“It’s the only one I can give at this moment,” he replied.
She laughed bitterly. “Of course it is. How foolish of me to expect honesty from you.”
“Samantha—”
“No.” She stepped back, cutting him off from using her given name again. “You want to know why I avoid you? Because I learned long ago not to trust men who vanish without explanation. I learned not to wait for answers that never come.”
“You’ve been thinking about me,” he said quietly, his eyes bright with wonder. “All these years, you’ve been thinking about me.”
“Don’t.” Her voice was warning now. “Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”
“Into something that it is not?” He echoed, stepping closer, his voice dropping to that sultry whisper that made her knees weak. “You mean turning it into the truth? Into the admission that you’ve wondered about me just as I’ve wondered about you?”
“You haven’t wondered about me. You’ve bedded half the actresses in London.”
His smile was purely predatory now. “I am a married man now. And here I am, home before midnight, turning down perfectly willing women because I couldn’t stop thinking about my wife.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and he watched the slender line of her throat work, barely holding back a groan of desire at the sight.
“You’re lying.” She said.
“Am I?” He was close enough now that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. “You think I don’t feel this pull between us?”
She hissed, “There’s no pull. There’snothingbetween us.”
Except a marriage, apparently. She reminded him of a wary stray cat, prickly and rather adorable.
“Is that right, my tigress?” He reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “Then why are you trembling?”
She jerked away from his touch, but he caught her wrist, his thumb finding her pulse point. “Your heart is racing, Samantha. Your breathing is shallow. Admit it. You ache. You crave. You burn.”
But his wife was very stubborn. “I don’t?—”
“Do not lie to me.” His voice was rough now, barely controlled. “Do not lie to yourself.”
A flush climbed her throat. She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already speaking again—soft, dangerous.
“Tell me,” he said, lowering his voice, “do the women in your little book club blush like this when they read about stolen kisses and trembling thighs?”
Her eyes widened.
“Oh yes,” he said, a slow smile curving his lips. “You hide behind moral debate and literary merit, but we both know what you’re really looking for between those pages.”
“You arrogant?—”
“Truthful,” he cut in. “You want passion, Samantha. You want to be wanted. Touched. Taken. You want everything you’ve only dared read about—and you hate that it’smewho makes you feel it.”
She tried to pull back, but he let her go this time. She didn’t step away.
He leaned closer, voice a heated whisper. “You can deny it all you like, but I see it… every unspoken wish you try to hide.”
“I …” she faltered.
“Say it, Duchess. Tell me what you want.” He stepped closer, voice low and teasing, a spark of wickedness in his eyes.
His fingers grazed lightly over her wrist, gentle but certain.
“You’ve spent your life bound by duty, by expectations. Theton, propriety, endless whispers of what a lady must be.” He smiled, sharp and knowing. “But what if I told you I could give you something else? Pleasure so real, so fierce, it would make all that fade—theton, the duty, the rules. Not just passion, Samantha. Freedom.” He lowered his voice until it was barely more than a breath against her ear. “A touch that doesn’t ask for permission, a fire that won’t be tamed, and nights where nothing matters but whatyouwant.”
