A Dangerous Man by Janmarie Anello Page A

Nor have I given you leave to use my Christian name"
    "As we are now wed," he murmured, his dark eyes studying her face, as if he would memorize every inch, every
curve. "It would seem a trifle odd to stand on formality, at
least when we are private. But if you prefer, shall I address
you as Your Grace?"
    Your Grace? No, she was simple Miss Jamison, not the
Duchess of St. Austin, but it could not be a dream.
    She wore his ring on her finger. A lovely gold band.
    "Yes, I would prefer it," she said, twisting her hands in
her skirts. This conversation was inane, but she could think
of nothing of import to say. All she could think was she had
made a dreadful mistake. She would love him, she already
knew it.
    She was in very great danger. She had to fight her perilous
attraction to this man. She had to protect her heart.
    The coachman called to the horses and gave a quick snap
of the reins. The sudden lurch of the vehicle as it rolled into
motion stirred the queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach.

    Before she could think to utter a protest, the duke closed the
distance between them, captured her trembling hands between
his palms. Though they both wore gloves, she was well aware
of the strength of his fingers, of his powerful grip and the heat
of his skin, which sparked an answering heat in her belly.
    "Your Grace," he said, his lips pushing together in a tight
line, as if he were fighting a grin. "We are not the first to wed
out of duty and honor and family obligation. We surely will not
be the last. We must find a way to move forward from here"
    It was a perfectly reasonable, rational thing to say.
    "I would prefer to find a way out," she grumbled, which
was not quite as reasonable, nor even slightly rational, but he
had hold of her hands and he was gazing at her through his
intensely disturbing, devil-may-care eyes and his beguiling
scent was wrapping around her. Then he did the most despicable thing yet.
    He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers over
her skin. His eyes darkened. His gaze dropped to her lips and
she knew ... he would kiss her again. She meant to lean
backward, but she moved forward, her eyes drifting shut.
    He was making a grave mistake.
    Even though he recognized this truth, Richard could not
stop himself from lowering his head and tasting her lips,
lightly tracing her teeth with his tongue, waiting until she invited him in with a soft, little sigh that made his body go instantly hard.
    He forced himself to keep his hands on her back, only her
back, as he drew her closer, breathed her scent of roses and
lotion, felt the warmth of her breath against his lips. And now
he knew. It was not the whisky that had made him kiss her.

     

Chapter Seven
    The carriage rolled to a stop before he could deepen the
kiss, before passion swept away reason and he found himself
taking his wife, his virgin wife, in a cold, dark carriage with
no thought to her pleasure or his peace of mind.
    His pulse marched swiftly to the beat of his heart. He lifted
his hands away from her person, threw himself back against
the stiff leather squabs. Uncomfortable tension clenched his
legs as he watched the slow dawn of awareness creep into her
eyes. As passion waned, their amber-green softness darkened
with the glimmer of some strong emotion. A burgundy flush
spread over her cheeks, drifting down her neck, drawing his
gaze to the rapid rise and fall of her bosom as she fought to
catch her breath.
    "Do not kiss me again," she said, brushing her palms down
her arms, as if she could wipe away the heat of his hands from
her skin. "And do not touch me "
    "Do you intend to deny us both the pleasures of our marriage bed?" Why he said it, he did not know, as he had no intention of ever bedding her-though the heavy ache in his
groin gave truth to that lie. Now that he thought about it, why
the hell not?
    He might not have wanted a wife, but he had one. Should he not reap the benefits that went