worst. Pierce St. James was determined to seduce her, and a seduction would ruin her chances of making a marriage forever. Talk—maybe if she could get him to talk —
"The earl of Sand—something?" she said, pushing on his chest and managing to put an inch or two between them. "Tell me again, my lord…
earl of what?"
"Sandbourne," he said, running his hand down her cheek and bending his head to nuzzle and kiss the palm of her hand. "Lucky girl. A prime minister and an earl in the same night," he murmured, losing himself to passion, by degrees.
"A real earl? I mean, with patents and robes and a seat in the House of Lords?" she demanded, holding her breath until he murmured something in the affirmative. 'Well, that certainly must keep you busy. I mean, what with fine houses and holdings and estates—you do have them, don't you?"
"I do," he said raising his head to savor the eagerness of her. Her avid interest in his rank and wealth brought a faint curl of triumph to his kiss-reddened lips. "All of the standard luxuries… estates, houses, carriages, bank accounts, family jewels…"
"How lovely," she said, as calmly as she could with her heart thudding wildly. "And I imagine you must travel a great deal—winter in the south of France, that sort of thing."
"Occasionally," he murmured, unbuttoning her cuff and working her sleeve up her arm with kisses and nuzzles. "I don't like to be away when Parliament is in session."
"Or away from your wife and children, I suppose."
"I have no wife or children," he murmured, pursuing her as she scooted to the edge of the chair and sat teetering on the brink of falling.
"That's a pity," she said, meaning every word of it. She had hoped that the mention of a virtuous wife and innocent children might divert him from his designs on her. "Still, I'm sure you have plenty of time for them. After all, you are probably no more than… what… thirty-five?"
"Thirty. Such delicate skin…" With each adoring murmur along her skin, he leaned progressively closer, until he was pressed intimately along her side; shoulder, waist, and hip. "Shaded like peaches and sweet cream." One of his arms slid around her waist, holding her in place on the chair, while the other hand began to stroke her cheek and feather fingertips down the bridge of her nose and across her lips. "You feel like fresh rose petals in dew… so cool and silky…"
"Please, your lordship—no—" She shoved harder against him, nearing full panic as her talking strategy went up in flames. Inexplicably, Rosalind's voice filled her head, recounting an axiom from her Rules of Romance. A true lover appreciates a woman with all the senses… sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste . She had the half-rational thought that his lordship must have studied in the same amorous school as her mother. He was sniffing, staring, stroking, and whispering… any second now she expected to be nibbled as well.
By her mother's standards, the earl was a prime specimen of the accomplished and desirable lover… handsome, smooth, masterful. In fact, she thought with growing despair, her mother would probably be delirious with joy if she could see what was happening to her at this very moment!
She jerked her head as he aimed his mouth for hers, and his lips grazed her jaw instead, then dropped a string of light kisses around her throat.
When she felt the rasp of his tongue and telltale tug of her skin, she cringed.
Was this what she had to look forward to? A lifetime of being continually sniffed, ogled, handled, and nibbled by men with rampaging passions and extravagant pedigrees?
Passions and pedigrees . She froze. For one breathtaking instant, her present danger intersected her larger dilemma of how to wrest control of her life and future from her mother. And at that critical juncture stood her current abductor. Tall, dark, and undeniably handsome, he fairly oozed worldliness, sophistication, and sexual accomplishment. If anything he said was to
"The earl of Sand—something?" she said, pushing on his chest and managing to put an inch or two between them. "Tell me again, my lord…
earl of what?"
"Sandbourne," he said, running his hand down her cheek and bending his head to nuzzle and kiss the palm of her hand. "Lucky girl. A prime minister and an earl in the same night," he murmured, losing himself to passion, by degrees.
"A real earl? I mean, with patents and robes and a seat in the House of Lords?" she demanded, holding her breath until he murmured something in the affirmative. 'Well, that certainly must keep you busy. I mean, what with fine houses and holdings and estates—you do have them, don't you?"
"I do," he said raising his head to savor the eagerness of her. Her avid interest in his rank and wealth brought a faint curl of triumph to his kiss-reddened lips. "All of the standard luxuries… estates, houses, carriages, bank accounts, family jewels…"
"How lovely," she said, as calmly as she could with her heart thudding wildly. "And I imagine you must travel a great deal—winter in the south of France, that sort of thing."
"Occasionally," he murmured, unbuttoning her cuff and working her sleeve up her arm with kisses and nuzzles. "I don't like to be away when Parliament is in session."
"Or away from your wife and children, I suppose."
"I have no wife or children," he murmured, pursuing her as she scooted to the edge of the chair and sat teetering on the brink of falling.
"That's a pity," she said, meaning every word of it. She had hoped that the mention of a virtuous wife and innocent children might divert him from his designs on her. "Still, I'm sure you have plenty of time for them. After all, you are probably no more than… what… thirty-five?"
"Thirty. Such delicate skin…" With each adoring murmur along her skin, he leaned progressively closer, until he was pressed intimately along her side; shoulder, waist, and hip. "Shaded like peaches and sweet cream." One of his arms slid around her waist, holding her in place on the chair, while the other hand began to stroke her cheek and feather fingertips down the bridge of her nose and across her lips. "You feel like fresh rose petals in dew… so cool and silky…"
"Please, your lordship—no—" She shoved harder against him, nearing full panic as her talking strategy went up in flames. Inexplicably, Rosalind's voice filled her head, recounting an axiom from her Rules of Romance. A true lover appreciates a woman with all the senses… sight, hearing, touch, smell, and taste . She had the half-rational thought that his lordship must have studied in the same amorous school as her mother. He was sniffing, staring, stroking, and whispering… any second now she expected to be nibbled as well.
By her mother's standards, the earl was a prime specimen of the accomplished and desirable lover… handsome, smooth, masterful. In fact, she thought with growing despair, her mother would probably be delirious with joy if she could see what was happening to her at this very moment!
She jerked her head as he aimed his mouth for hers, and his lips grazed her jaw instead, then dropped a string of light kisses around her throat.
When she felt the rasp of his tongue and telltale tug of her skin, she cringed.
Was this what she had to look forward to? A lifetime of being continually sniffed, ogled, handled, and nibbled by men with rampaging passions and extravagant pedigrees?
Passions and pedigrees . She froze. For one breathtaking instant, her present danger intersected her larger dilemma of how to wrest control of her life and future from her mother. And at that critical juncture stood her current abductor. Tall, dark, and undeniably handsome, he fairly oozed worldliness, sophistication, and sexual accomplishment. If anything he said was to
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