Page 28 of One Night of Scandal
“Do you ever go home?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Where is that?”
“King Street, on the edge of St. James’s Square.”
Outside Mayfair. Still a fashionable location, but she was suddenly aware of the divide between them—her a duke’s sister and him a barrister and MP. “Did you like being a barrister, or do you prefer being an MP?” she asked.
He seemed startled by her question, and she supposed it had seemed to come out of nowhere. “I was just thinking how different we are,” she said. “And yet not,” she added softly.
He turned toward her on the seat. “I prefer being an MP. I like making a difference for people. My grandfather and my father were both MPs before me. I’m honored to continue their legacy.”
She could see that. He was a man of dignity and pride, but not arrogantly so. At least not excessively arrogant. A dash of arrogance was rather attractive, she decided. Or maybe it was just that Jack Barrett was attractive.
Lines around his mouth creased. “We should probably stop doing this. That business with Ledbury was damn close. It’s only a matter of time before someone discovers you’re a woman.”
“You mean someone besides you.”
His eyes were darker than the night around them, but full of intense energy. “Yes. And then you’ll be in real trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” The question tumbled from her, sounding breathless and expectant.
“Scandal. Ruination. Desire.”
Her heart picked up speed. “Desire?”
“You are a very attractive woman, even with that bloody disguise. If anyone paid close attention to you, they’d find themselves beguiled.”
“Are you?” she asked softly.
He leaned close, his face so near that she could see the faint stubble of his beard beginning to shadow his jaw. “Irrevocably.”
His head dipped down, and she quickly reached up with both hands and pulled the sideburns from her face. She winced slightly at the brief sting—she normally didn’t tear them off like that—as she stuffed the disguise in her coat pocket.
His brow arched. “Better.” Then his hands came up and cupped her face, his thumbs tracing along her sensitive skin where the whiskers had been.
Frowning, he withdrew his hands, and she feared he’d changed his mind. Disappointment curdled in her belly, pushing away the desire. Then she realized he was removing his gloves. His hands returned, bare this time, and the touch of his thumb against her cheeks and jaw brought the desire rushing back.
“Better,” she murmured, echoing him, allowing her eyelids to droop as his mouth pressed against hers.
She’d kissed Edmund, of course, quite passionately, or so she’d thought. It had been rather pleasant, but this was not how she’d describe the feel of Mr. Barrett’s—Jack’s, because how could she think of Edmund as Edmund and not Jack as Jack?—lips on hers.
He kissed her softly, his mouth lingering with a gentle caress. Then he angled his head the other way and kissed her again. Still, he repositioned himself and teased her once more, a featherlight kiss that did everything to stoke her desire and nothing to satisfy it.
She clasped the back of his neck and held him still as she kissed him more firmly than he’d dared. Sealing her mouth against his, she parted her lips. His tongue swept inside, and it was as if an invisible barrier fell away.
He cupped the back of her head, knocking her hat off with one hand. Rising over her, he forced her back gently as he drove into her mouth. His other hand drifted down her neck and over her chest, then found its way inside her coat, where it flattened against her waistcoat. Yes, this was what she’d wanted, what she’dmissed. No, she hadn’t missed it because she’d never had it. She simply couldn’t compare him to Edmund. She was drawn to this man in this coach as she’d been to no other.
The kiss ended only to begin again with even greater fervor. She curled her hands into the hair at his nape and dislodged his hat. She’d no notion where it went, only that his head was bare and she could rake her fingers through his thick hair.
His hand pushed up against her breast, which was bound beneath a length of muslin. She’d never regretted her costuming choices in the past, but tonight, she was desperate to be a woman.
Eager for more of his touch, she strained against him, bringing one hand down to his shoulder and gripping him tightly. He lifted his mouth from hers and nipped her lip. She gasped, the sound ragged in the confines of the small space.
He guided her head back as his lips and tongue trailed along her jaw and down her neck. “Bloody cravat,” he murmured.
Oh, how she wished she was wearing a gown!
