Read Online Just One Season in London by Leigh Michaels - Free Book Online Page B

she opened her mouth slightly. Instantly, he deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping easily between her lips. She could taste the wine on him, and the sensation shot straight to her head, making her dizzy and weak in a way the wine she had drunk would never have done.
    She sighed, and his mouth grew more demanding, while his hands moved from her shoulders down the front of her riding habit, until he cupped her breasts. Even through the fine wool, her nipples peaked eagerly at the circling brush of his thumbs, and she arched her back, pressing into his palms. Heat seeped from her breasts down her body, pooling between her legs, an embarrassing, warm rush of desire. She shifted, trying to ease the pressure, and he whispered against her lips, “This is what I wanted to do all those years ago, Miranda.”
    She nestled closer to him, and he eased her down farther on the settee, using his knee to nudge her legs apart. Her fingers spread across the hard plane of his back, urging him closer and closer yet, until her body was cradling his in a mimicry of the act of love. Only a few layers of cloth held them apart, and even those seemed to vanish as he pressed against her. She wasn’t certain if the heat she felt came from his body or her own, but she was melting, desperate, hungry for him to possess her, to supply what she was missing…
    Her skirt seemed to be dreadfully in the way. She tugged fitfully at it.
    Against her lips, Marcus whispered, “I deeply regret that I must refuse your very flattering offer.”
    For a moment she didn’t even take in what he had said. Then it hit her with the force of a hammer blow. Refuse? When he was lying on top of her, practically making love to her already? When his erection was jutting proudly—insistently—against her?
    Her voice was husky. “This jest isn’t funny, Marcus.”
    â€œI was not trying to amuse.”
    Suddenly she was free. His weight was gone, her hands were empty, and she lay sprawled across the settee alone. She blinked up at him in confusion. “Marcus?”
    â€œI find myself unable to take advantage of your offer, Lady Ryecroft.”
    â€œBut why?” She struggled to sit upright. She felt disheveled, so mussed that she suspected she might never feel neat again. “Don’t tell me you’re being self-righteous and moral! You’re hardly a primer of good behavior—you’ve had mistresses.”
    â€œI have,” he said levelly. “A fair number of them.”
    â€œAnd they’ve been all kinds of women too, or so the gossip says. Beauties and bluestockings, widows and wives…”
    He rose and went to refill his glass. “Only unhappy wives.”
    â€œBut all Americans, were they not?”
    â€œIt has to do with living there all those years, you see.”
    He was laughing at her. Miranda gritted her teeth and plunged on, “So why not revenge yourself on the society that has turned a cold shoulder to you and refuses to admit you?”
    â€œBy taking one of their own as my mistress? It’s an interesting bargain, I must admit. I could complete my collection.” Then he shook his head. “But no. It wouldn’t do.”
    â€œWhy not? Because I’ve grown too old to interest you?” She knew she sounded bitter, but she didn’t care any longer. She had gambled and lost. What did it matter, now, what he thought of her?
    â€œOh no. You’re hardly old, my dear. And you do interest me—quite a lot, in fact. I thought that much would be obvious to a woman of your… experience.”
    Of course it was obvious, she thought irritably. He had, after all, been pressed against her so intimately that if it had not been for a couple of layers of fabric they’d have been lovers already. She had felt the size and the heat of his erection against her. And even now, as he stood there leaning negligently against the corner of the mantel, she could see