thought disappeared, drenched in oceans of sensation.
How can a kiss affect me this way?
On a wave of shock and desire, Ritchie plunged his tongue into Beatrice Weatherly’s mouth. He’d wanted her, yes, the moment he’d seen the first photograph, but this … this reality exceeded his every fevered fantasy.
Every part of her stirred him. Her soft mouth he imagined wrapped around his cock. Her delicious body he imagined writhing in uncontrolled ecstasy as he plied her with fingers and tongue, driving her to heights of sensation again and again and again. He imagined fondling the firm, rounded bottom that wriggled so exquisitely against his palm. She was a natural, unstudied sensualist and a little perversity would only spice her ultimate pleasure.
And oh, he wanted that, her ultimate pleasure. He wanted her orgasms. Her complete surrender. Her nakedness, his to enjoy in all ways, open to hand and mouth and a dozen wicked sexual contrivances. He wanted her secured to a bed so he could plunge into her, lose himself in the scent of lily of the valley and woman’s musk and forget every sad thing that had ever troubled him. In the oblivion of her flesh, there might be peace.
He had to have her.
How could he get her?
What could he offer?
A quick tumble with her simply wouldn’t suffice. So would Beatrice Weatherly be amenable to a grande affaire? A bohemian, worldly arrangement, between two adults? A woman of her age and class would normally be on the lookout for marriage, but posing naked for photographs meant she was far from conventional.
But still, the sense that there was more to her than simply a rather licentious young woman plagued him. What if she wouldn’t accept his proposition? The thought of her refusing him and the idea of never having and enjoying every last delicious part of her provoked a sensation like despair in his heart.
There was no alternative. He had power, resources, money in colossal amounts, and he’d use whatever tactics he had to in order to get her. At the back of his mind, guilt—and a distaste for his own self-serving motives—pricked him, but the jabs were faint and fast fading against the hard ache in his loins and the strangely indefinable longing that racked his chest.
Even as sweet lust gouged him, he began to make his plans. Oh, how convenient it was that her brother was such a ne’er do well.
CHAPTER THREE
A Gentlewoman’s Temptation
IT WAS EXACTLY as she imagined drowning might be. Expiring in a well of lush sensation. Transformed into a houri within the space of a few minutes, she gasped in disappointment when Ritchie broke the kiss.
She tried to resume it. Digging her fingers into his thick, curly hair, she attempted to draw his lips back down to hers. Only his hands and mouth seemed real in a world transparent.
“No, no, Miss Weatherly.” His laugh was taunting, soft. “Unless you want me to compromise you even more than you’ve already been, right here on this runner.”
He nodded toward the narrow strip of Turkish carpet adorning the corridor in which they found themselves. Beatrice blinked. How had they got here? She was so disorientated that words temporarily escaped her. She could only stare at Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie, and blink like a nincompoop.
His smile brought her to her senses. It was hard, possessive, hungry, mocking. He was highly amused by the way she’d turned into a willing trollop in his arms with barely a fight. And yet still the twist of his mouth excited her and made her want it on hers again.
And elsewhere.
Between your legs … taste you there …
Dear God in heaven, what would that feel like? His tongue in her mouth had addled her senses. If it touched her there, if it stroked her there, she might go mad.
But still she ached and melted, wanting things that had been unthinkable an hour ago.
What in heaven’s name am I doing? I’m letting him turn my head again.
“Please let go of me, Mr. Ritchie. I’ve got to go back to the ballroom and find my brother.” As she wiggled out of his grasp, her skirts fell back into place like the curtain at the end of an operetta.
A farce, most definitely …
Free and covered again, Beatrice swooped low to scoop up her belongings. “I still have dances on my card and gentlemen waiting.”
“Fuck them!”
The card was whipped out of her hand, and with its tiny pencil grasped between his long, nimble fingers, Ritchie scratched out every name and scribbled his in each place.
“Mr. Ritchie, there’s no need to be so high-handed. Or so profane, for that matter.”
“There’s every reason to be high-handed. When I see you … when I touch you, I want to have you to myself.” As he hesitated, Beatrice made a move but he grasped her arm again, firmly yet gently. “But we need more time together, so we don’t have to be so hasty. The pleasures of sensuality should be savored like a slow, unhurried feast.” His fingers tightened and he tugged her toward a half-open door, a little farther along the passage.
“I’m not going in there for a … a feast with you. I’ve got to go back. Charlie will be worried.”
The tug became irresistible. She started to follow, her teeth gritted, more vexed with herself than with the strong, insufferable man who was leading her along. Enlightened by the lessons of Eustace, she was not going to be bamboozled by a male of the species ever again.
“Your brother is either too busy drinking or gambling or engaged in some other pursuit to worry about you for the moment. Unless of course you’re the precious item he’s wagering.”
“Don’t be grotesque!”
Beatrice went hot and cold. Might it actually be true? Charlie had gone on and on about the loss of her reputation damaging her chances of the marriage that would save both their fortunes. What might he be driven to when his judgment was clouded by brandy?
Her moment of hesitation was fatal, and Ritchie whisked her along just as he’d done in the conservatory. Within seconds, he’d plunged the pair of them into a small study or smoking room, a masculine retreat, lined with books. With an air of triumph about him, he locked the door behind them.
Beatrice stepped back and back, away from her captor. Fear surged, but swirled with a delicious longing in her belly. She was a person of supposedly bad reputation, so why not be worthy of it? Why suffer the disadvantages of being a scarlet woman without tasting any of its advantages?
But maidenly fantasies on a drowsy afternoon were one thing. Facing a powerful man in his lust was quite another.
“Don’t look at me like a terrified mouse, Beatrice.” Ritchie frowned, his broad brow puzzled. “A girl of your experience isn’t afraid of being alone with a man, surely?”
But I have no experience. I was tricked into posing for those photographs. I don’t even know
