It had been too long.
That’s what she would tell herself later.
He was too handsome. His mouth too hot, too persuasive, too addictive.
My life too lonely.
She melted against him, leaning into him, immediately and achingly aware of the firm pressure of his chest against her breasts. He brought his other hand up, burying it in her hair, mussing her coiffure, but she did not mind. Suddenly that breach seemed the smallest of concerns as shivers of pleasure eddied through her.
She parted her mouth on a sigh . . . or perhaps it was no sigh at all and a deliberate opening of her lips. An invitation so she could have more of a taste of him—so that he could have more of a taste of her.
He accepted by sliding his tongue into her mouth, slow and languorous as though he were savoring her. Her tongue met his and giddiness swelled through her at the first touch.
He tasted of warm whisky.
She knew from the one glass she had snuck on the evening of Winifred’s wedding. She’d been staying at her uncle’s house for the grand occasion. After the ceremony she had found herself alone in a room with a decanter and tray and she’d poured herself a drink, needing the fortification, and perhaps because she was seeking a little numbness, too. He tasted of that dark and spicy whisky now . . . and man. Tempting maleness. All her womanly places quivered in response.
She dove into the kiss—into him, bringing her hands up to clutch his jacket and yank him even closer, however impossible that may be. They were already crushed against each other. So close she felt the pound of his heart against her. So close no air even passed between them. She was no longer certain where her body ended and his began and still she wanted more.
She kissed him with fervor and pent-up longing, not even realizing until this moment that she had missed this in her life. Passion. Intimacy. The discovery and learning of another’s taste—the texture and shape of another’s lips.
Except this felt better than she remembered. More unrestrained. More desperate. Hungrier.
She’d never felt want like this. Never felt a need that shook her to her core.
It was impossible to stop. Impossible to resist.
She would not even try.
Chapter Eight
Perry was kissing the vicar’s daughter.
The only thing more shocking would be if he were kissing the good vicar himself.
Contrary to what he said, Perry was not indifferent to Imogen Bates. He never had been. Quite the opposite. Just as she did not like him, he did not like her.
Even before he’d heard her speaking those ridiculous lies about him there had always been this . . . tension between them. Whenever she was in his orbit his stomach grew unsettled. His skin prickled and the back of his neck felt tight. He had assumed it was dislike.
Perhaps there was more to it though because he was kissing her hard, like he was a man starved for this woman.
But then he supposed liking someone was not a prerequisite for intimacy. At least for some gentlemen. Historically, he rather preferred to like his partners—or to at least find them unobjectionable—before kissing took place.
Evidently there could be exceptions, and Imogen Bates was one of them.
In the before times, when his life had included a dukedom, he was not usually so free with his passions. He did not kiss just anyone. Contrary to his reputation and what his own mother seemed to think of him, he was judicious where he spent his passions. He cared not to contract the pox, after all. Many a nobleman was riddled with it from far too many peccadilloes of a less than discerning nature. It was Perry’s instinct to be more cautious.
And in this new life, shagging had been the last thing on his mind. He’d spent the last year wading through the quagmire of his lost life, trying to make sense of what had happened. He’d only recently thrown himself into the task of finding an heiress.
And yet Miss Imogen Bates triggered his ire.
Learning she was responsible for the rumors circulating should not have come as a surprise. He had no enemies in Shropshire. Only Miss Bates, of course. She never hid her distaste for him. Not when they were children and not in adulthood.
True, he may not have been decidedly warm toward her. There was the time that Thirza shoved her into the pond and he had laughed. Not well done of him, but they’d been children then. He winced, recalling also when she’d caught him saying those less than gentlemanly things about her in the conservatory. He hadn’t been a child then. Just an arse.
Of course, she was the one spreading tales of him. Who else? He would have eventually landed on the conclusion that Imogen Bates was his saboteur. In time. Once he ran through all the possible suspects in the shire.
And yet she had gone too far.
Now he had gone too far and hauled her against him.
He’d acted without thinking. Nothing else could explain his impulse to kiss her. He should have restrained himself. It was reckless. He should have behaved better. She’d done nothing to entice him. Quite the opposite.
He generally liked cheerful and good-humored women. Lusty women whose big hearts matched their passions.
Miss Bates was not that.
She never smiled. In fact, more often than not, a scowl graced her face—at least in his company.
Desire had not propelled him to kiss her. His temper had gotten the best of him.
And yet every pore, every fiber of his being was humming and vibrating, consumed by this kiss and proclaiming him a liar. Whatever this had started out as, it was all about desire now.
Nothing could account for her ability to kiss like a well-seasoned paramour.
Her hands fisted in his jacket, no doubt ruining Thurman’s efforts. The man had taken great pains to press his clothing this evening. He’d made certain that Perry left the house impeccably attired. “You might not be a duke anymore, but that does not mean you face the world looking like a vagabond,” the old butler had said.
Her fists twisted, pulling his jacket tighter and bringing him closer. She was surprisingly forceful. And skilled. Her tongue knew precisely what to do.
He tightened his hand in her silky hair—somehow his hand ended up in her hair. It was as if his body—and his mouth—had a will of their own.
She made a breathy little sound at the back of her throat. He growled and kissed her harder. He never had a kiss like this before. It was deep and hard and soft all at the same time. She angled her head side to side as though she could not get enough of him—as though she wanted to gobble him up, eat him alive.
Then—astoundingly—she nipped at his lip with a tiny little snarl.
Lust shot straight through him in a hot spear. His cock went rock hard, straining against his trousers, and before he could check himself he was pushing his hips into her, loathing her voluminous skirts, loathing all their bulky garments.
Where had the genteel and demure Miss Bates gone? Perhaps she wasn’t real.
He knew something about leading a fake life. Perhaps this was the real and true Miss Bates and that other creature was merely the facade.
Her fists unclenched the edges of his jacket and her hands slid beneath. She stroked her palms over his chest as though desperate to get through the layers of his vest and shirt to his skin. He could understand the impulse. He felt the wild need to touch her under her clothes with his hands, his mouth . . . to learn the texture and taste of her body.
She arched and pressed against him like she wanted to crawl inside and take up space alongside his bones. Her feverish lips kissed him with a moan purring in her throat.
If he didn’t pull away from her now this would get out of hand.
It was already out of hand. He already had to fight the urge to drag her into the nearby rhododendron bushes.
He pulled back with a ragged breath to gape at her where they stood in the shadows. The night swelled around them, the sounds of the orchestra a distant melody. The swift burbling of the fountain matched his rushing pulse.
&n
bsp; “Where did you learn to do that?” he rasped.
Her lips moved, but nothing came out. She had a pretty mouth. Especially kiss-bruised and blush-pink as it was now. It was wide and full-lipped, only the slightest dip at the center. He’d never noticed before. He’d only ever seen her frowns when he looked at her. Evidently there was a lot more to her than he had ever realized, and he was beyond intrigued.
Her fingers drifted to those lips now. “Wh-what?”
“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” he clarified, feeling as though he had taken a blow to his chest and couldn’t catch his breath.
Something flashed in her eyes—a bright wave of emotion before a wall dropped down and shielded her gaze. “You kissed me,” she got out, neatly avoiding his question.
“And you kissed me back.” Quite thoroughly and quite well.
“I—I—” she stammered, a rare moment when he had never seen her at a loss for words.
He studied her, scanning her face and then looking her up and down, missing nothing, and yet feeling as if he wasn’t seeing her fully. There was more to her than he ever realized. She had hidden depths. What other surprises did she hide? He wanted to know. He wanted to know them all.
“Imogen?” a female called out across the garden. “Are you out here?”
Her head whipped in the direction of the voice. “Mercy,” she croaked out. Her hands flew to her hair. Proof of his recklessness. It had tumbled loose from its pins.
He liked it that way. He’d never seen it down. The honey-brown waves flowed wild around her shoulders. She was dangerously enticing.
“Imogen,” Mercy called again, her voice more insistent.
Thurman had mentioned Mercy Kittinger as a possible candidate in his hunt for an heiress. The Kittinger family was one of the few independent farmers in the area, and they owned the largest tract of property outside of the Penning lands. Mama had not loved the notion, wrinkling her nose and muttering about never dreaming her son would wed a lowly yeoman’s daughter.
“Imogen?” Miss Kittinger called again, a touch of impatience entering her voice.
They both looked in the direction of Mercy and then back at each other. He imagined the panic crossing her face closely mirrored his own.
He did not relish being discovered in a compromising position with Miss Bates. Even if he could overlook their incompatibilities, she was no heiress. Not even close. She was a country vicar’s daughter—a vicar who lived at the whim of the Duke of Penning. Up until a year ago, that man had been him, so he knew precisely how little she had to her name. She would bring nothing to a marriage. Nothing save her dangerously enticing person.
Giving his head a swift shake, he looked down at his hands. He still touched her. His palms flexed on her arms as though verifying they were in fact his hands—that he was in fact touching her and she was not some illusion. He marveled at how very strong she felt, her biceps solid and firm. What did the vicar’s daughter do with her time so that her arms were not frail or soft?
Coming to his senses, he released her, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a perfunctory step back, trying not to consider how she would be no shrinking violet in bed. Not based off that kiss. She would be a full-hearted participant and up for some vigorous love play if her behavior from moments ago was any indication. He’d been the one to end the kiss, after all.
He’d frequently heard among gentlemen that wives were for duty and mistresses for fun. It was difficult to imagine Miss Imogen Bates as anything other than a very proper wife. However, now it was also difficult to imagine her as anything but a very fiery and eager bedmate.
She had not stepped back from him. He held up his hands, showing he had released her just in case she was unaware of that point. She did not move immediately. She looked up at him as though she feared—or hoped?—he might pounce on her. Again.
“What am I supposed to do?” she finally whispered, motioning to her hair. “I’m a mess. One look at me and everyone will know. I need to slip away.”
“I don’t see how that is possible.”
She released a small sound of frustration.
He continued, “You and Miss Kittinger are good friends, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust her? With your confidences?”
“Yes. Of course. What does that signify?”
“I can’t help you with your hair, but I imagine she can. Yes?” He looked down at her, patiently awaiting her response.
She considered that for a moment, her hand reaching up to fiddle with her luscious locks. “Y-yes. She could repair it.”
“Then you should emerge and ask your friend for help.”
She bit her lip and his gut twisted at the sight. He knew she did not intend for it to be erotic, but he could only recall what it felt like to have those lips and teeth on him. He recalled the texture and sensation and taste and he knew he needed to remove himself quickly from Miss Imogen Bates.
“Imogen, where are you?” Miss Kittinger’s voice was closer now and more demanding.
“She is here to save you,” he murmured. “Go now.” He took another much-needed step back from her and nodded his head in the direction of Miss Kittinger where she roamed in the path of light around the fountain. “Step out to greet her. Hurry on. I will wait until you both have gone inside.”
“And you will say nothing . . . tell no one of . . . this?” She motioned between them.
He stiffened. Did she think him totally lacking all honor? When he was the duke did he have a reputation for going about the shire and ruining young maids? Many a nobleman used their position and power to that advantage, but he had never been one of them.
“Go to your friend,” he said tightly, his jaw aching from the tension. “Miss Kittinger will assist in making you presentable.” He could not help himself from looking her up and down and thinking how very much he would like to make her unpresentable.
Miss Bates blinked and snapped to action. Nodding in agreement, she started to turn away.
“Oh, Miss Bates,” he heard himself saying.
She looked back warily over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“You and I are not finished.”
Her brown eyes snapped, and he wondered how he had missed how very lively and lovely they were. Her eyes weren’t merely brown. They were exceptional—a tiger’s eye brown.
“This . . . er, what happened here was a singular occurrence.” She stabbed a finger to the ground between them, marking the spot where she had kissed him as though their very lives depended upon what she was insisting. He could not help but wonder though: who was she trying to convince? Him? Or herself? “Do not mistake that it will ever happen again.”
He inhaled and resisted arguing with her. It was his natural impulse—to tell her there would be more kisses between them, but that was just a ridiculous impulse. Unreasonable and untenable. All the uns.
She was correct, of course. This would not ever happen again. Even though she had only whetted his appetite, it could never happen again. “When I said we are not finished . . . I was not speaking of our kiss.”
“Oh.” Even in the gloom he detected the flush of embarrassed color on her cheeks.
“You will spread no more lies. You owe me my reputation.” She’d spread these wretched rumors about him. The responsibility fell to her to correct them. “I want it back.”
“Oh.” Her chin went up a fraction. “Well. Best of luck with that.”
Frustration rushed through him at her flippant reaction. “You need to help me,” he insisted.
“I don’t see how I can do anything for you.” The confidence of her words seemed belied by the uncertainty he read in her expression.
“No?” The familiar anger bubbled up inside him. He took a careful breath. The last time words became heated between them they ended up kissing. “You will think of something.”
“Don’t rely on that,” she returned.
“Oh, but I shall.” A strange thrill ra
ced through him at her challenging words. “You will do the right thing, Miss Bates. You’re too good a person not to do the right thing.”
Her lips twitched. “I’m far from a saint, Mr. Butler.”
“Of that I am very aware,” he retorted.
“Then I don’t understand where these high expectations of yours are coming from.”
Following those haughty words, she left him then.
Her utter temerity should have infuriated him. And it did. But she also aroused the hell out of him.
He stood behind the fountain, peering through the fall of water, watching the blurry shape of her as she approached her friend. Mercy Kittinger made a gesture of exclamation and touched Miss Bates’s lovely fallen hair.
If she were mine, I’d have that hair loose and flowing and tangled on my pillow every night. I would grab a fistful of it as I covered her body with mine . . .
Bloody hell. He was hard as a post.
He reached down and adjusted his cock against his trousers and took a deep, bracing breath, forcing himself to think of normal things—anything except the suddenly arousing Miss Bates.
This was not what he had intended for this night.
He’d never imagined himself standing alone in the night at a country ball, struggling to overcome an unwanted arousal for an unwanted female.
A few more words were exchanged and then the ladies’ hazy forms turned and disappeared somewhere deeper into the gardens where Miss Kittinger would doubtlessly repair all of Imogen Bates’s glorious hair back into its usual confinement.
He had the mad urge to follow and watch her and he called himself ten kinds of fool. She’d shocked him and now he was under some manner of temporary infatuation. There was only one cure. He needed to throw himself into the task of settling on one of these local heiresses and begin courting in earnest. With any luck, he could be betrothed before the first leaves turned in the fall.
He had intended to make significant progress this night. Both his mother and Thurman would be exceedingly disappointed in him. Hellfire. Perry was disappointed himself. But he could not yet summon forth the will to venture back into that ball and charm the ladies he had intended to court—all ladies, thanks to Imogen Bates, who were now avoiding him. He could simply slip away for home. He needn’t even return to that ballroom.
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