Page 8 of The Scottish Duke
“I want to know if someone’s going to pummel me if I kiss you.”
The bird that was her heart had escaped from its cage and was now fluttering wildly in her chest. She could barely breathe. The silly wig was being buffeted by the wind, but so were the windows. She could hear them shivering in their panes.
She loved a storm. She loved being out in it, regardless of the danger. She would sometimes tilt her head back to feel the rain baptizing her face. In those moments, she was as elemental as the first woman. Yet she’d never felt like she did right now.
He grabbed her elbow and pulled her farther away from the door to the ballroom.
She went willingly, in an excited, panicked rush of emotion. Was he truly going to kiss her? Was the most handsome man she’d ever seen truly going to kiss her? Did it count if he were soused?
He pressed her up against the wall. If she truly cared about the dress, she would’ve warned him that the wire cage for the panniers was old and easily bent. But she didn’t care about anything but the feel of his body against hers, the wool of his evening jacket gently abrading the exposed flesh above her breasts, and the look in his eyes.
She should have been chilled, but she felt heated from within. Was it his grin, slightly wicked and utterly charming? Or the promise of a kiss? Or was it her own daring, out in a storm with the Duke of Kinross?
He lowered his face slowly, giving her time to move away. Instead, she abandoned her wig and gripped his shoulders, keeping him in place. His lips were as soft as she’d imagined, but there her lack of experience showed. He slanted his head to deepen the kiss and she gasped in wonder.
His mouth tasted of warm whiskey.
She’d never considered that his tongue would sweep in to touch hers, or that he would nibble at her bottom lip as if she were a delectable piece of fruit. Nor did she ever envision that his hand would pull away the tight bodice and cup her bare breast.
Or that she would let him. Yes, and more. Whatever he wished to do, he could. Whisper in her ear, please, what he wanted and she’d allow it. Whatever manner of liberties. Whatever sin for which she’d ask forgiveness tomorrow.
Tonight was a dream come true. Tonight was the culmination of two years of watching and wondering. Tonight she wasn’t just one of the upstairs maids; she was Lorna Gordon and she was kissing the Duke of Kinross.
Her blood was heating, fire racing along her skin. The wind was blowing the rain on them and she didn’t care. The wool of his jacket was beginning to chafe, but she pressed herself closer to him.
Whatever happened, whatever ramifications came from this night, she wouldn’t regret it. How could she? However long she lived, she would recall these moments when the Duke of Kinross kissed her. When he pressed his lips against her neck and nibbled on her earlobe. He pulled the mask free from her face, but she didn’t care. Let him recognize her now, but it would be too late. She’d already had her kiss. She’d already spoken to him, and he’d talked to her as if she was a woman who intrigued him.
Marie Antoinette or Lorna Gordon—did it matter?
In the next instant she was free of the wig. Had the wind pulled it from her or had he done so? Again, it didn’t matter.
He thrust his hands through her hair, holding her head still.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, the words freezing her heart in mid beat. This, too, she would remember forever.
He mustn’t think she believed him. She was not so desperate that she was naive. Nor so foolish that she’d completely lost her wits.
“No,” she said.
“No?” He smiled against her lips. “I think I prefer yes.”
Her body seemed to know what to do in response to his touch and his words, but her mind was adrift in a whirlwind of confusion. Did she push him away? Or draw him closer? Did she protest? Or simply enjoy what was happening?
A warning bell peeled in her mind, but she smothered the sound.
Her lips tingled, her ears were filled with the rhythm of the rain and her own heartbeat. She felt earthy, elemental, alive in a way she’d never before been. Her skin was so sensitive that every place he touched with his lips either trembled or quivered, inciting a moan or a gasp from her.
She’d never once discussed passion with anyone, not even Nan, the only close female friend she’d ever had. The maids teased each other or laughed about a certain male servant and his reputation with women, but none of them had ever talked about desire.
Was that what this was, a feeling making her burn as fiercely as one of the falling stars she saw from the conservatory? She might explode from inside, leaving nothing but ashes where she’d once been.
He jerked on the material of her dress, freeing her other breast. She was nearly naked in the storm now and all she could do was moan when his lips left hers and trailed a rain-slicked path to a nipple. She wanted the taste of whiskey on her tongue at the same time she held his head in place against her breast. When he drew the nipple deep into his mouth, she moaned with pleasure.
She could barely stand for the sensations assaulting her. She was going to fall to her knees on the terrace.
She should break away. She should push him back. Her hands went up to grab his jacket, but her fingers curled around the lapels to pull him closer to her.
“I must have you,” he said, his mouth once more against her lips. “Now.”
