Chapter 4
Culross had been late putting it together.
There had been his mystery beauty’s flight mid-set when they met with Hartwell and his partner.
Then another when Hartwell happened upon them in the orangery.
“…You know I’m not good, August…”
But it should have been her use of his given name. Only two women had referred to him so. One whom he’d had to insist upon, the other who did so with the same ease she breathed.
The exquisitely disguised temptress he’d been lusting after this night was a bloody McQuoid.
Oh, irony was alive and well.
“It occurs to me,” he said silkily, “that you either came this evening for a tryst with your husband-to-be, or for one last thrill before you find yourself the most envied duchess of all.” His gaze never left Meghan’s face.
“Or you came knowing your life was about to become even duller and more predictable than ever before and wanted a real man between your sweet thighs.”
Culross caught her delicate wrist mid-slap.
A berry-red blush stole across the swells of her bosom. Her chest rose and fell fast for his viewing pleasure. Her eyes blazed with righteous fury. He noted it the same way he noted a storm cresting at sea—impressive, inevitable, and ultimately manageable.
Keeping his grip firm but unhurried, he lowered her suddenly limp hand. “Uh-uh. Have a care.”
Meghan’s body shook. Fear lay plainly beneath a defiance braided tightly with desire. “Forgive me,” she said. “That was in bad f—”
He turned her wrist inward and pressed a measured kiss to the delicate flesh. Without breaking eye contact, he traced the faintest sweep of his tongue over the place her pulse betrayed her—and then, he gave her a small suck.
Meghan’s breathing faltered. Her lashes dipped, slow.
Ah, how nicely she responds to me.
Culross closed his teeth briefly over that same spot, a restrained reminder, nothing more. At least it wasn’t intended as more. His pulse thundered in his ears.
He released her at once.
Meghan backed away even faster. She snatched her hand to her heaving chest, inadvertently drawing his gaze lower—and holding it there, where it had never lingered before. On the delicate swells of her breasts.
That oversight he corrected now.
He inhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
Her low, heart-shaped bodice framed olive skin from a summer tan long since faded. Miss Meghan McQuoid-Smith bared her skin to the sun.
The sheer silk netting, drawn taut, revealed the tempting hollow between her breasts. He wanted to shred that silk with his teeth. Tear the inconvenient fabric free so he could have his hands on her silken flesh.
He exhaled once, hard. It didn’t help. His cock responded better than his judgement.
He skimmed his gaze over the generous scattering of freckles.
Where else did she wear those tiny flecks? A decadent thought rose of licking, kissing, and nipping the path they made over her body.
His jaw tightened.
His body hardened with shocking—and irritating—immediacy.
Culross clasped his hands at his back. “I had thought you could not be improved upon.” He passed another—this time quick—once over. “I stand corrected.”
“A compliment from you, other than how well I throw or how fast I run?” She sank into an insolent curtsy. “I am touched, August.”
“You know nothing about being touched, love.” He chose his endearment with precision, one he’d never used.
A mysterious smile danced at the edge of her lips.
Culross narrowed his eyes. He was not the fool to take her hook. On the other hand, he was enough of a blackguard to let her believe she held the upper hand.
Meghan sidled closer, her lavender scent curling through him.
His traitorous gaze discovered the hollow of her throat.
His body didn’t care about her family name. It knew only what it wanted, and what Culross craved in his paramours.
Virtuous Miss Meghan McQuoid Smith had no idea the game she played.
Or perhaps she did…
Meghan stopped a handsbreadth away as if a single step could keep her safe from him.
Culross gave her the smile he reserved for fools.
From under a fringe of thick, long lashes, Meghan peeked up at him. “I’ve improved, you say?”
“You continue fishing about like a sailor searching for his supper, sweet,” he said, deliberately cruel.
“My, are you trying to change the conversation, Lord Culross?”
“This isn’t a conversation,” he said tightly. “I don’t converse with Mc—”
The chit’s tenacity proved greater than her pride. Meghan lightly flicked his mouth with her finger. “You’ve thought about me.” The sparkling crystals of her mask highlighted eyes that danced.
His brows snapped together.
God, he’d forgotten how sharp she was. He had enjoyed their sparring. She’d at least been an enjoyable thing to be about. Unlike her maudlin sister who’d annoyingly wrestled with guilt for wanting him.
But Meghan needed to be put in her place. “Hartwell hasn’t been so generous with his compliments.”
“Sweet.” Like the Queen of the Royal Court, she peered the length of her masked nose at him. “What a tired term you bandy about. I counted at least three original ones from Hartwell.”
“None for you though, dear heart.”
The lady didn’t flinch, only patted his shoulder. “Now you’re trying, dear August.”
His pulse roared in his ears. What insolence.
She’d be fire in his arms. Too bad the lady carried the surname she did.
“It must have been hard for you, watching your betrothed prepared to take two lovers, with my presence the only thing stopping him.” He infused calculated contempt in his tone. “It also spared you from being a voyeur to it all.”
“Trying to hurt me, my lord?” She thrust her trembling chin out. “As if you could. You have a short memory. I’m not the cowardly sort. I’ve gone toe-to-toe with you before.”
Aye, she had. “In a snowball match, love.” He lowered his lashes; a fresh wave of lust spread to his groin. “Not in my bedchambers.”
Meghan glanced about. “We are not in your bedchambers, my lord,” she muttered, walking towards her discarded gloves. “We are in Lord and Lady Rutland’s orangery.”
Before she could collect the bothersome articles, Culross caught her palm and wheeled her back around.
“What do you—?”
As he raised her fingers to his mouth, the rest of her breathless question faded.
Not taking his eyes from hers, Culross drew the same naughty digit she’d flicked him with into his mouth and rhythmically sucked her finger.
Her eyes fell shut.
A tremble moved through the lady; the crystals of her gown tinkled merrily in the night still. The noisy rasps of her breath disguised his low, shallow ones.
He grinned around his mouthful.
Her soft little moan together with the erotic, wet sounds of sucking threatened his iron-clad restraint.
She is a bloody McQuoid. His enemy. She and all her traitorous family.
He’d be damned to allow her any power over him.
“Au-August, please.”
The minute she begged, Culross came off the digit with a loud pop.
She jerked like she’d been struck.
Culross touched his nose to the right corner of neck. “Why are you here, sweetheart?”
The frantic flutter at the hollow of her throat called to his mouth, a silent plea he fully intended to answer. “Because…I…because…”
He saved her from further stammering. “Not with me. I’m all too happy to entertain you.”
As long as it pleased him.
“I referred to Rutland’s.”
The lady stayed dug in.
“Hiding from your betrothed, Miss Smith? Not that I blame you.”
She stayed tight-lipped.
What would it take to break her control this time?
Chuckling wryly, Culross fetched a cheroot from inside his jacket.
As he made a deliberate walk to the metal brazier, Meghan’s gaze followed him.
“I thought McQuoids married for love.” He touched his rolled paper to the flame.
“And yet you, Miss McQuoid Smith”—he raised his cheroot to his lips—“sneaking here on your own, and Hartwell tupping a pair of wenches doesn’t strike me as a love match.
” Culross took a draw and exhaled a smooth cloud of white from the side of his mouth.
“If you’re this miserable before you take the wedding march, love, it promises to be a very, very long, miserable life in front of you. ”
She pursed her lips; her fuller lower one jutted slightly out. How good it would feel to have the mischievous minx with her delectable mouth wrapped around his length.
At her silence, Culross arched a brow. “Nothing to say, hmm?” He took another pull.
A rush of color flooded the lower portion of her face. “I didn’t detect a question in any of that,” she said tightly.
“No.” Culross finished off his cheroot. “I suppose none was needed.”
Tired of her restraint, he tossed the folded scrap on the floor and stamped it with the heel of his boot. The lady was unflappable.
And she’d soon belong to Hartwell. He stiffened. The bloody pompous duke would have her. The bloody Tremaines.
Desire roiled with hate.
Culross trailed the tip of his index finger along the underside of her jeweled mask. He followed the line of her cheek to the tip of her pert nose, then lower, tracing a slow, deliberate path to the edge of her lush lower lip. He lingered there.
With measured precision, he ran the pad of his finger along the pillowy-soft flesh.
“You want me, Meghan,” he taunted softly.
The lady’s body yielded. The fight left her and a tell-tale sigh caressed his hand. “M-my, what an inflated opinion you have of yourself, my lord.”
Culross leaned in closer, until their lips nearly touched.
“All it would take,” he murmured, “would be for you to lift your skirts and allow me to slip a hand between your legs.” He dipped his gaze briefly to the gentle swells of her freckled breasts. “I’ll show you what you really want, and what I offer in return.”