A Tale of Two Lovers by Maya Rodale

a lady,” she retorted, as she stepped behind a voluminous potted fern.
    “Exactly. That’s what I said,” Roxbury said, following her. She gasped. He grinned.
    “I do not wish for my readers to think me inconsistent, or that I spread falsehoods.” She backed up, and some large potted plant stopped her progress.
    “But you do,” he insisted. “Don’t make me prove it to you, Lady Somerset.”
    “Oh, you wouldn’t dare.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized he probably would. If he was anything like her, a dare was never resisted.
    “Oh?” he murmured, lifting one brow.
    Her lips, against her will, parted to whisper “Oh.”
    Oh, hell and damnation, she was in trouble now.
    Roxbury’s palms closed upon her cheeks and she gasped. Few thoughts flashed across her brain: Roxbury. Rake. Somerset. Kiss. Ruin. Must stop.
    Julianna protested by slapping her palms against his chest, as if to push him away. He only transferred his grip to her wrists, pressing them close to his heart. His chest was warm and firm under her palms and Lord above, she wanted to smooth her hands across his chest, exploring, owning.
    Julianna watched his lips curve into a mocking smile, as if he could read her thoughts. As if he knew she wanted to indulge but would die before admitting it. Given that he was a legendary seducer, it was not impossible.
    Instead, she gripped the fabric of his shirt and glared fiercely into his eyes. His gaze was equally dark, intense, and violent. Just when she thought he might ruthlessly shove her away, Roxbury lowered his mouth to hers.
    Roxbury wanted to strangle her; he kissed her instead. The minute his lips collided against hers the violence of his anger transformed into pure, raw passion and he feared he might ravish the she-devil right here, against a potted fern in Walmsly’s conservatory.
    She murmured in something like protest or pleasure. He felt it all over.
    It went without saying that he had enjoyed many a kiss, with many a woman. This one was different. Was it the anger? Was it the challenge? Was it just the moonlight and the brandy he’d drunk earlier in the evening? Or was it perhaps how staunchly opposed she was to him and how quickly she had surrendered to him?
    Aye, he could feel her melting under his touch.
    Julianna knew better. Julianna thought stop. She thought to say no, to insist he quit, to demand an apology. Yet a surge of heat coursed through her as Roxbury impelled her to open to him, and not gently, either. She, who loved to disobey just because she could, did just the opposite. Julianna’s brain shouted in outrage; her body sent up a prayer of thanks.
    Roxbury’s mouth was hot on hers, and his tongue expertly tangling with hers. He released his grasp on her wrists only to snake his arms around her waist and press her against him, and Julianna gasped as she felt the hot, hard length of him. She thought there was nothing, nothing , like this intimacy with a man, even if he was a completely disputable cad. Julianna had forgotten it. The memory came crashing back and she was powerless against it.
    Again, she moaned. This time, he groaned.
    Push him away. Her fists closed even more tightly around his shirt fabric.
    Push him away. Her brain issued the command, and yet she pulled him closer.
    Vaguely, she recalled that she despised him, and men of his ilk. But then her best intentions took their leave of her, along with her wits, good judgment, and common sense.
    It was utterly frantic and wonderful, for a moment. Her body and his, her mouth and his all locked up together in a hot, passionate, tortured kiss. Roxbury’s hands roughly caressed her and, devil take it, she liked it. Within minutes he had reduced her from a celibate widow who hated him to a panting woman inflamed with desire.
    Roxbury ached to take this kiss too damn far. To run his fingers through her hair, to tug down the bodice of her gown and tug up her skirts, to leave layers of clothing on the floor.