She gave a nervous cough. “I wished to become more closely acquainted with you.”
“By … looking at my room,” he said. “When I’m not in it.”
“It does sound rather silly when one says it out loud.”
His shoulders relaxed and his eyes were warming. “Learned anything interesting?”
Her wits scrambled. “You hold Scotland close to your heart?” She nodded at the tartan counterpane.
He looked at the bed, then back at her. His eyes were hot. Her heart dropped to her belly.
“You know,” he said casually, “there are more expedient ways to become acquainted with one another than snooping through a wardrobe.”
“Expedient,” she echoed.
He cupped her face in his palm, and feverish heat swept over her skin. His gaze sank into hers while he lightly traced her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, back and forth, with a deliberate, mesmerizing languor that rendered her mute. Taking her stillness as acquiescence, he slowly slid his other arm around her waist and leaned down. Stubble whispered across her cheek. Her nose was against the warm skin of his neck, right against the source of his delicious scent. Lucian made a low groan when his mouth found the bare inch of her throat above her collar. His fingers delved into her hair and he carefully angled her head back, then she felt the fluid strokes of his tongue below her ear. She sagged against him, her legs turning liquid, and Lucian’s hold on her tightened. The solid feel of his chest caused the tips of her breasts to ache with pleasure. She arched into him, seeking relief, as if a reckless woman had slipped into her skin and enjoyed his attentions. He raised his head. His eyes were hazy, and the brush of his breath across her lips made them sensitive. Kiss me, she thought. He complied. She felt the flick of his tongue against her mouth like a touch much farther down, and a tiny moan escaped her. He pushed his tongue in deeper, and the embrace lost its restraint. Her hands roamed over hard shoulders and up into thick curls. Her nipples were chafing against the delicate chemise, and as if Lucian knew, his hand slid down to her chest and squeezed. She sighed, and when his thigh pressed between hers through the thickness of her skirts, it felt glorious. Until the edge of the bed bumped against the back of her legs. She broke the kiss and cast an apprehensive look around. They had crossed half the room while locked in each other’s arms. She had been as absorbed in his kisses as she became lost in a painting.
She glanced back up at him and found his eyes were black with his pupils dilated to the size of pennies. This was the tipping point, the second between remaining upright and lying down on a bed. For a heartbeat, she saw herself giving over to him, a man she barely knew. Saw herself lying skin to skin with him, his strong body moving over hers as she cradled his hips with her thighs … She shrank from him. She wasn’t ready, she just was not.
“I’m indisposed,” she said, avoiding his eyes.
A quietness came over him. He knew she was fibbing. She didn’t know why she had done it; she must have panicked.
“Why not rest, then,” he suggested.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “It’s late.”
They both glanced at the rectangle of afternoon light stretching brightly across the floor.
When she walked past him, he caught her hand. His gaze was steady in a way that made her a little breathless. “You needn’t lie to me, you know,” he murmured. “I know when you do, anyway. Just say no.”
Heat crept up her nape. He called it lying, when she and every normal person in London would have called it politely excusing oneself.
Back in her room, she wandered in circles, wishing Lucian would heed the unwritten rules that allowed women to safely withdraw from situations rather than demand that she bare her private thoughts to him. It made her feel both like a coward and a little rebellious. Her thoughts were her own; he should not pry. But he wasn’t wrong—honesty was a virtue. Still, no was a difficult word when it had to be said in cold blood. Besides, he confused her deeply. She obviously enjoyed his kisses, but she also had no notion who she was when in reaction to his presence. This morning, when witnessing him thrash his boxing bag into oblivion, she had been alarmed by the raw violence that had guided his punches, realizing that her husband could kill other men with his bare hands. It troubled her. It had also, perversely, enthralled her a little, and that troubled her most of all. She had thought of herself as impulsive, a free spirit, and yes, a bit of a coquette. But not as base. Not as a wanton filled with pitiful urges. And in the end, none of her compunctions mattered, because sooner or later, she would have to let him in.