Page 25 of A Bride for the Devilish Duke
“Exceptionally. I should be running for the hills,” he looked around at their elevated position, “well, for other hills,” he added with a grin, “after all, I am a Duke with a reputation to protect.”
“And I, a strange woman from an impoverished family who...” Emma clapped her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut tight.
“I understand,” Damien said gently. “I noted the signs of... shall we say… a household that does not have a surfeit of wealth. And did not once think to judge your character or any in your family by what I saw.”
Emma opened her eyes, looking angry. “I have said too much and find it happens more often than I would wish when I am...”
She stopped again, and Damien tried to predict the end of that sentence.
“Preoccupied,” Emma finished with a sigh, glancing sideways at Damien and then away. “Being told that I must marry is part of that.”
“Would it be so bad?” Damien asked. “Am I not offering you everything you could hope for? A marriage to end the pressure you feel from your family to conform to their expectations—a marriage in which you would not have to behave as a married woman in private. You can continue to live as you have. As a duchess, you may provide for your family's needs. A marriage of convenience for us both.”
Emma threw up her hands as though in the grip of passion.
“You make it sound all so rational and... and...logical. I can think of no argument to counter it. I can say nothing that makes sense, and I respect your point, and I cannot entirely disagree with it. And yet my heart… my heart says it is wrong. After all this time, my heart says that convenience should not be what drives me.”
Damien caught her arm and spun her to face him. The wind came up suddenly and cast her auburn hair across her face. Through it, he saw her fierce eyes. Carefully, he brushed aside her wayward hair, revealing her visage and the turmoil that painted it.
“Then whatshoulddrive you?” he asked gently.
Emma blinked. “Passion…Love? I have never wanted it. Never missed it...”
“Do you say so? Your eyes say differently. Perhaps you tell yourself that you should not miss those things?”
“I do not. Ihavenot,” Emma insisted.
Damien was being drawn to her. He was acutely aware his fingers still rested on her cheek, and she had not pulled away.
He fought desire, thinking of his revenge, the careful planning by two men, and the hatred he felt for his father.
Emma perched herself on tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. Damien's thoughts flew from him like startled birds.
He cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs brushing along the delicate curve of her cheekbones. Her skin was maddeningly soft—like warm satin—and for a moment, he simply stared, utterly bewitched by the woman who had upended his reason.
Then their lips parted. Hers, not to speak, but to breathe—and he was utterly lost.
He kissed her this time.
Not gently. Not sweetly. But like a man half-starved and finally tasting water. Her lips met his in a clash of want and wonder,and she gave herself over with a soft, sinful sound that would echo in his bones for days. He drew her close, hands sliding from her face to her hips, hauling her against him until her feet left the ground.
She gasped as he pressed her back against the old stone wall, and the breath of it skimmed across his jaw, branding him. Her fingers twisted in his shirt, pulling him closer, as though she, too, could not bear the distance of a single inch.
“You drive me mad,” he growled against her lips.
“I take great pleasure,” she whispered back.
He laughed, low and rough, then lifted her onto the wall with a swift motion, settling himself between her knees. She didn’t protest. Instead, her skirts rustled, falling away from her legs just enough to reveal the pale silk of her stockings—and the bare skin above.
God above.
She curled her fingers into the nape of his neck and pulled him to her once more, their mouths colliding in a kiss far more desperate than the first.
There was no civility now. No restraint.
Emma’s hands were everywhere—sliding across his chest, tugging at the laces of his shirt, clawing as if to rip themaway. His own hands found her bodice, his thumbs brushing reverently—then hungrily—along the luscious swell of her breasts. She let out a small, breathy moan that nearly undid him.
He kissed a line down her throat, tasting the frantic pulse that beat just beneath her skin. She arched into him, eyes fluttering closed, mouth parted in a soundless plea.
