“I’ll give the whole Summerset fortune to know what you’re thinking about, Princess,” he said, leaning toward her.
She blinked several times, not knowing when he had actually come to stand in front of her.His scent was intoxicating—soap, clean and fresh, mixed with a naturally masculine scent that was all him.
Florentia wanted to bury her head in the crook of his neck and lick a path to his wicked mouth.
“I-I don’t know what you mean.”She feigned aloofness, returning to her debutante days.
She had been a shameless flirt.According to her mother, a lady must do whatever it took to secure a gentleman.Everything, except ruin oneself, of course.
“I think you know exactly what I mean,a chuisle.”He licked those decadent pink lips of his.
Bloody hell.
He spoke Gaelic to her.Florentia wasn’t sure if she’d survive hearing him speak Gaelic.He could’ve told her that her mother was a horse’s ass, and she’d still drop to her knees and worship him.
“Now get to the center of the ring, before I take you right here.”
Yes.Please, yes.
She wanted to call him a brute for saying such wicked things to her.But she couldn’t find her voice.Florentia had never been at a loss for words in her life, but this man in a single day had rendered her mute.
He chuckled as he stepped away from her, walking into the center of the furniture.
Blinking, Florentia saw that he had somehow rearranged all the furniture to form a ring.She laughed at him; she couldn’t help herself.
“What?”He held his hands out, looking like a young boy.
She saw it clear as day then, a young boy, with red hair and clear blue eyes.
Oh God!She’s gone mad.
“I can’t believe you actually made a ring,” she said, as cheerily as possible.
Florentia couldn’t believe she was allowing a man to render her utterly useless.She’d had two infatuations her entire life, and neither one of those gentlemen had ever rendered her into a simpering chit.
The Marquess of Heartford, who she had been forced into a courtship with through their mothers, at the time she couldn’t help but to hope that they would have blond-headed children together.
Then the Duke of St.Clara, who she was nearly betrothed to, with him, she’d imagined dark-haired boys, all tall and aristocratic looking.
Neither of those gentlemen, who didn’t care one fig about her, had ever rendered her speechless, let alone had her wanting to do things she’d never done with any man.
“Come here, Princess,” Tavish said, crooking a finger at her.
Damn him.
Damn him.
Her feet moved before the rest of her, and she stumbled to the center of the makeshift ring, doing exactly as he bid her.
He chuckled wickedly again, his hand taking her by the waist.Her body heated, her sex pulsating in desperate need for him.She ached for this man, this bare-knuckle boxer that ate with his hands and said dirty words like it was breathing.He’d also treated her with kindness, taking her shopping and spending an obscene amount on new dresses, even commissioning two new gowns.Tavish also faithfully went to Hatchard’s with her and smiled as she pulled down novel after novel before she finally chose two new ones.
He turned her suddenly.Her back to his hard chest; his breath, tinted with whiskey, caressed her ear.“The Irish stand down.”He pivoted her body, his feet kicking at hers.“Spread them,” he commanded, his hold on her tight.
So tight that she could feel his hard cock pressing against her rump.He was almost too tall, but she could feel him, long and thick.She wanted to rise to her toes and press up against him, rolling her hips against him.
“This is the form of combat.”He wrapped both arms around her, taking her hands in his.“Ball them into fists,” he whispered, his lips grazing her cheek.
Her breathing increased to breathless pants, and she found herself pressing against his hips.
