Elizabeth Willard comes to London with her aunt, uncle and cousin Amelia. Will her beautiful cousin end up marrying Elizabeth's childhood friend, Nicholas Villines? And just who is the daring jewel thief who has the Ton wondering when he'll strike next? More
Elizabeth Willard comes to London with her aunt, uncle and cousin Amelia. Will her beautiful cousin end up marrying Elizabeth's childhood friend, Nicholas Villines? And just who is the daring jewel thief who has the Ton wondering when he'll strike next?
“But so far, no one has fallen in love with my lack of fortune.”
He scowled, angry to hear evidence of how successful Mrs. Willard had been in keeping Elizabeth humble. “Don’t joke about it, Elizabeth. There are a thousand reasons for a man to fall in love with you, even before he knew you.” He leaned into the corner to look at her because she did not answer him. “You don’t believe I mean it,” he accused.
“If you do, I wish you would not say such things to me.”
“Why not?” He reached to take her hand and pull her to him. Strains of music from the ballroom could be heard even from their corner. He pushed one end of her scarf back over her shoulder. “I do mean it.” She shivered when his fingers brushed over her bare skin.
“You should not talk to me so.”
“Surely I have the right to tell you the truth, Elizabeth? My God! Have you seen yourself tonight?” He grasped her shoulders. “You might have any man you wanted. Even bloody Mr. Beaufort Latchley.” And to himself, he thought, She might have me.
She was looking at him, but when he mentioned Beaufort Latchley, she glanced away. “Please don’t tease me, Nicholas.”
“What makes you think I am?” She lifted her eyes to his, and it came into his head that if he was in love with her, he ought to tell her so. “Elizabeth…” His fingers slid across her cheek to curl around the nape of her neck.
He had few inhibitions about the satisfaction of his appetites, and he was not, he believed, any stranger to sexual passion, but his upbringing had been scrupulously correct about the differences between ladies and the women to whom a man might properly make love. Therefore, he knew it was wrong to want to make love to Elizabeth; but there it was, he did want to, and badly enough to risk everything to have her. He did not know if she took a step closer to him or if he pulled her to him, but they were suddenly so close it was a simple matter to tip her head so that their lips would meet. She did not pull away from him as he was afraid she might. Instead her arms went around his neck, and she melted against him.
It was not a chaste kiss. The propriety, or the stupidity, of passionately kissing a woman in a place lacking even a semblance of privacy did not occur to him. It was natural to be kissing her this way, and it was more than a little arousing that she obviously felt the same. She fit perfectly in his arms, exactly the right height for him. He deepened their kiss, opening her lips under his, oblivious of anything but the feeling of his tongue moving over her teeth, then past to explore her mouth, of being completely and exasperatingly excited. He could not get enough of her; just kissing her would never, could never, be enough.
He brought his hand up between them, letting his fingers settle gently around her throat before sliding them down over the curve of her chest. He stopped kissing her, pushing her to arm’s length because it was impossible to speak if she was so close. “Elizabeth…” It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her to leave with him, which would have been madness, absolute madness, but at that moment he was fully prepared to do it, and damn the consequences.