Page 71 of Thief of the Ton
“So, you’d best take care, Mr. Moss,” Marlow said. “Francis can hardly be admonished for ridding the world of vermin.”
“I…I—” Moss stammered.
“Quite so,” Marlow interrupted. “You should return to the dancing. But I’d refrain from asking Lady Francis to dance while her husband’s in the same room.”
Moss retreated toward the balcony doors, then slipped inside.
Lord Marlow approached Lavinia, and his warm hands enveloped hers. “Miss de Grande—are you all right?”
She nodded, but found herself shaking, and he drew her into his arms.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I shouldn’t have left you.”
“You weren’t to know Mr. Moss would follow me outside.”
“But I pledged to protect you,” he whispered, his warm breath caressing her hair. “Am I not your Arthur, little Guinevere?”
“That was a long time ago,” she said. “We were children, and I hardly remember it.”
“I declared myself your champion.”
Surrendering to her need, she relaxed into his arms.
“Miss de Grande,” he whispered. “Lavinia…”
She drew in a deep breath and sighed. He placed his fingers under her chin, gently coaxing her until she tipped her head up, bringing her lips close to his.
His full, sensual lips…
“Lord Marlow,” she breathed.
“I think we’ve gone beyond the formalities,” he whispered. “Can you not speak my name?”
He lowered his face until their mouths were almost touching.
“Peregrine,” he whispered. “My name is Peregrine.”
The name suited him. Like the falcon, he was sleek and swift—an accomplished hunter who used intellect and accomplishment rather than brute force.
In which case, she was his prey—a willing prey, placing herself at his mercy.
“Lavinia…”
His breath caressed her lips, and she drew in a deep breath, relishing his rich, warm scent.
“Shall I kiss you, my little Guinevere—my sweet Lavinia?”
How she longed to taste those lips! They filled her mind with their promise of pleasures untold—pleasures she could only imagine that a man and a woman shared. Pleasures the want of which, according to Lady Betty, drove a creature to madness. Until now, she couldn’t imagine being driven insane for want of pleasure. But as she savored being in his arms, her body thrummed with need, and heat radiated through her body, until a thick ache pulsed between her thighs.
She lifted her gaze to his, and her heart jolted at the expression in his eyes. She’d expected desire—but in their depths she saw something else.
Something akin to…
“I’ll not kiss you without your consent,” he whispered. “You must ask.” She nodded, awaiting the pleasure. But he shook his head. “No—you must say my name.”
“Peregrine…”
As if she had unleashed the beast, his mouth crashed against hers. She parted her lips in a gasp, and his tongue slipped between them. The assault was not unwelcome—the soft, velvety weapon coaxed and teased, promising pleasure, and she relished the taste of him—hot, strong spices, with an undercurrent of wickedness.
