Page 66 of Almost a Bride
The thought of him with other women unsettled her. How foolish—of course he would have other women, probably even a wife, once he broke their betrothal contract.
He turned his head and looked at her. She almost gasped at the intensity of his heavy-lidded, smoldering gaze, the black depths she couldn’t begin to understand.
Almost without volition, Spencer found himself walking toward Roselyn. He waited for her to run from him, from what he represented, as she’d done so many times now. But she sat unnaturally still on the bench, only her head moving as she tilted back to keep their gazes locked.
Had he embarrassed her this morning? Was it because of her reputation, as she kept insisting, or something more?
He stopped before her, so close their knees brushed, and her skirts covered his boots. Her storm-cloud eyes glittered as she challenged him—or herself—by holding his gaze, while her chest rose and fell at a more and more rapid pace.
Not fear, no.
Sheshouldfear him—everything inside him demanded he put her on her back on the table, take her here in the sunshine, regardless of who would see.
Was it possession he wanted, or just proof that she lusted as much as he did?
And if she pulled away, it would tell him nothing about what she protected—her reputation or herself or even her family.
Ah, but he wanted to touch that creamy, freckled skin that he could still remember wet under the starlight.
As he stared down at her, Spencer heard himself say, “Your carpenter wasn’t pleased to see me.”
“How would you feel if another man overheard you courting a woman?”
“Especially when he was overheard by the woman’s betrothed.” He regretted the words almost immediately.
She drew a deep breath and her eyes glittered, but he quickly covered her mouth with his fingers.
“I didn’t mean to start another argument,” he began. “I didn’t want—”
But the soft, moist feel of Roselyn’s mouth beneath his fingers stoked the blaze of the irrational desire he had for her. All his focus suddenly concentrated on keeping his hand from trembling; there was no will left to stop his fingers from wandering.
Bending low, he cupped her face with both hands, letting his thumbs follow the curve of her full lower lip. Her eyelashes fluttered and lowered, and her breath was almost a gasp now.
A sudden desperation welled up inside him. He thought of leaving her in four days, of going to London to face possible death. For the first time, he didn’t feel in such a hurry. Was it solace and comfort he wanted, he who knew better than to expect that from any woman? He’d never wanted it from any woman—until now.
His thumbs traced her eyelids, then the light brows that arched across her forehead. The fragile line of her cheek aroused him, and suddenly he was dying to taste her there. He dropped to his knees, the pain from his healing leg just a vague call in the distance. Leaning against her tightly clasped knees, he held her face before him, then pressed his lips to her cheek.
Inhaling brought an exquisite, painful pleasure—she smelled like Roselyn, like baking bread and wildflowers and woman.
He leaned more against her legs, but still her knees did battle, though her hands remained clenched in her lap. Ah, how she struggled against herself. The familiar rush of excitement, of the forbidden, held him in its grip.
With his hands on her shoulders, he arched her back against the table, until her throat was bare to him. His lips nibbled wandering paths across her white skin; he licked at the little hollow where her pulse thrummed at the base of her throat.
Her black garments hid the rest of her from him, and he felt a primitive urge to rip them from her, claim her there.
Claim her?What claim could he have anymore, what promises could he offer? Besides money, what had he ever had to offer? She had realized that long ago.
Spencer straightened, placing his hands on the bench on either side of her with the greatest care, as if he didn’t trust his fingers to stop caressing her.
Her thighs suddenly parted, and he found himself falling between her legs. Roselyn’s face was a bare whisper away, and before he could register any shock, she kissed him.
There was an innocence to her kiss, but she was only tentative, not shy. Shewantedto kiss him, and that knowledge sent his lust roaring to new heights.
Their open mouths clung together, their tongues searching and tasting, their bodies straining for even greater closeness.
He was mindless, drowning, lost, and he allowed his hands to find their way beneath her skirts, to skim up over her stockinged calves. He shuddered at the bare flesh behind her knees—then froze as he realized what he was doing.
Lifting his head, he looked down to see Roselyn’s eyes closed, her head back, passion a rose-colored flush across her skin.
