Page 71 of Harpy of the Ton
She stepped toward him, thrusting her face close. “That’s not marriage—it’s indentured servitude!”
He gripped her shoulders, and her eyes widened. Then, unable to resist the torrent of desire in his veins, he pulled her toward him and crushed her mouth to his. For a moment, she struggled, then she gripped his arms, digging her fingertips into his flesh, and pulled him hard against her body.
Sweet Lord—she was delectable! All fire and passion simmering beneath the surface of that lush body. It was a body made to accommodate him—with soft curves and plump, ripe breasts made to fill his hands.
He slid his lips against hers. She parted them, and he slipped inside, relishing the taste of sweetness and spices. She was a delectable meal on which he’d gladly feast. And she was ready for him. She trembled against him, softening to mold against his form. He lowered his hand to cup a breast, and a low growl escaped his lips as her nipple beaded against his palm.
What might it be like to taste it—to taste her?
His mind filled with the image of her spread before him on the kitchen table, offering her sweetness. He pushed her against the wall, and she let out a mewl, shifting her legs with an instinct born of pure female need to receive him. He only need lift her skirts and he’d be buried inside her in a heartbeat…
What the fuck am I doing?
He broke the kiss, closing his mind against the sight of her—lips swollen, face flushed, hair in disarray, like a twopenny whore who’d taken her pleasure in the bushes.
She was not his to take, no matter how greatly he desired her.
She stilled, then her eyes fluttered open. Dark with desire, they were the color of a deep ocean, until they cleared and filled with horror.
He released her and retreated, willing the ache in his groin to subside.
No matter how much he hated her—and hedidhate her—he had no right to take her innocence.
“Forgive me, Bella,” he said. “I didn’t mean to touch you. I’ll not do so again.”
Regret rippled across her expression, and she lifted her hand and wiped her forehead. He caught a flash of redness on her palm.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” She turned her palm inward. “May I retire now?”
“Bella, I—”
“For heaven’s sake!” she cried. “Just leave me be, you vile beast!”
Vile beast—it hadn’t taken long for that evil tongue of hers to lash him once more.
“Very well,” he said. “But take care not to disturb me. I have much work to do before I can retire.Ican’t languish on the sofa all evening.”
“Devil take you!”
She turned her back and exited the kitchen. Moments later, he heard the parlor door open and slam shut.
He climbed the stairs to his study and settled at his desk. Then he picked up his pencil and began adding to the sketch for Mr. Trelawney. He winced as the pencil rubbed against a callous on his palm, and he stopped to examine the flesh. It was bright red where he’d rubbed it against the shovel—the marks of hard toil.
That was the lot of folk of his class, unlike those of hers…
Though her palms had seemed very red. But she’d concealed them when he asked. Out of pride, no doubt.
He set the pencil aside. There’d be time to work on the sketch tomorrow. Mrs. Gleeson was holding a garden party, which meant his presence was not required, and it was days yet before he was due to start work on Sir Halford’s garden. Besides, there was enough work to do here—those beans, for a start, needed sowing in the kitchen garden. And he could keep an eye on her—make sure she wasn’t shirking her duties.
He leaned back, glanced about the study, then froze.
Something was different.
What was it? The books were in the same order on the bookshelf—alphabetical order of the author, just how he liked it.
Then he saw it. The dust lining the walls was no longer there—neither were the cobwebs that had occupied the corners of the ceiling. The gold embossing on the spines of the books gleamedin the candlelight. As for the window overlooking the garden—the smears of dust and debris had gone. He could actually see out where the moonlight bathed the garden with a soft blue glow.
