet.

He trailed kisses up her throat, along her jaw and over her chin to her mouth. He recaptured her lips, and this time they parted at once, all her token resistance gone now. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Before he could even think of stopping, she wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him. Her tongue entered his mouth and drove any stupid notions of honor from his mind.

He felt his wits slipping as he slid his hands down her ribs and around behind her to cup her buttocks. He lifted her off the ground, pulling her up until her hips met his. Her legs parted within the confines of her skirt, and the insides of her thighs squeezed his hips. She rocked against him, each instinctive move bringing exquisite pleasure, to her as well; all his senses knew that. He could hear her soft sounds against his mouth, taste her tongue against his own, feel each exquisite lash of her hips. He allowed himself only a few more seconds of heavenly torture, then he tore his lips from hers with a groan. It was time to stop.

Anthony smothered an oath against her neck. Hard and aching, he let her go, and took a step back from her, then another, tearing himself away as he tried to extinguish the unslaked lust that was raging through him like a house fire. Neither of them spoke. He stopped half a dozen feet away from her, where she was out of his reach.

She had no experience with what it all meant, but he did. He knew he could not stand here one moment longer, or he would act on it. Ruin for her, dishonor for him.

While he still had some vestige of sanity, Anthony turned away and left her, putting as much space between them as he could. But even with the entire length and two floors of the house between them, he could not escape her. The fragrance of gardenia still clung to his clothes, and much to his valet’s bewilderment, he insisted on sleeping in his shirt. Even he did not know quite why, for the scent of her tortured him with erotic dreams all night long. When he woke in the morning, she still filled his senses, and he knew it would take miles to put a safe distance between them.

The following morning at breakfast, she learned he was gone. London, Mr. Bennington told her, with four cartloads of antiquities, every piece they had that was ready for the museum. No, he had not said when he would return. There was a letter beside Daphne’s plate, but it was not a farewell note, for the seal did not bear Anthony’s coronet. It was a letter from Viola.

Daphne stared down at the unopened letter in her hands without seeing it. Anthony had left because of what had happened last night, or rather, what had almost happened. He had not even said good-bye to her.

Kissing can be far more tempting than you realize.

Tempting, indeed. For both of them.

Daphne told herself it would not do to torture herself with thoughts about last night, and she opened the letter from Viola. Another letter was enclosed with it. She read the one from the viscountess first.

Daphne,

I am delighted to hear that Anthony is teaching you to dance. That skill will be so vital to your enjoyment of London, and I am glad to hear you find my brother very charming. I have always found him so, but since I am his sister, I am perhaps slightly biased in his favor, for he has always been fiercely protective of me.

My dear Daphne, I am afraid I have a confession to make to you. I have been a horribly meddlesome friend. Without your permission, I did a bit of investigating, and I have discovered information regarding the marriage of your mother and father. I have enclosed the letter I received from the vicar of a small parish church at Gretna Green in Scotland. That gentleman confirms that a marriage was recorded between Sir Henry Wade, G.C.B., and a Miss Jane Durand, daughter of Lord Durand, on February 24, 1805. Since you are twenty-four years of age, this date is a logical one.

If indeed your mother’s name prior to her marriage was Jane Durand, it is my opinion that there is sufficient evidence in this matter to claim your connection. I pray you will forgive me for my interference, but please believe it was done with the kindest of intentions. You deserve the support and security of your family, and I hope you will find this to be good news.

In the interim, I shall expect your arrival just after Boxing Day. My felicitations to Mr. and Mrs. Bennington.

Your friend,

Viola

“Does the viscountess have any news of happenings at Chiswick and London?” asked Mrs. Bennington.

Daphne stared down at the letter in her hands without replying. The baron did not want her, and she had no intention of pressing a claim on him for money or support. She knew she had a great deal of pride, and that pride was perhaps foolish, but she would not go begging to relations who did not want her, not unless she had no other options. First, she would go to London, enjoy her season there, then find a post as a governess as she had planned.

Putting on her mask of cool serenity, she folded the pair of letters and looked up. “No news, I am afraid,” she answered Mrs. Bennington and folded the letter. “Her ladyship gives her felicitations to you both.” She put the letter in her pocket and turned to Mr. Bennington. “Did his grace say what he wanted done while he was away?”

“He mentioned those four mosaic pavements I brought you yesterday, and there are one or two wall paintings still to do. Of course, there is always plenty of broken pottery and the catalog as well. Enough to keep you busy until you leave, I daresay.”

Daphne heard the truculence in his voice, and that cheered her a bit. “More than enough,” she agreed. “You excavated far too efficiently before the frost.”

“You do an excellent job, Miss Wade. As much respect as I had for your father’s work, when his grace first introduced you to me, I was skeptical that you could be an adequate replacement. But now I know you are irreplaceable. The duke will not be able to find anyone as good as you. I shall miss you, my dear.”

“Do not speak of it,” his wife declared, “for it is too distressing.” She turned to Daphne. “I do keep hoping you will change your mind and stay here.”

Daphne felt the sting of tears. She smiled at them with affection. “You have both been very kind to me. I shall miss you as well. But do not talk as if I am leaving today. I am here six weeks yet.”

“I know,” Mr. Bennington said, pushing back his chair. “But come spring, it won’t be the same without you. I must go. His grace wanted all that tessellated flooring put in place before he returns. There’s much to do.”

The architect departed. His wife turned to Daphne and said, “I had another letter from my friend, Mrs. Treves, and she said speculations on the identity of the future duchess are being bandied about London by everyone. A man of his position could not consider marrying any young lady lower than an earl’s daughter, of course, and I doubt anyone higher than a viscount is in Town at present. Too early. So if his grace has gone to London again so soon, I doubt it could be to see Lady Sarah. It must be purely business. Or perhaps he has gone to see his sister?”

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