Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 84

“Why? How? How is it different?”
“Because you deserved more.”
Her eyes widened. “I think you just insulted Grace.”
“Damn it,” he muttered, raking his hand through his hair. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I think you are doing a fine job of twisting them yourself.”
He took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm his temper. “Your whole life you have expected to marry a duke.”
“What does that matter?”
“What does that matter?” For a moment he looked incapable of words. “You have no idea what your life might be, stripped of your connections and your money.”
“I don’t need that,” she protested.
But he continued as if he had not heard her. “I have nothing, Amelia. I have no money, no property—”
“You have yourself.”
He gave a self-mocking snort. “I don’t even know who that is.”
“I do,” she whispered.
“You’re not being realistic.”
“You’re not being fair.”
“Amelia, you—”
“No,” she cut in angrily. “I don’t want to hear it. I can’t believe the level of your insult.”
“My insult?”
“Am I really such a hothouse flower that you don’t think I could withstand the tiniest of hardships?”
“It won’t be tiny.”
“But Grace could do it.”
His expression grew stony, and he did not reply.
“What did she say?” Amelia asked, her words almost a sneer.
“What?”
Her voice grew in volume. “What did Grace say?”
He stared at her as if he’d never seen her before.
“You asked her to marry you,” she ground out. “What did she say?”
“She refused,” he finally replied, his voice clipped.
“Did you kiss her?”
“Amelia . . . ”
“Did you?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Did you kiss her?”
“Yes!” he exploded. “Yes, for the love of God, I kissed her, but it was nothing. Nothing! I tried, believe me I tried to feel something, but it was nothing like this.” He grabbed her then, and his lips came down on hers so fast and so hard that she did not have time to breathe. And then it didn’t matter. His hands were on her, pressing her against him—hard—and she could feel his arousal against her, and she wanted him.
She wanted this.
She tore at his clothing, wanting nothing so much as the heat of his skin against hers. His lips were on her neck, and his hand was under her skirt, moving up her leg.
She was panting with desire. His thumb was on the soft flesh of her inner thigh, pressing, stroking, and she wasn’t sure she could stand. She clutched at his shoulders for support, sighing his name, moaning it, begging him over and over again for more.
And his hand moved even higher, until it was at the crook of her leg, where it met her hip, so close . . . so close to . . .
He touched her.
She went stiff, and then she sagged against him, instinctively softening herself as he touched her.
“Thomas,” she moaned, and before she knew it, he’d laid her on the ground, and he was kissing her, and he was touching her, and she had no idea what to do, had no thought at all except that she wanted this. She wanted everything he was doing and more.
His fingers continued to tickle, and then he slipped one inside of her in the most wicked caress of all. She arched beneath him, gasping at the shock and pleasure of it. He’d slipped inside so easily. Had her body been waiting for this? Preparing itself for this very moment, when he would settle himself between her thighs and touch her?
She was breathing faster, harder, and she wanted him closer. Her blood was pounding through her body, and all she could do was grab at him, clutch his back, his hair, his buttocks—anything to pull him against her, to feel the mounting pressure of his body on hers.
His mouth moved to her chest, to the flat plane of skin left exposed by her dress. She shivered as he found the neckline of her dress, his lips tracing it around . . . down . . . from her collarbone to the gentle swell of her breast. He took the fabric between his teeth and began to tug, gently at first, and then with greater vigor when it did not give. Finally, with a muffled curse, he brought his hand down and grabbed at the fabric that gathered over her shoulder, giving it a yank until it slid over her arm. Her breast slid free, and she barely had a chance to gasp before his mouth closed over the tip.
A soft shriek escaped her lips, and she did not know whether to pull back or push forward, and in the end it did not matter, because he was holding her securely in place, and judging from his growls of pleasure,
she was not going anywhere. His hand—the one that had been delivering such sweet torture—had curved around her backside and was pulling her relentlessly against his desire. And his other hand—it slid along the soft, sensitive skin of her arm, stretching her up, and up, until their hands were both over their heads.
Their fingers entwined.
I love you, she wanted to cry.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t allow herself to utter a word. He would stop if she did. She didn’t know how she knew it, or why she was so certain, but she knew it was true. If she did anything to break the spell, to bring him back to reality, he would stop. And she could not bear it if that happened.
She felt his hands move between their bodies, fumbling with the fastenings of his breeches, and then there he was. Hard and hot, pressing her, then stretching her, and she was not sure if this was going to work, and then she was no longer so certain she was going to like it, and then—