Page 91 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Giddy and restless, she almost groaned when the hand that had been at her wrist traced along her arm to her shoulder, then skated over the taut silk of her bodice and closed about her aching breast.
Yes. There.
Gently, he flexed his fingers, then kneaded, and when, through the kiss, she signaled her eager approval, he massaged her sensitive flesh, then his fingertips found the tight bud of her nipple beneath the silk, circled teasingly, then closed and squeezed.
Sensation streaked through her, and she forgot how to breathe.
He continued his ministrations, and her head spun, awash in pleasured delight.
Gray couldn’t get enough of her gloriously uninhibited responses. Her lips tasted like ambrosia, her mouth was luscious and sweet, and the intoxicating mix of her desire and his swamped his awareness.
Exultant, he explored her curves, knowing, now, that she would be his—that she’d accepted the challenge of placing her hand once more in his and forging a new path together.
He eased back against the sofa’s arm, urging her over him. She came readily, eagerly, no more willing to break the heated kiss than he. She settled over him, her breasts pressed to his chest. Her long legs tangled with his, her thighs sliding between his, her hips riding over his in excruciating temptation.
To distract them both from that temptation, he framed her face between his hands and kissed her voraciously, and she responded in kind.
Just how far their passions might have driven them, they were destined never to learn. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed twelve times, loudly enough to penetrate the haze of desire wreathing their senses.
They both registered the problem and, patently reluctantly, eased back from the kiss.
She raised her head and stared down at him with disappointment etched in every line of her face. “Damn!” she muttered.
He sighed. “I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
He helped her sit up, and they spent a minute rearranging their clothing. He rose, drew her to her feet, and ran critical eyes over her hair and gown. She did the same for him, then reached up and resettled his cravat. Meeting his eyes, she murmured, “Your aunt and my mother don’t need any further clues.”
“No, indeed.” He closed a hand about one of hers, dipped his head, and stole one last kiss, then he straightened, lowered their clasped hands, and resigned, walked with her toward the door.
He definitely didn’t want to return to their prescribed evening’s activities, yet realistically, they had no choice.
When they reached the door, she halted and tugged his hand.
When he turned and arched his brows, she met his eyes and waved her free hand between them. “Obviously, we need to discuss our next steps, but with tomorrow looming as a critical day in our pursuit of Quimby’s killer…”
He grimaced. “Let’s agree to go on as we have been, at least until we see what tomorrow brings.” He trapped her gaze. “But I give you fair warning that, after delaying for ten years, I’m not inclined to dally over making you mine.”
She read his determination in his eyes, and a glorious smile broke over her face. “You’ll get no argument from me on that score—indeed, I’ll encourage you—but…” A cloud passed over her features. “If nothing useful comes from our hue and cry edition, then the police might revert to their previous stance of considering me the prime suspect and—”
“No.” His tone made the word absolute, impossible to contradict. “Trust me. That won’t happen.”
She took in his set face and sighed. “Yes, well, things might get messy, but hopefully, we’ll know one way or another by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Hmm.” He wasn’t as happy as he had been. He frowned at the door. “We’d better get back to the music room.”
Without further words, they slipped along the corridor and into the music room in time to witness the final performance—Marietta at the pianoforte accompanying Swan, singing a country ballad.
Even Gray had to admit the pair made very pleasant music; when the piece ended and Marietta and Swan took their bow, he clapped enthusiastically along with everyone else.
Apparently, that brought the evening to a close. The guests rose and, in groups, thanked Lady Matcham, then headed for the front hall.
Together with Swan, Gray joined the Descartes ladies in tendering thanks—for once, entirely genuine—to his aunt.
Apparently sensing that surprising change, she peered at him curiously, but he kept his expression politely bland and offered the dowager countess his arm down the Matcham House steps.
Izzy glided on his other side.
After he’d helped her mother into the carriage, he glanced back, saw Swan and Marietta still chatting to his aunt, and turned to Izzy. Meeting her eyes, he murmured, “Once Baines has Quimby’s killer by the heels…”
