Lord of Scoundrels - Loretta Chase [31]
And that was when he became distracted.
Her apple green pelisse fastened all the way to her white throat. It was fastened very snugly, outlining the curve of her breasts.
Measured against, say, Denise's generous endowments, Miss Trent's were negligible. In proportion to a slim, fine-boned frame and a whisper of a waist, however, the feminine curves abruptly became more than ample.
Lord Dain's fingers began to itch, and a snake of heat stirred and writhed in the pit of his belly.
The tickling bonnet became an irritation. He grabbed it and crushed it in his hand and threw it down. "That's enough," he said. "You're beginning to bother me."
"Bother you?" she cried. "Bother? I'll bother you, you conceited clodpole." Then she drew back, made a fist, and struck him square in the solar plexus.
It was a good, solid blow, and had she directed it at a man less formidably built, that man would have staggered.
Dain scarcely felt it. The lazy raindrops plopping on his head had about as much physical impact.
But he saw her wince as she jerked her hand away, and realized she'd hurt herself, and that made him want to howl. He grabbed her hand, then hastily dropped it, terrified he'd crush it by accident.
"Damn and blast and confound you to hell!" he roared. "Why won't you leave me in peace, you plague and pestilence of a female!"
A stray mongrel, sniffing at the lamppost, yelped and scurried away.
Miss Trent did not even blink. She only stood gazing with a sulkily obstinate expression at the place she'd hit, as though she were waiting for something.
He didn't know what it was. All he knew— and he didn't know how he knew, but it was a certainty as ineluctable as the storm swelling and roaring toward them— was that she hadn't got it yet and she would not go away until she did.
"What the devil do you want?" he shouted. "What in blazes is the matter with you?"
She didn't answer.
The desultory plops of rain were building to a steady patter upon the trottoir. Droplets glistened on her hair and shimmered on her pink-washed cheeks. One drop skittered along the side of her nose and down to the corner of her mouth.
"Damnation," he said.
And then he didn't care what he crushed or broke. He reached out and wrapped his monster hands about her waist and lifted her straight up until her wet, sulky face was even with his own.
And in the same heartbeat, before she could scream, he clamped his hard, dissolute mouth over hers.
The heavens opened up then, loosing a torrent.
Rain beat down upon his head, and a pair of small, gloved fists beat upon his shoulders and chest.
These matters troubled him not a whit. He was Dain, Lord Beelzebub himself.
He feared neither Nature's wrath nor that of civilized society. He most certainly was not troubled by Miss Trent's indignation.
Sweet, was he? He was a gross, disgusting pig of a debauchee, and if she thought she'd get off with merely one repellent peck of his polluted lips, she had another think coming.
There was nothing sweet or chivalrous about his kiss. It was a hard, brazen, take-no-prisoners assault that drove her head back.
For one terrifying moment, he wondered if he'd broken her neck.
But she couldn't be dead, because she was still flailing at him and squirming. He wrapped one arm tightly about her waist and brought the other hand up to hold her head firmly in place.
Instantly she stopped squirming and flailing. And in that instant her tightly compressed lips yielded to his assault with a suddenness that made him stagger backward, into the lamppost.
Her arms lashed about his neck in a strangle-hold.
Madonna in cielo.
Sweet mother of Jesus, the demented female was kissing him back.
Her mouth pressed eagerly against his, and that mouth was warm and soft and fresh as spring rain. She smelled of soap— chamomile soap— and wet wool and Woman.
His legs wobbled.
He leaned back against the lamppost and his crushing grasp loosened because his muscles were turning to rubber. Yet she clung to him, her slim, sweetly curved body