One Night with an Earl by Jennifer Haymore Page A

breath, his lips pressed against hers. His hands slid downward, over the sides of her neck, then her shoulders and down the sides of her body as she slipped her arms around him.
    She could feel him relishing her curves, from the roundness of her breasts to the dip in her waist and the flare of her hips.
    â€œSo lovely,” he murmured.
    Something burned inside her. Lust, need…it was a ball of heat deep in her core that spread out to her limbs and weakened her knees. He pulled her flush against him, tight enough that she could feel his arousal press through his trousers and against her belly. It was all she could do not to rub her body against it. To reach down and take the proof of his attraction into her hands.
    Instead, she whimpered and kissed him harder. His hands rounded her hips and slid to the small of her back, his fingers moving over the curve of her behind, pulling her even tighter against him.
    Without letting her go, he pulled his lips away from hers, his breathing heavy. “God, woman. You’re driving me crazy.”
    She opened her eyes, resisting the urge to blindly chase after his lips with her own. “You’re driving me crazy, too.” Her voice was a wisp of breath.
    He drew back, looking down at her with glittering eyes. “Come. Let’s resume our walk.”
    â€œAnd then what?” she asked before she could think of his possible response.
    â€œWhatever you like,” he said quietly. He took her hand, and they began to walk again.
    â€œI want…more,” she admitted. “But that is unfair…and impossible, considering we are both masked and neither of us knows the other’s identity. This night cannot last forever.”
    â€œVery true,” he said. Then he fell silent, and she wondered what he was truly thinking. Because her thoughts were treading a line of stupidity. Thoughts that maybe he wouldn’t care who she was, that something may come of these feelings they had for each other. That this might continue beyond tonight.
    But how could any man feel attraction to the real her, Beatrice Reece, Lady Fenwicke? She was the woman society shunned. The woman who people lavished sympathy upon and then, behind her back, speculated on what horrible things she must have done to provoke such “punishments” from her husband. Or they waved it off as a woman’s exaggerations, a woman in a fit of pique because her husband hadn’t behaved how she wanted him to, a woman suffering from hysteria…
    They were between gas lamps, and the dirt path was dark when she stepped squarely onto a submerged rock in a muddy puddle, immediately soaking her beautiful silk slipper. For a split second, her ankle wobbled. Then it gave way, and she pitched forward.
    As she flailed about, trying to regain her balance, two firm hands clamped about her waist, steadying her. “Here now. I’ve got you,” John said quietly. As if she were a tiny slip of a woman, he lifted her and set her down gently upon the dry area of the path. But when her weight settled on her right foot, pain shot through her ankle, and she gasped in pain. He steadied her again, frowning.
    â€œDid you twist your ankle?”
    â€œI think so.” She held her breath, every muscle tensed, ready for the reprimand. Fenwicke had grown so angry whenever she was clumsy…
    â€œDamn it,” John muttered.
    Beatrice closed her eyes, the fear a palpable taste in her mouth.
    But then a firm hand slipped beneath her knees, and she was hoisted into John’s arms. She opened her eyes to see him gazing down at her, concern and distress obvious in his expression. “Relax,” he said softly. “Put your arms around my neck.”
    She stared at him for a long, suspended moment as the fact that he wasn’t actually angry with her began to seep into her consciousness. But still, she had to make sure.
    â€œYou’re not angry?” she whispered.
    He scowled. “I