The Viscount and the Virgin by Annie Burrows Page A

face was like a bellows, fanning her simmering anti pa thy into searing flame. She lashed out at him, her open palm cracking across his cheek with a noise like a whiplash.
    It silenced him, but only for a second. ‘You vicious little…’ His hand went to his reddening cheek. ‘You will pay for that.’
    Before she could make a move to stop him, Viscount Mildenhall pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Her cry of protest was swallowed under the in sis tent pressure of his mouth. His arms clamped her own to her sides, so that although she struggled with all her might, she was quite unable to break his hold.
    At first she was far too angry to feel scared. Then after only a few seconds, she discovered that there wassome thing wickedly fascinating about being kissed, thoroughly kissed, by an utterly determined man. She stopped struggling as some essential, deeply buried aspect of her femininity came leaping to life in acknowledgement of his masculinity. Her lips softened and parted. With a low growl, Viscount Mildenhall plunged his tongue into her mouth, taking the experience onto a whole new level.
    Her mind reeled. Her heart pounded. Her stomach did an excited little flip.
    And Viscount Mildenhall, sensing her capitulation, brought one hand round to the front of her gown and cupped her breast.
    His audacity shocked her.
    â€˜What are you—’ She gasped, her eyes widening in dismay. ‘You cannot—’
    â€˜It is what women who pursue men get,’ he sneered. ‘Exactly what they deserve. Since the night you made a play for me at Mrs Leeming’s, I have made it my business to find out about you. Did you know that men are making wagers about how long it will be before you follow—’ he delved inside her bodice ‘—in your mother’s foot steps?’
    Then he fastened his lips to her neck.
    Imogen felt as though she was split ting in two.
    She hated the scathing way he had spoken of her mother. She knew the casual way he was fondling her breast, as though she was a light skirt, was grossly insulting.
    Yet the sensuality of that caress was sending rivers of desire coursing through her veins. Her body wanted to arch into his, entwine itself around him.
    â€˜Please, please,’ she heard herself moaning. ‘Kiss me again.’
    The viscount raised his head and smiled at her. With such contempt it roused what remained of her pride.
    When he lowered his mouth to take the kiss she had begged for, she bit him.
    â€˜What the—!’ He reared back, and Imogen, who had been taught well by Rick, struck him in the face, first with her right fist, and then her left.
    There had not been room for her to take a really good back swing. It was shock, she expected, that sent him reeling back wards. And a stroke of luck that his shoulder slammed into an ornamental urn—that turned out to be full of sandy loam. Which cascaded all over him as it rocked on its plinth.
    She made good her escape while he was still struggling to prevent it from toppling onto the flags below the terrace.
    She had only just got inside when she careered full tilt into Rick, who had a glass of champagne in each hand. He did not spill a single drop when she crashed into him, she noted somewhat hysterically as she clung to him. He merely raised his arms in the air, absorbing the impact of her body with a slight grunt.
    She felt him turn and put the drinks down, then put his arms round her as he asked, ‘What the devil has happened?’ He put her from himself, then looked down at her with concern. His eyes snagged on the front of her gown, and narrowed. ‘Has some man tried to take advantage of you?’
    For the first time, Imogen noticed that the flimsy material was torn. It must have happened when she wrestled herself out of the viscount’s hold.
    His face darkened. ‘I shall kill him,’ he growled, making for the outside door.
    â€˜No, Rick! Don’t say such a