Whirlwind Wedding (8 page)

She hadn't realized she was staring at him until their eyes met. His silvery gaze locked onto hers and her skin tingled under his intense look.

Heat suffused her, and she knew she should look away, but she couldn't.

She wanted so much to help him. If only he would listen to her.

Dear God she wished she'd been able to see more, to know what menace threatened him, and when. Would harm befall him this very night? If so, what could she do to prevent it?

His gaze penetrated her, heating her as if he'd touched her. She forced her attention away from that disturbing stare, back to Lord Digby, but she'd already made a decision.

She would do whatever was necessary to see that the duke remained safe.

Austin approached the stables a little after midnight, restless, unsettled wanting only to ride Myst and work this annoying, unnamed frustration out of his system.

It had started the moment he'd seen her in the drawing room doorway, looking achingly beautiful, smiling at everyone . . . everyone except him.

As much as it irked him to admit it, he hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her all evening. Even when he'd managed to focus his attention elsewhere, he'd been aware of her every minute, knew whom she was speaking to, what she ate. And when their eyes had met across the length of the dinner table, he'd felt as if someone had punched him in the heart.

Her presence had distracted him all evening, and he'd breathed a sigh of relief when she'd retired shortly before eleven. But his relief was short lived because he couldn't get the damn woman—her eyes, her smile, her luscious mouth—out of his mind. It galled him that he had to keep reminding himself that she knew things she shouldn't know, couldn't know, without a reason other than the "visions" explanation she'd given him.

But every time he tried to convince himself she was up to something with her talk of visions, that she might be involved with the blackmail scheme and couldn't be trusted all his instincts rebelled. There was a kindness, an innocence, and damn it, a trustworthiness about her that kept trying to stomp down his suspicions every time they cropped up.

Was it possible that she was merely placing too much credence in her own undeniable intuitiveness, calling it "visions"? Could her words and actions truly be no more than what she claimed—an attempt to help him?

He entered the stables, making his way toward Myst's stall, but halted when a subtle scent wafted to him, a scent out of place with the smell of leather and horse. Lilacs.

Before he could react, she emerged from the shadows and stepped into a shaft of moonlight. "Good evening, your grace."

Much to his annoyance, anticipation skittered down his spine. She still wore the cream silk gown she'd worn to dinner, and that same long, tempting auburn curl drew his gaze. "We meet again, Miss Matthews."

She stepped closer to him, and he noticed her expression. She appeared distinctly annoyed.

"Why are you here, your grace?"

"I might ask the same of you, Miss Matthews."

"I am here because of you."

And I am here because of you . . . because I cannot stop thinking about you.

Crossing his arms over his chest, he contemplated her with studied detachment. Damn it, he wished he knew what to make of this woman.

"What about me draws you to the stables at such an hour?"

"I suspected you might plan to ride." She raised her chin a notch. "I'm here to stop you."

He couldn't contain his bark of disbelief. "Indeed? And how do you intend to do that?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't know. I suppose I was hoping you'd be intelligent enough to heed my warning about danger befalling you should you choose to ride at night. Clearly I was mistaken."

Bloody hell, who did this woman think she was? Approaching her slowly, he didn't stop until only two feet separated them. She didn't retreat so much as an inch, just stood her ground watching him with a single raised brow that irked him further.

"I don't believe anyone has ever dared question my intelligence, Miss Matthews."

"Indeed? Then perhaps you weren't listening, your grace, because I just did that very thing."

Full-blown anger struck him like a slap. He'd had more than enough of this damn woman. Before he could give her the scathing set down she deserved however, she reached out and pressed his hand between both of hers.

A tingle sizzled right up his arm, effectively cutting off his angry words.

"I still see it," she whispered her eyes huge, trained on his. "Danger. You hurt." Releasing his hand she laid her palm against his cheek. "Please.

Please do not ride tonight."

Her soft hand lying against his face ignited his skin, overwhelming him with the desire to turn his head and brush his lips over her palm. Instead he grasped her wrist and pushed her hand away from him.

"I do not know what game you're playing—"

"I am not toying with you! What can I do, what can I say, to convince you?"

"Let's start by you telling me what you know about my brother and how you know it. Where did you meet him?"

"I never met him."

"Yet you knew about his scar." He allowed his gaze to roam over her in an unmistakably insulting fashion. "Were you his lover?"

Her eyes widened with shock too real to be forced. Relief swept through him, a reaction he did not care to examine.

"Lovers?
Are you mad? I had a
vision
about him. I—"

Yes, yes, so you've said. And you can read minds as well. Tell me, Miss Matthews, what am I thinking right now?"

She hesitated her eyes searching his face. "I am not always able to tell.

And I'd need to . . . touch you." He held out his hand. "Touch me. Convince me."

She stared at his hand for several heartbeats, then nodded. "I'll try."

When his hand was firmly pressed between her palms, he closed his eyes and purposely focused his thoughts on something provocative. He imagined her in his bedchamber, backlit by the golden flames dancing in the hearth. Reaching out, he flicked open the pearl-encrusted clip holding her hair in place. Silky tendrils tumbled down into his hands, falling over her shoulders, down, down— "You're thinking about my hair. You want to touch it."

Heat stung him and his eyes popped open. The first thing he saw was her mouth . . . that incredible, kissable mouth. If he leaned forward just a bit, he could taste it— She released his hand. "You want to kiss me."

Her whispered words brushed by him, setting his pulse thrumming.

Damn it, yes, he wanted to kiss her. Needed to.
Had
to. Surely one kiss would satisfy this inexplicable hunger to taste her.

Giving in to a craving he couldn't explain or fight any longer, he leaned forward.

She stepped back.

He closed the distance between them, but again she retreated her expressive eyes filled with uncertainty. Hell, the woman hadn't backed down before him once—not in the face of his anger, his sarcasm, or suspicions. But the thought of his kiss sent her into retreat.

"Is something amiss?" he asked softly, stepping closer.

"Amiss?" She backed up and nearly tripped on her hem.

"Yes. It's an English word meaning 'wrong.' You seem . . . nervous."

"Certainly not," she retorted, inching backward until the wooden wall stopped her. "I'm merely, er, warm."

"Yes, it's quite warm in here." Two long, unhurried strides brought him directly in front of her. He braced his hands on the wall on either side of her shoulders, bracketing her in.

Raising her chin a notch, she stared at him with what he had to admit was a fine show of bravado, but her rapid breathing spoiled the effect.

"If you're trying to frighten me, your grace—"

"I'm trying to kiss you, which will be much easier now that you've stopped moving about."

"I don't want you to kiss me."

"Yes, you do." He moved closer, until only inches separated them. The scent of lilacs filled his head. "Have you ever been kissed?"

"Of course. Thousands of times."

Recalling her stunned reaction when he'd asked if she'd been William's lover, he raised a brow. "I meant by a man."

"Oh. Well, then, hundreds of times."

"By a man other than your father."

"Oh. In that case . . . once."

Unexpected irritation rippled through him. "Indeed? And did you enjoy it?"

"Actually, no. It was rather . . . dry."

"Ah. Then you were not
properly
kissed."

"And you wish to kiss me properly?"

"No." He leaned forward and whispered in her ear, "I intend to kiss you most improperly."

Drawing her into his arms, he covered her lips with his. God help him, she felt exquisite. Soft and round warm and delicious.

When he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips, she gasped effectively parting her lips, and he slipped his tongue into the luscious warmth of her mouth. Strawberries. She tasted like strawberries. Sweet, delicious, seductive. He pulled her closer, until her long, lush body was pressed tightly against him, and he marveled at the unique sensation of kissing such a tall woman.

His common sense roused itself and demanded he stop, but he couldn't.

Damn it, he should have been appalled at himself for kissing her, uninterested in the naive chit, bored with her innocence.

Instead he was fascinated aching, and aroused. When she shyly touched her tongue to his, a groan rumbled deep in his throat, and he delved deeper, slanting his mouth over hers, tasting, thrusting, swallowing her breathy moans. He lost all sense of time and place, could think only of the woman in his arms, the warm, soft feel of her, the sweet, drugging taste of her, the gentle floral scent of her.

His arousal ached with a need that grew so intense, it finally dragged him from his sensuous haze. He had to stop. Now. Or he'd lay her down right here in the stable.

Summoning his last ounce of self-control, he ended their kiss.

Her eyes opened slowly. "Oh my."

Oh my, indeed. He didn't know what he'd expected but he certainly hadn't anticipated this woman unleashing the flood of lust clutching him in a stranglehold. His heart slapped against his ribs, and his damn hands were shaking. Instead of satisfying his curiosity, her kiss had only whetted his appetite, a hunger that threatened to consume him whole—right after it burned him alive.

Her soft breasts were crushed against his chest, igniting fires on his skin.

His arousal throbbed painfully and only a lifetime of keeping himself in strict control afforded him the ability to lower his arms and step away from her.

She drew a long, shuddering breath, and he grimly noted that she was obviously as shaken as he.

"Goodness," she said in an unsteady voice. "I had no idea that kissing improperly was so . . ."

"So . . . what?"

"So . . .
not
dry." She inhaled several more times, then cleared her throat.

"Now
do you believe that I read your thoughts?"

"No."

Color stained her cheeks and temper flashed in her eyes. "Are you denying you wanted to kiss me?"

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth. "No. But any man would want to kiss you." And damn it, he felt like he'd kill any man who did.

"Do you still intend to ride tonight?"

"That is none of your concern."

She simply stared at him for several heartbeats, then shook her head. "In that case, I can only hope that you'll reconsider and heed my warning. And pray that no harm comes to you. At least it isn't raining as it was in my vision, so perhaps you'll be safe. This time. Good night, your grace. I won't bother you with my visions again."

Austin watched her disappear into the darkness, forcing himself not to go after her. Something in her voice as she'd uttered those last words scraped at his insides. He raked his hands through his hair and paced.

Damn it all, how could she expect him, expect
anyone,
to seriously credit her claims of visions and mind reading? It was simply too far-fetched, too illogical, to consider.

But no matter how much it chafed him to admit it, she was right about one thing. He had wanted to kiss her. With an intensity that stunned him.

And now that he'd tasted her, he wanted to do it again.

And again.

Elizabeth approached the stables early the next morning, anxious to get out of the house after a restless night spent trying to forget her disturbing encounter with the duke. Had he gone riding? She'd lain awake half the night, listening for rain, but the weather had thankfully remained fair.

Hopefully some fresh air and a brisk ride would obliterate her worry and concern, not to mention the disappointment and hurt, aching inside at the realization that she'd never convince him about her visions.

Yet she knew mere exercise would never erase the memory of that kiss.

That incredible, soul-stirring, unforgettable kiss that had touched her deep inside and awakened a sleeping passion she hadn't known existed. And kindled feelings . . . yearnings . . . she was afraid to examine too closely.

She desperately wanted
needed,
to forget the exquisite feel of him, the heavenly taste of him. but her heart was simply not cooperating.

She entered the stables and Mortlin greeted her with a smile. "Come to visit the cats, Miss Matthews? Or do ye wish to ride?"

Forcing aside her turmoil, she returned the groom's smile, then bent down to scratch George behind her ears. "Both. How about I visit with the kittens while you saddle a mount for me?"

"Fine idea," Mortlin said. "Look, there's two 'idin' by that 'ay stack that ye 'aven't met."

Spying the two frisky calico furballs, she said "They're adorable. What are their names?" She sent him an arch look. "Or should I not ask?"