Chapter Twenty-Three

Kissing Oscar again was a terrible idea.

He was like the last bite of cake. She should resist. She wanted to resist. Mostly.

But unlike the last bite of cake, leaving Oscar's lips seemed impossible.

Her body and will were at an impasse, negotiating, bargaining, then bending with a final concession as his hand slid along

the sensitive curve of her throat to cup her nape. As his tongue teased past her lips, stroking slowly into her mouth, she

felt heat drop into the pit of her belly. The intensity of it made her arch against him. And when her hips met the thick hardness

of him, she gasped.

Needless to say, she was no longer thinking about cake.

Turning her head, she rested her cheek against his, panting. "I didn't give you permission to kiss me."

"Then, give me permission," he said, nuzzling the corner of her mouth, his hands splaying over her back, drawing their bodies

chest to chest, belly to belly, hip to hip, awakening every pulse beneath her skin.

Entranced by the skilled caress, she practically purred.

He took the sound as capitulation and captured her lips again in a toe-curling, moth-singeing kiss. His hands glided along

the cage of her ribs, grazing up her sides then down again, her breasts taut, her flesh aching. Wanting him to ease the tender

fullness, she arched against him.

He growled into her mouth. In a quick, jerky movement he lifted his hand and bit the tip of his glove, ripping it off. The other met the same fate, falling away like the last of her denials.

She wanted his mouth on hers, their bodies flush. Couldn't remember a time when she didn't.

The truth surged through her when their lips met again, feasting and tugging, his hands skimming up from her waist.

He paused beneath the ripe swells, the heat of his palms burning through the fitted layers of her riding habit, corset and

chemise, and her nipples tightened beneath the cambric. Lips parting, she drew in a breath, her pulse thrumming in anticipation.

"Yes," she rasped, and his thumbs swept over the sensitive peaks. The sensation spiraled down, clenching low in her body,

strumming at the heavy thud of a pulse between her thighs.

He took her lips in long, drugging kisses, his hand closing over her breast. "Mine."

Honoria might have argued if she hadn't felt suddenly lightheaded. Instead, she clung to him, the sensations overwhelming

her.

They sank together onto a cushion of soft grass within the curtain wall as fluidly as sugar melting into steaming tea. His

kisses burned sweetly against her lips as he settled alongside her, his hard thigh insinuated between her own. And wanton

that she was, she turned toward him in welcome instead of shying away.

But how could she deny that this wasn't everything she'd been craving? The only thing that made her feel this alive?

So she gave herself over to the kiss, dimly aware of her hat falling away, his deft fingers in her hair, working in soothing

circles where her scalp was tender from the pins of her tight chignon. His lips brushed her cheek, her brow, her chin as his

fingertips skimmed through the tresses of her hair, down her neck and along the rolled lapels of her riding habit.

He nipped at her breasts through the layers, the teasing sensation almost tickling and driving her to distraction.

But surely, they shouldn't tarry here. They were expected at the abbey.

"Just a few more minutes," Oscar said, reading her thoughts.

When their mouths touched, tangled and tasted, she realized kissing Oscar wasn't like the last bite of cake. It was like the

first: sumptuous and decadent, melting into her in a way that made it impossible not to close her eyes as pleasure danced

in pulses where their hips met. And when his hand slid to her lower back and he rocked her against his thigh, a heady breath

stuttered out of her.

It was only then that she realized she could breathe because he'd unfastened the row of buttons along the front of her stiff-boned

jacket, revealing the habit shirt beneath. It was a simple, sleeveless garment that fastened along the back and ended just

beneath her breasts. But because she was so warm, the fine lawn was transparent, the fabric clinging to the rise and fall

of her perspiring flesh.

Irises the color of a stormy sky darkened to midnight as he gazed down at her. His fingertips traced the swells rising above

the gusseted cups of her corset, his palm covering the pebbled tip. She arched reflexively, thrusting her breast into the

cup of his hand.

He obliged her command with a low, possessive growl, kneading the tender fullness as he took her lips again. And when his

thigh shifted against her, she felt as though a bolt of lightning crashed into her, igniting every nerve ending.

Her fingertips flexed into his coat, but her hands felt clumsy inside her gloves. So she peeled them off and let them fall.

Then her bare hands were in his hair, sifting through the cool silken layers to the warmth of his scalp. As if he were a big

cat, a deep, guttural purr vibrated in his throat.

Something primal within her flared to life at the sound.

Knowing that she had done something that pleased him made her feel territorial. That was her sound. It belonged to her.

Hungry for it again, she nudged her mouth against his, as her fingernails gently raked through the thick strands. He gave

it to her, his hand sliding to her nape.

She had never felt like this before, so lost to pleasure. So wild and uninhibited.

Dimly, she became aware of him unfastening her buttons. Her breath quickened as his lips coasted over the exposed skin of

her throat.

"We should return to the abbey," she rasped. But then his mouth drifted to the place—that secret, newly discovered heaven

on the side of her neck—and his warm tongue laved the vulnerable flutter of her pulse. "I mean, shouldn't we?"

She felt his lips curve in a smile.

"Let's play a new game, Signore," he said, peeling away her habit shirt.

The summer breeze offered her fevered skin cool relief as he bent his head over her. "What kind of game?"

"It's called Pleasuring Miss Hartley." His fingertip circled the budded center of her breast through the corset and chemise.

"Until she confesses that she rode over here this morning because she cares about me."

Before she could respond, he dragged down the cup and chemise in one swift tug and closed his mouth over her bare flesh.

She arched on a gasp. Her hands gripped his head as he drew the ruched flesh into his mouth. The clever flicks of his tongue,

the long, sinuous pull felt so good she had to close her eyes.

A helpless, garbled sound rose from her throat.

She should push him away. She really should. There were so many reasons she should. But the sensations curled so exquisitely

in the pit of her belly that, surely, there was no harm in lingering just a bit longer.

His thigh pressed between hers, undulating to the rhythm of his pulls on her flesh. Her ardent pulse answered in kind.

Lady Content never mentioned this. And good morning, Lord Turgid, she thought saucily, feeling the large shape pressed against

her hip.

But thinking about the puppets suddenly reminded her of the paintings in the attic and the vow she'd made to herself.

"Wait," she said breathlessly, feeling the weight of her locket between her breasts. "I... I need a moment."

He instantly lifted away, but without straying. His hair was mussed from her fingers, his color high on the crests of his

cheeks, and his lungs labored for each panting breath.

Eyes dark with unfulfilled passion studied her closely. After a moment, he appeared to have come to a conclusion and tenderly

brushed his fingers over her flushed cheek. "You don't need to be afraid. It's perfectly natural to feel this way. The shortness

of breath, racing heartbeat, the tingles—"

A laugh bubbled out of her. "Do you honestly think I have no idea what desire is? I am three and twenty, after all. And I

have, on occasion... explored these feelings."

"With whom?" he asked darkly, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

"Are you jealous?"

"Answer the question, Honoria."

Though she would never admit it, there was something tantalizing about his hard, commanding tone. It sent a heated shiver

through her. There was also a sense of danger lurking in the steel banded muscles of his forearms when he flexed his fists

as if he were planning to slaughter every adult male in the parish.

Propped on one elbow, she brushed a curling lock from his forehead. "With no one other than myself, silly man. A warm bath,

a splash of scented oils, a bit of brandy and... well, I'm certain a scoundrel like you can gather the rest."

It was strange how swiftly a murderous glower could transform into primal lust. And yet, it only took a blink and his intentions became abundantly clear when he shifted closer.

Before he could gather her in his arms again, which would only bring them back to this exact place, she splayed her hand over

his chest, keeping him at arm's length. "I don't intend to have a dalliance with you—or any man, for that matter—when it is

my understanding that tender feelings will sprout from sexual congress, whether one wishes them to or not."

"Who told you that?"

"My mother. She has always been rather forthcoming about such matters. According to Roxana Hartley, a woman should embrace

her own desires. But she should also guard herself against the illusion of love. Passion, while potent, is also fleeting.

And Hartleys only marry for a deep and abiding love."

His brows crowded in confusion. "In Paris, you said you weren't interested in marriage. You said you wanted to—"

"Live," she supplied, touched that he remembered. The moths attempted to flutter toward her heart, but she swallowed to stifle

their upward trajectory. "That hasn't changed."

"Then, I cannot see the problem."

"I don't want to fall in love with you," she blurted, showing her cards. "Even if it's only a temporary illusion."

He held her gaze for a moment. "We're not blindfolded adolescents. We both know what we want out of our arrangement. And right

now, I only want to make you feel good."

His sincerity surprised her as much as it caused her body to clench with sweet longing.

Looking down, he delicately traced the outline of her hand on his chest before turning it over to do the same with the lines

on her palm. She wanted to curl her fingers around the tickling sensation, but he held her open to his touch, forcing the

sensation to tunnel through to the center of her body.

Unable to help herself, she closed her eyes and absorbed it all.

Tempted. Oh, she was dreadfully tempted, and the arousal he incited in her body wasn't helping her think clearly.

"Why?" she said, waiting for him to make some shallow observation about her beauty and to fuel her with enough indignation

to push out of his arms.

"There must be dozens of reasons," he said. "Because you're bold. Because your confidence is utterly tantalizing. Because

you know what you want and you're not afraid to go after it." He brushed his lips over the surprised, fluttering pulse at

her wrist. "Because you want to seize your life with both hands. Because you know that living is the difference between merely

breathing in and out and actually drawing in the scent of the air, the perfume of the earth as sunlight warms it. Because

I want to show you how to ring out every ounce of pleasure from each moment. Because you smell like biscuits and—"

Somehow she was in his arms again, her lips pressed against his in wordless yearning. She just couldn't take it any longer.

Every word he spoke threatened to tunnel directly into her heart, and she had to stop him.

In return, she expected him to kiss her, hard and demanding, a lewd thought-scattering kiss that would erase all the things

he'd said.

But he was tender instead, slowing her down, his lips coaxing and mesmerizing her with small nibbles as he eased her back

onto the bed of grass. He brushed the wayward locks from her cheek and kissed her there, cradling her jaw as if she were precious

to him, cherished.

The idea caused her heart to thud in panic, her arms trembling as she held him.

"Shh..." he crooned softly, his mouth trailing down her throat, between the gold chain to press a kiss over her heart, just above the locket. "Shh..." he said again, and the hard thumping beneath his lips quieted as his hand caressed in soothing passes along her sides, her hips, her thighs.

Then his mouth was on hers again, his kiss languorous and unhurried. She fought against it, tried to pull him deeper, but

he remained deliberately patient, the tip of his tongue teasing and retreating, making her want. His hand splayed over her

belly, warmth seeping into her as he moved in slow circles until she accepted this gentle seduction.

It was no use. She was clay in his hands, and he knew very well that she couldn't stop craving his kiss, his touch. Her breath

came out on a sigh, her body welcoming the slow simmer of this passion.

He deepened the kiss as his hand slid down to the juncture of her thighs. He cupped her there, and she sucked in a gasp. The

feel of that large hand was so foreign, so... masculine that a small quake trembled through her bones. Her hips hitched

reflexively, and he murmured a sound of approval against the corner of her mouth. So she did it again on purpose.

But his hand lifted away, gliding to her hip. She nearly moaned in frustration, not understanding the rules of this scandalous

game.

Then, lifting her knee, he followed the heavy folds of fabric down to the hem. A cool breeze brushed against the damp saturation

of cambric between her thighs. And at the first touch of him against her stocking above her half boot, her leg trembled.

But not with shyness. With need. She wanted this, wanted him so desperately that she ached with it.

"Let me," he said, raking his teeth over her bottom lip.

She gave her acquiescence with a kiss, long and deep as a calloused fingertip traced the bare skin above her stocking and

beneath the lace hem of her drawers.

His touch trailed along the inner seam, higher and higher. And when he reached her center, his breath came out ragged. "You're

wet for me. So wet."

"I'm sure you shouldn't say such things," she said on a gasp as his fingertips grazed the thatch of honey-blond curls.

He grinned against her throat. "I'd wager you like it. In fact"—he followed the swollen seam of her sex—"I'd wager that you

secretly enjoyed the bawdy talk of men when you were disguised as one of them."

She refused to answer. But yes, it had thrilled her to hear the words, knowing that men had a secret language, and learning

it had given her a sense of power.

His mouth found her breast again, and she arched into the pleasure of the tug and flick, her hands in his hair as his finger

delved between her dewy folds. She knew it was scandalous. But she only had one life and had promised to live two. So there

was no thought of stopping, not while her blood was singing with life in her veins.

And yet she wondered, as he traced the outer edges of the tight bud with prurient skill, if being pleasured by Oscar might

be the death of her.

The tip of his finger nudged inside the tight constriction, and he let out a groan as if the breach pained him . But she knew it was only her skin that burned, stretching taut around the invasion.

"Oh, why does it never feel this good when I touch myself?"

He growled against her breast. "I would give a fortune to watch you make yourself shatter."

"You don't have a fortune," she reminded, panting.

"Then, I would give my soul."

She moaned, her neck arching as he slowly stroked into her, the slick walls clamping around him in a ripple of sensation.

An imprecation passed her lips, a prayer, a plea.

She had explored her own body and knew that a few light brushes over her nipples, a delicate pass around the tender bud beneath the hood of her sex felt delightful. But this? This was too intense. Her body was coiled so tight she wondered how she would survive.

"Open your eyes, Honoria. I want to see you come apart."

She couldn't ignore that low command. It did terrible things to her. Her pulse leaped against the heel of his hand, and when

she met his dark gaze, she was sure he knew it, too.

Then the blackguard withdrew and slowly pushed two fingers into her. The fullness was nearly too much to bear. "Now, I want

you to think of how it will feel to have my mouth on you, my tongue inside you, licking all this hot honey flowing from your

impossibly snug little qu—"

"Don't," she said over him.

His words were too wicked. His touch too scandalous. It was heaven. Then he hooked those fingers and rubbed a secret place

with each thrust as the heel of his palm pressed in glorious circles that—

A strangled breath caught in her throat, back arching off the ground, her body locked in suspended pleasure...

Until he brushed her once more and she broke. Pieces of her scattered through the stormy sky of his irises and to the stars

beyond. Worlds exploded inside her on a torrent of spasms. And he chased every ripple, drawing out her pleasure until the

very last tremor.

It had never been like this before. Her own touch had never made her feel this sublime.

She melted against him, boneless and breathless. "You are utterly"—she paused to catch her breath—"wicked."

He kissed her tenderly, his fingers slowly withdrawing and leaving her with the tender ache of emptiness. "Yes, but you like

me that way. Admit it."

"Any confession you coerce from my lips right now would be considered cheating."

"I never said I was above cheating to get what I want," he said with a grin, smoothing her skirts back in place. Then he pressed one final, lingering kiss to her breast, the flick of his tongue shooting sensation directly to her womb.

She gasped at the quickening, the flutter, surprised that he could kindle her desire again so swiftly. But then he lifted

his head, a smug grin on his lips as he put her corset to rights.

"Cad," she said, flustered. And even more so when she shifted and noticed the large shape straining the fall of his trousers.

"Shouldn't I do... something... for you?"

She stared down at it, curious, though somewhat intimidated. These were uncertain waters, after all.

He chuckled. "Like I said, I just wanted to pleasure you."

"I wouldn't mind. Truly. In fact, I am rather—"

He pressed his lips to hers, silencing her. Then in a warning voice, he said, "If you continue to tempt me, I'm going to put

you in the dungeon of this palace and keep you here forever. And you're not ready for that."

Knowing it was a hollow threat, she smiled up at him but felt her heart give a little lurch at the warm affection she found

mirrored back at her.

Devil's doorknocker! This was alarming to say the least.

"Hmm," he murmured with intrigue, and a snake tail curled at the corner of his mouth. "Do my eyes deceive me, or am I about

to win this new game of ours?"

"I have no idea to what you are referring."

A dark brow arched in challenge. She ignored it.

Deciding that a change of subject was required, she sat up and tried to bring a semblance of order to her hair, hunting for

the pins in the grass. "Now that you know your father had some sort of connection to the abbey, what will you do?"

"There's no proof that he had a connection. It's likely just another coincidence. Just a map to a treasure that only leads

to an empty trunk buried beneath a tree."

She shot an exasperated look over her shoulder. "The book of poems about Awildian Palace—about this very spot—has to mean something. At the very least, someone in the abbey will know who the author was."

"Perhaps."

It was the offhand shrug of his shoulders that revealed the tension in the gesture, and she realized that it did matter to

him. But he clearly didn't want to talk about that. He only wanted to win the wager by having her confess that she cared about

him.

Well, he was in for a very long wait.

She moved on to her next question. "What do you plan to do about the man who wants to kill you?"

"My, aren't we curious?" he practically purred, his eyes the color of a storm approaching instead of the soft aftermath she'd

witnessed moments ago. "Here, let me fasten your buttons before I ravish you again."

He tugged the jacket from her shoulders and deftly refastened the gaping half shirt.

Her shyness reappeared. How strange that the act of dressing seemed almost more intimate than undressing had. It was rather

domestic. Something a husband might do.

Honoria jolted at the thought, her spine stiffening, heart hammering.

"What's the matter?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

"Hmm... I think I know," he murmured, lifting the downy hairs from above her collar and trailing his lips in a tingling

caress over her nape. "You're ticklish, aren't you?"

Breathing a sigh of relief for his misunderstanding, she allowed herself to be pulled back against him, his arms a strong,

sinewy band around her waist. And in that instant, she vowed never to allow such musings to enter her mind again. "Perhaps."

"Alas, we'll have to explore that another time." Finishing, he stood and brought her up with him. He made quick work of her

jacket buttons, as well, then took hold of her lapels. "Now, are you prepared to pay the forfeit?"

Only then did she remember the so-called new game they were playing and the true reason she'd ridden here this morning.

"You did not win," she said. "After all, how could I care about a man who refuses to discuss his plans with me?"

His jaw hardened, all the warmth extinguished from his gaze. "We are not discussing Ladrón."

Then, as if the matter were settled, he bent down and swiped up her hat from the ground.

A moment later, he was handing her onto her saddle, his expression inscrutable. And if not for the lingering tenderness between

her thighs and the thick shape still outlined against the front fall of his breeches, she might have wondered if their stolen

moment on the grass had been part of a dream.

Even so, her head felt heavy as if she'd just awakened, her mind hazy. And the only thing clear was the fact that he didn't

want to include her in his plans. For reasons she didn't care to think about, that wounded her.

But he had given her something: the name of the man who was after him. Ladrón.

She would have to write to her brother to see if he knew anything about that villain. Then perhaps she could do something

to ensure that Oscar could leave here safely and before she did something utterly foolish... like fall in love with him.