Chapter 7 #2
One bare hand claimed her waist. The span of his palm covered the narrow curve of her back, drawing her in until their bodies met.
His other hand rose, not to caress her cheek, but to slide around the back of her head.
His fingers threaded into her hair firmly, tilting her head back with the sort of masculinity that made her knees go weak.
Lottie let out a gasp, her mouth falling open involuntarily as her spine arched under the pressure of his hand. She had never felt so small before, so deliciously overwhelmed by a man, and he had not even kissed her yet.
Her parasol slipped from her fingers and fell forgotten to the ground beside his hat and gloves.
He did not press his lips to hers. Instead, he hovered, so close she could feel the heat of his breath mingle with her own—his thumb resting just behind her ear; his palm cradling the base of her skull.
His fingers moved higher and tighter, until they were buried in the soft coils pinned high at her crown.
It was possessive, and far more intimate than any kiss. How delightfully improper it was.
When at last he kissed her, his mouth claimed hers with a thoroughness that stole the breath from her lungs.
His tongue swept in without apology, tangling with hers in a slick, breathless dance that left her light-headed.
The kiss deepened, darkened, until she felt it not only in her lips, but in her very bones.
His hand at her back pressed her flush against him, and there was no mistaking the thick ridge of his arousal where it strained against his breeches.
She gasped again, in helpless, wanton awareness.
He felt it too. She could tell by the way his fingers tightened in her hair, tilting her head until her mouth opened further beneath his. Her spine bowed again under the pull of his hand at her back, as if he meant to fuse them together.
When she finally moaned, he caught the sound with his mouth and answered it with a low, guttural growl of male satisfaction that sent another surge of heat through her.
By the time he lifted his head, her lips were swollen and tingling, and her breath coming in shallow, greedy little gasps.
He did not let her go. Indeed, he seemed disinclined to move at all, still holding her fast and pressed hard against her.
“Remind me,” he murmured in a husky drawl of satisfaction, “was it you who claimed the favour… or I? For in this particular moment, Miss Tolliver, I confess, I rather feel most indecently rewarded.”
When Lottie finally returned to the box, she swept inside with the air of a young lady who had most certainly not been pressed up against a rakish gentleman behind a hedgerow.
Theo rose to his feet the instant he saw her. “Where the devil have you been?”
Lottie blinked up at him. “Good heavens, Lord Langley. Such language in mixed company?”
“The footman confirmed that you did, in fact, enter the ladies’ retiring room.
That was nearly half an hour past! He could not locate the duchess’s maid where you claimed she ought to be, and when you failed to return, he came back looking as pale as a winding sheet.
I was moments from summoning the constables. ”
“Well,” she said breezily, lowering herself into the seat beside him, “I was in the retiring room.”
“For thirty minutes?”
She gave a sigh of long-suffering. “Theo. Dearest. If you had the faintest idea of the trials faced by ladies in such spaces.”
He gave her a flat look.
She leant in, dropping her voice to a dramatic whisper. “Let us merely say it was not a circumstance a gentleman would wish described in anatomical detail. There may have been a fainting spell. There may have been… blood.”
“For Heaven’s sake, Charlotte.” He rolled his eyes. “You are aware I am a married man. The feminine form and its… peculiarities hold little mystery for me—much as I might wish to preserve a shred of ignorance.”
“Well,” she said lightly, “you say that now. But had I described what was truly taking place in that chamber, I daresay you’d have hurled yourself from the box in mortal alarm.”
He looked over her in slow scrutiny. “Your hair is in a shocking state.”
She gave a small gasp, clapping a hand to the back of her head. “Lord Langley! That is not a remark a gentleman ought ever to make aloud. What if I had been weeping?”
“Were you?”
“No,” she replied, flashing him a brilliant smile. “But now you see how dreadfully ill-mannered that would be if I had.”
He studied her a moment longer. “Your mouth is swollen.”
She fluttered her lashes. “Is it? How unfortunate. I expect I must have bitten my lip. The anguish, you understand.”
“I know perfectly well you were not in that retiring room the entire time.”
“You know no such thing,” she returned blithely. “And unless you propose to post sentries outside the ladies’ privies, I fail to see how you intend to establish the fact.”
Theo muttered something beneath his breath which, judging by the tone alone, would certainly not have passed inspection in any respectable church.
Lottie smiled. “Pray do not distress yourself, brother. I am quite recovered now. Though I find I require a restorative lemonade and no fewer than twenty minutes of silence from you.”
He stared at her.
Unperturbed, Lottie settled back into her seat and turned her attention to the racecourse. “Not another word, Langley. The horses are nearly ready, and you have already quite ruined the suspense.”