He must have felt her gaze; he turned from the window, scanned her face, then mock growled, “Damn it—stop that. I’m having a difficult enough time reining in my lust without you doing your best to ignite it. We have to get past Portland first—at his age, we can’t afford to shock him into a heart attack.”
She laughed, even while, at the mention of his lust, something inside her purred.
“Don’t forget,” he muttered as the carriage turned in to the Alverton House drive, “Portland’s known me since I was a boy.”
She leaned close to whisper in his ear, “Exactly. Which is why I can’t imagine he would be shocked at all.”
He looked at her, then huffed.
The carriage halted, and before it had even settled on its springs, Morton had dropped down and swung open the door.
Devlin rose and descended to the gravel, then reached back and gave her his hand. She gripped his fingers and climbed down, then released her skirts and straightened, and with her head held at her usual confident, faintly haughty angle, she took the arm Devlin offered and walked beside him up the steps.
Portland had the door open before they reached the porch. They swept inside, followed by Morton; as the door closed, Therese heard the rattle as the carriage drove off to the mews.
Portland approached to relieve her of her cloak. “I trust the evening went well, my lady?”
“It did, Portland. Exceedingly well.” It took effort to keep her soaring delight over the evening’s outcome from her face and voice. As for her expectation of what was yet to come, the bubbling anticipation streaking through her veins was increasingly difficult to contain.
Portland lifted the heavy velvet cloak from her shoulders, and from the corner of her eye, in the hall mirror, she saw the butler’s gaze rise to her hair and, for a moment, halt.
Only then did she remember the feathered headdress—such adornments being currently all the rage—anchored above the knot of her chignon. It was now in a sorry state; presumably, her and Devlin’s wrestling in the carriage had crushed it. As no plausible excuse sprang to her tongue, she blithely pretended nothing was amiss and, with her customary assurance and a restrained “Goodnight,” made for the stairs.
Having been relieved of his cloak by Morton, Devlin, too, bade the staff an urbane goodnight and followed at her heels.
Therese climbed the stairs as quickly as she dared; she could sense Devlin at her back, a sensual predator with whom she couldn’t wait to tangle.
The instant her foot touched the gallery floor, she broke and, grabbing up her skirts, valiantly struggling to smother her laughter, raced down the corridor toward her room.
He caught her before she reached her door, spun her around, backed her against the panelled wall, and kissed her to within an inch of her life.
She gave as good as she got, and he seized her and held her, and she wrapped her arms about his neck and clung—to the kiss and to him.
After several seconds of a rapacious exchange, without breaking the kiss, he swung her up into his arms, juggled her, then walked the few paces to her door. He managed to open it and strode through, then kicked the door shut behind them.
Warm lamplight, soft and golden, engulfed them.
Devlin halted in the middle of the room and, on a gasp that came as much from him as from her, broke the voraciously greedy kiss. He raised his head and released Therese’s legs, letting them swing down.
Once her feet touched the floor and she stood of her own accord, he raised both hands, speared them through her hair, then cupping her face, drew her up to her toes, drew her lips back to his, and—letting fall each and every rein that, with her, he’d always endeavored to retain—devoured.
Tonight, his hunger had scaled new heights. He angled his head and, with her open and avid encouragement, steered the kiss into still deeper, even more turbulent waters. Waters that churned with a deeper longing, a more profound yearning than anything in his previous experience had prepared him for.
He wanted, desired,neededso much more acutely. The intensity, the longing, the raw desire that infused his very soul was far beyond anything he’d previously known.
The only difference was love—that he’d confessed to loving her. And consequently, no longer needed to maintain the control he’d previously exercised over his deep-seated, unruly emotions.
His most powerful emotions.
Although he’d never consciously examined it, he’d innately known and had always recognized that love—true and pure, the sort of love he felt for Therese—was the greatest, most powerful emotion of them all.
All else bowed before it; that had been his principal reason for hiding it.
Tonight, he’d finally, irrevocably, traded his shield for all that love, an acknowledged love, could bestow. Until now—until the moment when he stood with Therese’s lips plundering his and the flames of passion licking over them both—he hadn’t realized that, in making that trade, he’d also surrendered control.
There was no way to halt the conflagration that seized them both. Not that he wished to, but even steering it, slowing or guiding it, was beyond him.
All he knew was the unquenchable desire to join with her. To love her in the fullest sense.
