Page 27 of Tempting Mr. Townsend
She threw her hands up. “Oh, you're impossible. I'll be glad to get back to my real life.”
“Will you?” he asked softly.
For a moment, she looked unsure, then her lush mouth firmed. “At least in Mayfair, I'm free of insane plutocrats and their persuasions.”
He laughed, enjoying himself. “Yet.”
He'd always intended to pursue her, but her confession of a weakness for him invited a more overt wooing. She was a grand little fighter, but he doubted she'd win when Anthony Townsend allied with her own desire against her.
“There's no point continuing. I'm tired, and you're off your head. Good night, Mr. Townsend.” With an irritated swish ofher skirts, she flounced off. He let her reach the door before he spoke. “Lady Deerham, there is one more thing.”
“What is it” Annoyance roughened her voice.
A man of his size could cross the room in a couple of paces. He caught her arm and using her surprise, swung her around to face him. A gentle push and her back bumped against the closed door. “This.”
Furious eyes snapping blue fire focused on his face. “Mr. Townsend, just what on earth do you think you're doing?”
“My dear Lady Deerham, surely it hasn't been that long.”
“I'll scream,” she warned, trying to slay him with her disapproval. Unfortunately for her, he found her spirit arousing. This close she smelled like a flower garden in spring. He drew that glorious scent deep into his lungs.
“I dare you.” One hand pressed her shoulder against the door while the other caught her chin to hold her still.
Not that she was struggling. Which was dashed interesting.
“You are the most provoking man” she muttered.
“That's insane plutocrats for you” He hid a smile as anticipation made his blood rush. “Now stand still so I can kiss you.”
“Well, really," she gasped before his lips stole her breath away.
Chapter Eight
Fenella's resistance dissolved in an ocean of wildfire. Everything was heat, strength, dominance.
Mr. Townsend crushed her against him while his mouth plundered hers. For too long, shock held her rigid. Then she made a muffled protest and struggled to push him away. He only growled deep in his throat and folded her closer into that big body.
She felt seized, conquered, compelled. And wickedly, unforgivably excited.
Her hands closed into fists and she beat on those wide, straight shoulders. When that didn't work, she pulled sharply at his thick, black hair and struggled to ignore its silky texture against her fingers.
He wrenched free and stared down at her with an appalled expression. His arms fell away from her. She sucked air into her lungs and prayed that her knees supported her. Her heart banged crazily against her ribs.
“Oh, hell, Fenella, I'm sorry.”
She slumped breathlessly against the door, the oak hard against her back. As hard as Mr. Townsend's body. His rich male scent, brandy and sandalwood and clean healthy skin, teased her overstimulated senses.
“You…you shouldn't have done that,” she said unsteadily.
She raised a shaking hand to lips that still burned. The kiss had lasted a mere sizzling second—although it had seemed an eternity. She'd forgotten the way huge, potent maleness could wrap around her and exclude the rest of the world. Although when it came to size and potency, Mr. Townsend completely eclipsed dear, loving Henry, the only other man she'd ever kissed.
The thought, however accurate, struck her as disloyal. Self-disgust straightened her backbone in a way nothing else could. “You didn't act like a gentleman.”
“But then I'm not a gentleman.”
She should be furious that he'd manhandled her, yet strangely, she wasn't. Perhaps because while he'd been masterful, he hadn't been rough. Which should be no excuse.
“I must go.”
