green dressing robe, and slipped it on.
"You understood I wasn't staying." She quickly snapped the locks on her portmanteau. "I've been gone too long. I want to return home as quickly as possible."
"Why don't you show me Kent?"
She turned to him. "Just like that?"
He shrugged. "Why not? England in the spring has its charms. And I haven't had enough of you."
Nor she of him, she thought with a frisson of longing. He stood in his sumptuous Japanese silk robe like some barbarian prince transported to Richelieu's ornate dressing room, his powerful masculinity striking against the delicate fabric, his long black hair gleaming in the morning sun, his exotic bronzed skin the heritage of ancestors beyond the Urals, his sensual, tilted eyes so compelling she felt a spiking heat race through her veins. But she couldn't so casually oblige him when her life was circumscribed by parochial, parish values, by the presence of powerful, hostile neighbors. She didn't have the advantage of his princely fortune and its concomitant freedoms. "I'm sorry," she gently said, "but circumstances in my life won't allow me to bring you home with me."
"We could stay in London if you prefer."
She gazed at him, mild affront in the arch of her brow. "You must always get what you want."
"Just about always."
The audacity of great wealth, beauty, and charm, she thought. "I may find that offensive."
"I'm sorry. I should have lied," he casually said, unabashed. "I thought you enjoyed yourself last night."
"Of course I did." The word enjoy was much too abstemious for the extent of her enthusiasm. "But that's not reason enough."
"Yes, it is," he simply said.
"For men like you perhaps."
He had no intention of arguing the finer points of gender roles. "You could show me the sights
beyond
Burleigh House," he pleasantly remarked.
"And you could show me what you know, I suppose." Her voice was sardonic.
He grinned. "If you'd like."
"Such smugness."
"How can it hurt to have company at your house?"
"Because I have dangerous neighbors there. Grosvenors who don't like me. And servants and villagers who gossip, and a son."
"No problem. I'll be scrupulously prudent in public." His voice drifted into a lower register. "I'd very much like to touch you again."
She shook her head, knowing her responsibilities. "It's not possible, Pasha."
"How many times did you come last night?" he asked, his voice like velvet.
And her body opened as if his query were a lush password to her deepest longing.
"Everything doesn't have to have a reason in this world," he whispered. "I can give you pleasure on any terms you want."
"Don't say that," she breathed, a blush rising on her cheeks.
"I'll make love to you wherever you want, whenever you want," he murmured. "In the dark of night, behind locked doors, anywhere you feel safe…"
Feverish need overwhelmed her, a vaulting rush of pleasure coursed through her body. Prey to all the carnal temptations he so lustily offered, she heard herself say as if reason had departed her mind, as if such an answer could be given without lengthy deliberation, "If you come with me, you must consent to my terms—completely."
"Completely," Pasha instantly agreed.
"You can't touch me in front of Christopher or even allude to any intimacy. I mean it absolutely, absolutely."
"Of course not." The barouche, he thought, would bring them to the coast faster.
"And you can't stay long." As if she would be protected from her wanton longing with defined boundaries.
"You set the time limit," he replied, assured of his skills as a lover.
"And you must
never
look at me like that in public," she declared, reading the shameless message in his eyes.
"In public I shall treat you like a monk."
She couldn't help but laugh. "Are you capable of such a role?"
"Well, there are monks and there are monks," he murmured, amusement in his gaze.
"I'll need more assurance than that, Monsieur Duras," she briskly noted, simultaneously playful and assertive.
"I'll
"You understood I wasn't staying." She quickly snapped the locks on her portmanteau. "I've been gone too long. I want to return home as quickly as possible."
"Why don't you show me Kent?"
She turned to him. "Just like that?"
He shrugged. "Why not? England in the spring has its charms. And I haven't had enough of you."
Nor she of him, she thought with a frisson of longing. He stood in his sumptuous Japanese silk robe like some barbarian prince transported to Richelieu's ornate dressing room, his powerful masculinity striking against the delicate fabric, his long black hair gleaming in the morning sun, his exotic bronzed skin the heritage of ancestors beyond the Urals, his sensual, tilted eyes so compelling she felt a spiking heat race through her veins. But she couldn't so casually oblige him when her life was circumscribed by parochial, parish values, by the presence of powerful, hostile neighbors. She didn't have the advantage of his princely fortune and its concomitant freedoms. "I'm sorry," she gently said, "but circumstances in my life won't allow me to bring you home with me."
"We could stay in London if you prefer."
She gazed at him, mild affront in the arch of her brow. "You must always get what you want."
"Just about always."
The audacity of great wealth, beauty, and charm, she thought. "I may find that offensive."
"I'm sorry. I should have lied," he casually said, unabashed. "I thought you enjoyed yourself last night."
"Of course I did." The word enjoy was much too abstemious for the extent of her enthusiasm. "But that's not reason enough."
"Yes, it is," he simply said.
"For men like you perhaps."
He had no intention of arguing the finer points of gender roles. "You could show me the sights
beyond
Burleigh House," he pleasantly remarked.
"And you could show me what you know, I suppose." Her voice was sardonic.
He grinned. "If you'd like."
"Such smugness."
"How can it hurt to have company at your house?"
"Because I have dangerous neighbors there. Grosvenors who don't like me. And servants and villagers who gossip, and a son."
"No problem. I'll be scrupulously prudent in public." His voice drifted into a lower register. "I'd very much like to touch you again."
She shook her head, knowing her responsibilities. "It's not possible, Pasha."
"How many times did you come last night?" he asked, his voice like velvet.
And her body opened as if his query were a lush password to her deepest longing.
"Everything doesn't have to have a reason in this world," he whispered. "I can give you pleasure on any terms you want."
"Don't say that," she breathed, a blush rising on her cheeks.
"I'll make love to you wherever you want, whenever you want," he murmured. "In the dark of night, behind locked doors, anywhere you feel safe…"
Feverish need overwhelmed her, a vaulting rush of pleasure coursed through her body. Prey to all the carnal temptations he so lustily offered, she heard herself say as if reason had departed her mind, as if such an answer could be given without lengthy deliberation, "If you come with me, you must consent to my terms—completely."
"Completely," Pasha instantly agreed.
"You can't touch me in front of Christopher or even allude to any intimacy. I mean it absolutely, absolutely."
"Of course not." The barouche, he thought, would bring them to the coast faster.
"And you can't stay long." As if she would be protected from her wanton longing with defined boundaries.
"You set the time limit," he replied, assured of his skills as a lover.
"And you must
never
look at me like that in public," she declared, reading the shameless message in his eyes.
"In public I shall treat you like a monk."
She couldn't help but laugh. "Are you capable of such a role?"
"Well, there are monks and there are monks," he murmured, amusement in his gaze.
"I'll need more assurance than that, Monsieur Duras," she briskly noted, simultaneously playful and assertive.
"I'll
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