Page 49 of Enticing the Devil

Her reply was tremulous and another stab of self-disgust angled through him.

He should say something assuring. Something to ease the shroud of uneasiness that had dropped around them the moment the pleasure had receded. But what assurance could a man give to a woman who was no doubt already cursing him for being every bit the devilish brute people claimed he was?

In truth, he knew exactly what he needed to say. He just couldn’t get the bloody words past his clenched teeth.

He took a step back and bumped into something set on the floor. Looking down, he noted the thing he’d nudged with his foot was a wash bucket.

Fucking hell. A servant’s closet. He’d taken her in a bloody servant’s closet.

“We can’t stay here,” he muttered.

“Probably not,” she replied, her tone utterly unreadable.

Beynon’s shoulders burned with tension. “Shall I escort you to your room?”

There was a pause and her lashes fluttered as though she were struggling to meet his gaze. But the moment of vulnerability was gone in another instant as she looked up at him with steadfast focus.

She gave a gentle shake of her head. “No. I believe I’d prefer to go alone.”

Though she seemed properly composed, Beynon sensed her tension. It thrummed in the air between them, as though hovering on the verge of full panic.

His stomach clenched, halting his breath.

This was all wrong.

She didn’t deserve this. Him. Her innocence and her future destroyed in one reckless moment. She’d hate him. And rightfully so.

He lowered his gaze, no longer capable of meeting her stare with so much regret snaking through him.

“I’ll guard the way to ensure no one intercepts you.”

Without replying, she slowly stepped to the side so he could open the door. The hallway was as silent and dim as it had been. His hand tightly gripping the doorknob, he turned to her before leaving.

Her gaze was deep and tumultuous, her cheeks were flushed, and her hands visibly trembled as she clasped them together. But there was an undeniable poise in her manner. She was far more self-possessed than he could ever hope to be. Even now, as he looked at her, all he wanted to do was sweep her up in his arms and carry her to the nearest bed so he could peel away her clothing and make love to her properly.

He couldn’t, of course. He shouldn’t. But neither could he just walk away.

Stepping toward her, he looped an arm around her narrow waist and hauled her up against him. Her gasp of surprise turned to a soft whimper that angled sharply through his chest when he covered her mouth with his. She curled her fingers into the material of his coat, clinging to him as he thrust his tongue past her teeth then sucked harshly on her lush lower lip. He released her as abruptly as he’d claimed her—before he could lose himself again. Then he left her, denying the urge to look back in fear he’d decide to stay in that damned closet with her the rest of the night.

The faint sounds of the other guests still gathered in the drawing room met him as he stepped into the entry hall. He hovered there, lurking near the entrance to the hallway, but no one even left the drawing room let alone crossed toward him. And after some time, he assumed Lady Anne must have found another way upstairs that did not require passing through the main hall and he ascended the grand staircase to his own bedroom.

He should have insisted on escorting her.

But he knew now as he’d known then that if he’d gotten her upstairs to the quiet halls of the guest rooms, he’d have been just as likely to bring her to his bedroom as her own. And he wouldn’t have let her go until morning.

Finally alone in his room, he fisted his hands as his mind filled with the image of her soft blonde hair slightly loosened from its pins to brush her cheeks, her expression so intently watchful despite the faint haze of sexual release still present in her gaze. Beautiful. Soft. Sensual in a way that shocked him to his toes just by thinking of it.

Dammit.

How could he have so completely and disastrously lost his head?

There was a strong reason he’d never intended on courting any of the fine ladies of London. His life in Wales was a distant cry from the elegance and sophistication of high society. Any wife of his would have far more pressing matters of concern than the latest style or ballroom dance.

Lady Anne, perhaps even more than most of the ladies he’d met since entering London society, was made for the gentle living she’d been born into. He couldn’t imagine for a second she’d find any joy or peace as a common farmer’s wife.

And yet he’d doomed her to exactly that.

His fisted hand ached with the urge to punch something.

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