Page 32 of Wickedly Yours
“You are not fleeing to the continent.” He walked closer, sniffing at the bergamot scent she wore. No rose water or scent of lilies for Arabella.
Leaning forward, he brushed his lips across the back of her neck. His hand trailed slowly down her spine to the base of her back, watching in fascination as Arabella’s body arched against his touch. Unwillingly, he guessed. He’d been aching to touch her since the night at the inn.
“Your behavior is unwelcome, much as it was before. Stop.”
“Never.” His mouth moved along the slope of her neck, grazing his teeth against her skin. Unfortunately, the high neck of the gown didn’t allow him to explore further. “I don’t wish you to think my attentions before were merely the result of eating too much roast and enjoying the wine.”
“I refuse to marry you.” Her voice lowered, a throaty seductive sound. “You come from a nest of traitors.” She shivered slightly. “It shall never—”
“Enough, Bella.” He nipped the sensitive skin beneath his lips. Bending her head back toward him, his mouth fell on hers, ravenous and hot. One hand circled her waist, the other cupped her face, pulling her back tightly against the length of him.
Arabella whimpered and her free hand pulled at his hair, drawing him closer to her until they were melded together.
Rowan wished to devour her. Lay Arabella down in the grass and take her beneath the willow tree. Lift the drab dress to her hips and taste her. He wondered if Nick could see them from the library and found he didn’t care.
“I’m not marrying you for honor or your brother’s bloody ships, Arabella.” His voice was rough and hard against her mouth. “Nor am I so honorable to marry you to salvage your reputation.”
She pushed away from him, eyes slightly dazed and reached up to touch her swollen lips. “Then why?”
“I want you.”
Her eyes widened and she took a step back, shocked at his confession. A bit of sable hair slid free from its braided restraint and fell upon her cheek.
“It’s insanity, I know.”
But as he looked in her eyes, dark pools of ebony that shone like brushed velvet, a rush of intense longing crept across his heart, a sensation no other woman had ever invoked in him.
She felt it too. He could see it in the way her body leaned towards him, lips parted.
Jesus.
“The opera,” he whispered across the small distance between them not trusting himself to touch her again. She was still close enough that he could smell the bergamot that hovered in the air around her. “Tomorrow night. My family’s box. Your brother and Jemma will also be in attendance.”
“I will not.” The words trembled from her lips. “I detest the opera. All that warbling in a foreign language gives me a headache and sours the stomach. And I refuse to be paraded around for theton’s amusement. You cannot command me to do your bidding. I—”
Rowan’s arm snaked out to wrap around her waist. Arabella’s eyes were nearly black, the pupils barely discernable. Gently this time, his lips pressed to the corner of her mouth.
“Do not be late.” He hesitated. “And do not dress like an elderly matron.”
22
Malden had ahorribleaffect upon her. Her breath would seize up whenever he neared. Her heart would race and her hands would tremble. And his arrogance was not to be born. Dictating she attend the opera, an event she had little interest in? Who did he think he was?
As he stalked away from her, his boots churning up the granite path, Arabella’s hands curled into fists. She wanted to shriek out her dislike of this whole situation. The only thing that kept her silent was her refusal to give Malden the satisfaction of seeing her ruffled by his presence.
Slowly she turned back to the roses overflowing from the carefully manicured beds. The warmth licking up her body was not caused by the small patch of sunlight she stood in. Even now her legs were still unsteady, and her breasts ached from his visit.
Her wanton nature, bestowed upon her by the illustrious Charlotte, had been brought to the surface. By Malden, of all people. His kiss made her want to press her bare skin to his and wrap her body around him like a vine. It took all her strength to pull away for she hadn’t any real desire to do so.
He’s to be my husband.
Taking a deep breath to still her beating heart, Arabella turned and walked deeper into the garden. In some odd way, she felt connected to Malden. Perhaps it was the shared experience of Corbett, or possibly that kiss at the inn. Whatever pulled her towards him unnerved her. Unsettled her. As did the constant urge to yield to him. The worst was the fear. Not of him, but of the way he made her feel. What had happened to her?
Malden. Malden happened to me.
Arabella sat down on a curved stone bench beneath the large weeping willow. This was her thinking spot, a place she retreated when bothered or distressed. Something about the tree comforted her. She proceeded to draw a pattern in the crushed stones of the path with the toe of her shoe, musing over her present situation and wondering if she should just flee to Italy. As she was planning her escape a large shadow appeared, blocking the rays of the sun.
“Ah, there you are.”
