Page 10 of Harpy of the Ton
She drew her hand back, then slapped him across the face.
Her palm stinging, she tilted her chin to convey her superiority, and glared at him.
A flare of anger ignited in his eyes, and he lifted his hand to rub his cheek.
“You get one strike for free, woman,” he growled, “but try that again and you’ll suffer the consequences.”
A dark little nugget pulsed in her center with a secret thrill at the prospect ofconsequencesbeing administered at his hands, and she raised her hand again.
With the speed of a striking snake, he caught her wrist and pulled her hard against him.
Sweet Lord—he was magnificent! Rather than cow her with the whining words of a duke, he claimed her with the rough hands of a beast. His body was iron-hard, yet he molded himself against her as if they were one. She tilted her head backward, and a low whimper escaped her lips as she looked into eyes the color of storm clouds.
Then he lowered his mouth to hers.
His tongue probed against the seam of her lips, demanding entrance, and, with a whimper, she surrendered. He plunged inside like an invading army, then the soft, velvety weapon swept across her mouth with a gentleness that belied the hard body that had imprisoned her in its grip. Her defenses crumpled at the tender caresses—as if he cherished every last drop of her. Then he curled his tongue around hers, encouraging her to respond. With slow, tentative movements, she probed his tongue with hers, shifting from side to side to engage in the dance.
A long, slow growl of approval reverberated in his chest, and her heart swelled at the notion of his taking pleasure from her touch. She curled her tongue around him, and he darted the tip back and forth, beckoning her toward him until, fueled by need,she kissed him in return, running the tip of her tongue along the roughened skin of his lips.
Little mewls of pleasure swelled in her throat, and she felt something, hard and hot, pressing against her belly. The heat coursing through her body began to converge, to form an ache in her center. She shifted her hips to ease the ache—the raw need that her body’s instinct told her only he could satisfy. Then she let out a low moan, surrendering to pleasure.
He broke the kiss and pushed her back.
She let out an involuntary cry of frustration as the pleasure faded, leaving only the ache.
Then he let out a laugh.
“Lady you may be, but you’re like all women when it comes to bein’ in need of a good rutting.”
Shame and humiliation doused her, like ice-cold water. But it wasn’t shame at her own wantonness—it was shame in having responded to his tenderness.
A tenderness that did not exist.
What a fool she’d been! Instead of recognizing her plight, he’d sought to humiliate her. Like all men, he cared nothing for her except as an object to quench his lust—or to ridicule.
Hot tears stung her eyes, and she wrenched herself free.
“You—bastard!” She swung her fist, but he sidestepped, and she lost her balance and crashed to the ground, her skirts flying up, exposing her legs, right up to the scars on her thigh.
His eyes widened as his gaze fell on her legs.
Could her humiliation get any worse? Now, as well as viewing her as a wanton, he’d seen her deformity—the scars. Aunt Kathleen had threatened her with a beating if she were ever to reveal them.
Arabella grasped her skirts, covering herself, blinking back tears. Then he offered his hand.
“Forgive me, miss,” he said. “Let me help you up.”
She slapped his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” she cried, struggling to her feet. “You should be horsewhipped for forcing your disgusting attentions on me!”
“You were willing enough,” he said. “But your secret’s safe. Nobody saw us.”
“Howdareyou speak in such a familiar manner!” she cried. “There is no ‘us.’ I want you gone, this instant!”
“Only the duke can order me gone.”
“I’ll speak to him when he returns,” she said. “At the very least, I want you out of my sight for the rest of the day.”
“I’ve work to do.”
