survive a broken thread,” she murmured, her lips twitching in a smile.
“Perhaps it is the breastplate. It adds inches to my shoulders.”
Lily started to laugh. She had noticed strength in other areas of his body that she wouldn’t dare mention. “There were several ladies at the party following your every gesture. Your disguise had nothing to do with it.”
“Thank you,” he said politely. “But I was paying attention only to you. And now I suppose I shall prove I’m a man of my word—unless you give me permission to—”
“Enough,” she said, breathless with temptation, suddenly reluctant to escape the gauntleted arm that trapped her in this delicious tension.
“Enough,” he agreed reluctantly, and exhaled, relaxing his grasp but not quite letting go. “As you say.” He gave a shrug of resignation.
His mouth touched hers, flint to tinder, a farewell to sin unfulfilled. His black silky hair skimmed the bare contour of her shoulder. Even that accidental touch implied intimate pleasure. The tips of her breasts tightened as he released her from his warm embrace. She sighed, bereft of his disconcerting closeness, adrift in aching wonder. So this was how the duke had earned his acclaim.
Lily would like to believe that she meant more to him than just another conquest. She had never spent an evening like this and thought she never would again.
“It has to be his spell,” she said, lifting her gaze accusingly to the dark figure of Sir Renwick Hexworthy poised above them. “ ‘Conquer the night. Embrace what is right.’ Isn’t that the motto?”
The duke did not respond. No doubt he thought that she was rather silly for blaming a boxwood figure for inciting what could be explained as earthly passion between two strangers who had temporarily lost control of their senses.
Still, it did seem to Lily as if the evergreen Renwick’s hand was pointing straight at her heart. Had the wand in his other hand moved? Had the wizard who sinned without conscience come to life to reproach her for kissing a duke who wasn’t even part of the tales? She noticed that Lord Wickbury, the Earl of Everything Perfect, had not lifted a leaf to help her.
A leaf, for heaven’s sake! She had been so swept up in the duke’s kiss and the enchantment of Wickbury ’s imaginary world that she was reading her future in the foliage. Her future as another man’s wife.
She glanced at the duke in hesitation. He didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in the topiary figures. He was looking at the feather that had drifted into the cleft of Lily’s bodice. At this rate Chloe, wherever she was, would have no trouble tracing her cousin’s location by the path of fallen plumes. The duke’s hand reached out to rescue the stray feather from Lily’s décolletage. A flush burnished her breasts with unbearable warmth.
“You—”
“You can’t go back to the party looking like a . . . plucked goose,” he interrupted, his brow lifting.
She studied him in dismay. “And you’ve got another feather stuck in your breastplate.”
His gaze dropped in amusement. In one casual gesture, he pried loose the feather and slipped it inside his sleeve alongside the others he had collected. “Now I have several bookmarks to remember our kiss by. When I finish the next Wickbury —”
He broke off, the wicked guilt in his grin too much for Lily to forgive. “You misled me,” she said, smiling tightly. “You don’t know Lord Anonymous any better than I know the prince regent.”
“That isn’t true,” he protested.
“I don’t believe you.”
“May Sir Renwick strike me down if I’ve misguided you.”
Lily waited, hoping for a branch to fall, a hint of breeze, a timely act of God to stir the wand.
“Don’t you feel foolish,” he asked, folding his arms, “waiting for an evergreen to answer?”
“Not as foolish as I do for believing your intentions. All you wanted to do was lure me alone into this garden.”
“That isn’t
“Perhaps it is the breastplate. It adds inches to my shoulders.”
Lily started to laugh. She had noticed strength in other areas of his body that she wouldn’t dare mention. “There were several ladies at the party following your every gesture. Your disguise had nothing to do with it.”
“Thank you,” he said politely. “But I was paying attention only to you. And now I suppose I shall prove I’m a man of my word—unless you give me permission to—”
“Enough,” she said, breathless with temptation, suddenly reluctant to escape the gauntleted arm that trapped her in this delicious tension.
“Enough,” he agreed reluctantly, and exhaled, relaxing his grasp but not quite letting go. “As you say.” He gave a shrug of resignation.
His mouth touched hers, flint to tinder, a farewell to sin unfulfilled. His black silky hair skimmed the bare contour of her shoulder. Even that accidental touch implied intimate pleasure. The tips of her breasts tightened as he released her from his warm embrace. She sighed, bereft of his disconcerting closeness, adrift in aching wonder. So this was how the duke had earned his acclaim.
Lily would like to believe that she meant more to him than just another conquest. She had never spent an evening like this and thought she never would again.
“It has to be his spell,” she said, lifting her gaze accusingly to the dark figure of Sir Renwick Hexworthy poised above them. “ ‘Conquer the night. Embrace what is right.’ Isn’t that the motto?”
The duke did not respond. No doubt he thought that she was rather silly for blaming a boxwood figure for inciting what could be explained as earthly passion between two strangers who had temporarily lost control of their senses.
Still, it did seem to Lily as if the evergreen Renwick’s hand was pointing straight at her heart. Had the wand in his other hand moved? Had the wizard who sinned without conscience come to life to reproach her for kissing a duke who wasn’t even part of the tales? She noticed that Lord Wickbury, the Earl of Everything Perfect, had not lifted a leaf to help her.
A leaf, for heaven’s sake! She had been so swept up in the duke’s kiss and the enchantment of Wickbury ’s imaginary world that she was reading her future in the foliage. Her future as another man’s wife.
She glanced at the duke in hesitation. He didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in the topiary figures. He was looking at the feather that had drifted into the cleft of Lily’s bodice. At this rate Chloe, wherever she was, would have no trouble tracing her cousin’s location by the path of fallen plumes. The duke’s hand reached out to rescue the stray feather from Lily’s décolletage. A flush burnished her breasts with unbearable warmth.
“You—”
“You can’t go back to the party looking like a . . . plucked goose,” he interrupted, his brow lifting.
She studied him in dismay. “And you’ve got another feather stuck in your breastplate.”
His gaze dropped in amusement. In one casual gesture, he pried loose the feather and slipped it inside his sleeve alongside the others he had collected. “Now I have several bookmarks to remember our kiss by. When I finish the next Wickbury —”
He broke off, the wicked guilt in his grin too much for Lily to forgive. “You misled me,” she said, smiling tightly. “You don’t know Lord Anonymous any better than I know the prince regent.”
“That isn’t true,” he protested.
“I don’t believe you.”
“May Sir Renwick strike me down if I’ve misguided you.”
Lily waited, hoping for a branch to fall, a hint of breeze, a timely act of God to stir the wand.
“Don’t you feel foolish,” he asked, folding his arms, “waiting for an evergreen to answer?”
“Not as foolish as I do for believing your intentions. All you wanted to do was lure me alone into this garden.”
“That isn’t
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