Chapter 8
"This cannot continue, Arabella. This pretence of indifference, this careful dance around what lies between us. It is driving me to distraction."
Devon's voice was rough with barely suppressed emotion as he paced the length of his private study, his evening clothes disheveled and his dark hair mussed as though he had been running his hands through it in frustration.
The brandy glass in his hand was nearly empty, and Arabella suspected it was not his first of the evening.
She stood near the door, still wearing her evening gown from Lady Worthington's soirée, her hands clasped tightly before her as she struggled to maintain the professional composure that had become increasingly difficult to sustain.
"Your Grace, I hardly think..."
"Do not," Devon interrupted with dangerous intensity, turning to face her with eyes that blazed with suppressed fire.
"Do not address me with that cursed formality when we are alone.
Not after what passed between us tonight, not after the way you looked at me when I defended your honour against that harridan's vicious tongue. "
The memory of his passionate defense at the soirée sent heat coursing through Arabella's veins, though she fought to maintain her rational thoughts. "You defended me as any gentleman would defend a lady under his protection. There was nothing inappropriate in your conduct."
Devon's laugh was harsh and entirely without humor.
"Was there not? Then tell me, Arabella, why is every gossip in London now speculating about the exact nature of our relationship?
Why did Lord Stanton feel compelled to warn me that my obvious partiality for you was becoming the subject of drawing room conversation? "
The revelation that their charged dynamic had become fodder for society's endless appetite for scandal made Arabella's stomach clench with dread.
She had hoped that her careful maintenance of professional distance might preserve some semblance of propriety, yet it seemed that Devon's passionate nature made such subterfuge impossible.
"Then perhaps," she said quietly, "it would be best if I sought employment elsewhere. Surely there are other families who might..."
"No." The single word was delivered with such vehement authority that Arabella took an involuntary step backward. "You will not leave, Arabella. I will not permit it."
The arrogant assumption that he could dictate her choices sparked her own temper, and she lifted her chin defiantly. "You forget yourself, Your Grace. I am not your property to command. If I choose to seek other employment..."
"You will find that choice somewhat limited," Devon interrupted with silky menace. "I have considerable influence in society, as you well know. A word from me could ensure that no respectable family would consider engaging your services."
The casual threat made Arabella's breath catch in her throat, though whether from shock or fury she could not say. "You would ruin me professionally out of... what? Spite? Possessiveness?"
"I would ruin anyone who attempted to take you from me," Devon said with brutal honesty, moving closer with that predatory grace she had come to know very well.
"Make no mistake about my intentions, Arabella.
You are mine now, in every way that matters.
The only question is whether you will accept that reality gracefully or force me to demonstrate the extent of my determination. "
The possessive declaration should have appalled her, should have sent her fleeing from his presence in righteous indignation. Instead, Arabella found herself swaying toward him, drawn by the raw hunger in his dark eyes and the memory of pleasure beyond her wildest imaginings.
"I am not yours," she whispered, though the words lacked conviction even to her own ears. "I am your employee, nothing more."
"Are you?" Devon asked softly, reaching out to trace the line of her jaw with one gloved finger.
"Then why do you tremble when I touch you?
Why do your eyes darken with desire whenever we are alone together?
Why did you melt in my arms like honey in the sun when I showed you what pleasure could be? "
Each word was punctuated by a feather-light caress that sent shivers of awareness racing down her spine, and Arabella felt her carefully constructed defenses crumbling with each passing moment.
"That was... that was merely physical attraction," she managed, though her voice had grown breathless under his ministrations. "Nothing more than base desire."
"Was it?" Devon's thumb brushed across her lower lip with maddening gentleness, and she had to bite back a moan at the simple contact. "Then you will not object if I test that theory."
Before she could ask what he meant, his mouth was on hers, claiming her lips with a hunger that drove all rational thought from her mind.
This was not the gentle exploration of their first encounter or even the desperate passion of their library liaison, but something far more consuming—a kiss that spoke of possession and need and a desire that burned too hot to be denied.
Her hands came up to push against his chest, yet instead of creating distance, her fingers curled into the fine fabric of his waistcoat, pulling him closer as she surrendered to the tide of sensation that threatened to drown her entirely.
Devon's arms came around her, lifting her until her feet barely touched the ground as he backed her against the solid wood of his desk. She could feel his arousal, hard and demanding against her, and the knowledge that she had provoked such a response sent liquid fire pooling low in her abdomen.
"Tell me you feel nothing," he commanded roughly against her mouth, his hands working at the fastenings of her evening gown with desperate efficiency. "Tell me this is merely employment, merely duty, and I will let you walk away right now."
But Arabella found herself incapable of speech, lost in the sensations he was creating with his hands and mouth and the solid heat of his body pressed against hers. When her bodice fell away, baring her breasts to his hungry gaze, she arched into his touch with shameless abandon.
"Beautiful," he whispered reverently, his mouth trailing down her throat to the sensitive spot where her pulse hammered wildly. "So beautiful that I cannot resist anymore."
His hands cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked with need, and when his mouth followed the path of his fingers, she cried out softly at the exquisite sensation.
"Devon," she gasped, her head falling back as he lavished attention on first one breast and then the other, his tongue and teeth creating a symphony of pleasure that left her trembling in his arms.
"Say it again," he commanded, lifting his head to look into her eyes with an intensity that took her breath away. "Say my name like you need me, like you cannot bear to be apart from me for another moment."
"Devon," she whispered, reaching up to cup his face in her hands, noting the sharp planes and angles that firelight had rendered even more compelling.
"Tell me what you want, what you need my love."
The endearment sent warmth flooding through her entire being, even as the logical part of her mind warned that she was crossing a line from which there could be no return.
Yet as his hands found the junction of her thighs, stroking through the damp curls with the confidence of a man who knew exactly how to pleasure a woman, all thoughts of propriety fled her mind.
"I want..." she began breathlessly, then stopped, unable to voice the shameful desires that coursed through her veins like molten gold.
"You want me to touch you," Devon supplied with dark satisfaction, his fingers finding that most sensitive spot and stroking with maddening lightness. "You want me to make you come apart in my arms the way I did in the library. You want me to show you pleasures you never knew existed."
Each word was punctuated by increasingly bold caresses that had her gasping and writhing against his hand, her body seeking the release that only he seemed capable of providing.
"Yes," she admitted on a broken moan, all pretense of propriety abandoned in the face of overwhelming need. "Yes, please, Devon, I want..."
"What?" he pressed; his own breathing labored as he watched her face contort with pleasure. "What do you want, Arabella?"
"You," she gasped, the admission torn from her very soul. "I want you, all of you, consequences be cursed."
Devon's eyes flashed with triumph and something else—something that looked remarkably like tender emotion despite the raw hunger that dominated his aristocratic features.
"Heavens," he breathed, claiming her mouth in another searing kiss as his hands worked to divest them both of the remaining barriers between them. "I thought I might go mad with wanting you."
Her gown pooled around her feet, followed by her chemise and stockings, until she stood before him clad only in moonlight and desire.
Devon's gaze moved over her naked form with reverent appreciation, his hands following the path of his eyes as he mapped every curve and hollow with worshipful attention.
"You are perfect," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "Absolutely perfect."
When he lifted her onto the edge of his desk, positioning himself between her thighs with deliberate intent, Arabella felt a moment of panic at the enormity of what they were about to do.
"Devon, I... I have never..."
"I know," he said gently, his hands framing her face with infinite tenderness despite the obvious strain of his arousal. "Trust me, love. Let me worship you as you deserve."