Page 30 of Tempting Mr. Townsend
Until Anthony—Mr. Townsend—had kissed her, she'd had no idea how desperate she was for a man's touch. Since losing Henry, she'd lived frozen but safe. Now the ice melted forever. She hated to be so weak. So demanding. So pathetic.
Her hands clenched against those broad shoulders and sick with shame, she closed her eyes. His legs remained tangled in her filmy pink skirts, and on the narrow chaise longue, she couldn't avoid the massive weight of his arousal.
“Please…let me go.”
With a powerful surge, he rose to his feet. “Forgive me.”
Shakily she pushed up against the back of the chair. Sliding her feet to the floor didn't help her feel any more grounded. Her heart still raced, her blood simmered, and her lips throbbed from his kisses.
Much as she'd like to blame him for her loss of control, honesty prevailed. “No. I should have stopped you at the door. I've behaved disgracefully. What must you think of me?”
Unexpected humor twisted his lips. “It's not as bad as all that, surely. You haven't murdered anyone, lass.”
“I beg your pardon” she stammered. Part of her wanted to bewail her lapse. Another part wanted to slap him. And one tiny element wanted to cling to that superb form and let his kisses find their natural end.
“No need.” His cheerful smile made the urge to clout him paramount. “I had a thoroughly nice time.”
She spluttered like an outraged dowager hearing an off-color joke. “I meant I must have misheard what you said.”
He laughed and extended his hand. “I know what you meant. But there's no need for all this breast beating.”
“I let you touch me.”
“And you enjoyed it.”
“I know,” she said desolately, and without thinking curled her fingers around that capable, callused hand. It was a working man's hand, reminding her again how different he was from her London beaux. But those large, blunt fingers had their own grace—and breathtaking skill on a woman's skin.
“Be a mite kinder to yourself, Fenella. Succumbing to a moment's temptation doesn't consign you to the lowest circle of hell”
She stood on rubbery legs. It took a worrying effort of will to release Anthony's hand. Everything about him was so big and warm. Her deepest instinct was to cuddle up against him and let him protect her from the cold, nasty world. When right now, the greatest threat to everything she'd ever believed about herself was Mr. Anthony Townsend.
“You're remarkably jolly” she said in a sour voice.
He shrugged. “As you said, with the boys upstairs, we couldn't go too far.”
“Oh, Lord,” she breathed in horror. She'd completely forgotten Brand. What on earth was wrong with her? She blushed when Anthony bent to retrieve the neck cloth she'd removed and cast aside.
He continued as lightly as if they'd just ended a casual hand of piquet. “All in all, it's a promising start.”
“A promising start?” she asked on a rising note, hating that the dowager was back.
He opened the door. “I look forward to seeing where we go from here.”
Her eyes narrowed as her spirit stirred. “From here, Mr. Townsend, I'm going back to London.” She marched past him into the hall. “While you, sir, can go to the devil.”
* * *
“You can't find your room,” Anthony said softly, standing beside her in the cavernous space. It was a pity that Fenella's splendid exit ended with her staring in confusion at the staircase.
“If I ask you, I'll have to get off my high horse.”
“Aye.” He lit two candles from the branch on the ancient sideboard and passed one to her. “But I promise to contain my smugness until you're safely inside your chamber.”
She regarded him doubtfully. “Perhaps you should call a maid.”
“On my honor, you're safe. The lads are effective chaperones.”
“You'll think my hesitation is absurd, given what we just did.”
