The Duke Is Mine - Eloisa James [57]
He turned his head, rather slowly, and looked down at her. The flare in his eyes couldn’t be described by a word as innocuous as flirtation. “I would not describe it as such,” he said, echoing her thought.
Was he trying to shame her? If there was one thing Olivia hated, it was people who hid their emotions behind a mask of propriety. She’d had enough of that from her family. Though she loved them dearly, she’d long ago concluded that greed dictated her parents’ relationship to her.
“I understand if you wish to pretend that the feeling isn’t there, but I cannot agree with you,” she said.
“In fact, I have described it to myself as being in the grip of compulsive lust,” he said bluntly. “I assure you, Miss Lytton, that I have never kissed a strange woman in such an impetuous manner before you appeared at my front door.”
Olivia felt a sudden flush break over her entire body. Her heart was pounding. She did not dare look at him. Part of her wanted to protest: didn’t he realize that she was plump and unattractive? She peeked at him.
“You are betrothed,” he said, his voice coming out in a growl.
“Since childhood,” she said, nodding.
They were walking along a lilac hedge. The perfume of the blossoms floated in the air all around them. He stopped, dropping her arm, so she had to look up at him. A strong hand tipped up her chin. Their eyes met. “Olivia,” he said. And that was all.
She was in his arms, and his lips came down on hers. For a moment they kissed the way they had in the silver room: a bit tentative, gentle, a sip and a taste. But then his arms tightened and she tilted her head just so, and the kiss changed. Her lips opened and he was there, tangling with her.
The fragrance of the lilacs faded. Instead, she smelled spice and soap, a mingling of gentleman and highwayman that was the duke.
He was right. This wasn’t flirtation; this was craving, so deep and intense that Olivia’s whole body vibrated with the need to be closer. She wrapped her arms around his neck, stood on tiptoe, allowed his hand to press her body against the hard planes of his body. The other cupped the back of her head, cradling it in a position that tilted her head so that he could kiss her hard, a hungry, smoldering kiss that told her without words that he didn’t think she was plump and unattractive.
His hair fell from its ribbon and brushed her cheek. His eyes were closed, which made him look like a different man. Open-eyed, he was fierce, hawk-like, somewhat cold. With his eyes closed, he was someone else entirely.
A man in the grip of pleasure, her instinct told her.
His lips slid from hers, seeking the tender sweep of her neck. She gasped and shivered; his eyes opened.
“This is not flirtation.” His voice rasped as his lips lit a trail of heat across her cheek.
“No,” she whispered, trembling against him.
“It’s a bloody forest fire,” he said, dropping one last short, hard kiss on her lips and then putting her away from him.
Olivia swallowed.
“Yet you are betrothed.” It was a statement, but those dark eyes were asking a question. Olivia felt as if the world peeled away from around them, as if there were only the two of them in the whole of the windy garden: this tall, hard man, his eyes searching her face, and Miss Olivia Mayfield Lytton, betrothed at birth to a marquess. Her heart thudded against her ribs, but . . .
There was Rupert to think of, and Georgiana.
She steeled herself and willed the words aloud. “A forest fire is no reason to betray the two people I . . . to betray my fiancé.”
“Two people.” He paused. “Georgiana?”
“That’s irrelevant,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to—at any rate, it’s completely irrelevant.”
“No, it’s not. She’s here because my mother invited her.”
Olivia nodded.
“It’s not as if we were looking her over, like a horse at Tattersall’s,” he said somewhat defensively. “My first marriage went very poorly. My mother is anxious that I don’t repeat the mistake.”
Olivia touched his cheek, as lightly as a breath, but still her fingertips tingled.