The Dangerous Love of a Rogue. Jane Lark
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of his family Drew felt close to.
Drew looked back at Harry, glowering.
“I take it you will not then,” Peter quipped.
Drew’s gaze spun to his best friend. “Definitely not!”
The others laughed.
A footman appeared with a tray bearing Drew’s brandy. Drew took his drink, then looked over his shoulder at his eldest brother, who was now looking at Drew.
Drew lifted his glass, in mock salute, then turned back to his friends.
* * *
Raising the dress of her ivory satin gown, Mary hurried along the garden path.
She’d left at the commencement of a set, hoping her family would not notice her absence. They were all busy dancing or talking.
There were no lanterns to light the way, deterring couples from strolling into the garden but the night sky was clear and moonlight shone through the leaves of shrubs in places so she could see the route.
Etched in the moonlight Lord Framlington’s figure formed a vivid silhouette in the darkness when she reached the glass house.
“Miss Marlow,” he called, stepping forward when she drew near.
Her heart skipped and her stomach spun like a top. She’d barely been able to eat since she’d last seen him, and she’d not slept last night; as her thoughts danced a reel.
She had to end this. It was beyond foolish.
But she wanted to be alone with him one last time.
He looked dangerous in the darkness, she ought to be afraid of him. She only knew him by reputation and that was bad. Yet she’d never been so pulled towards anyone – surely her heart could not be wrong?
His lips lifted in a half smile when she reached him and his fingers touched her face. He’d removed his gloves. “I was not sure you’d come. You’ve barely given me a glance this evening.”
Her fingers captured his and drew them away from her face, as she smiled too. “I did not wish to make my family suspicious. I’m already in the mire for speaking to you in the park.”
His other hand lifted suddenly, then gripped her nape and pulled her mouth to his.
He kissed her long and hard while he braced her nape with one hand and his fingers also weaved between hers and twisted her arm behind her back.
When he released her she was short of breath and her heart thumped.
But he was short of breath too.
His dark eyes held her gaze for a moment. “We should go inside in case someone walks this way.”
She’d forgotten the risk. “Yes.” They should not be kissing on the garden path where anyone might find them. But then she should not be alone with him.
Her hand clasped in his, he pulled her into the conservatory and closed the door.
Orange, lemon, olive and fig trees, in terracotta pots, lined the pathways in the huge glasshouse and the scent of warm earth merged with the floral aroma of the delicate flowers dangling from vines above them.
The grip on her hand claimed her. It said he treasured her. She was not anyone to him.
She felt special.
Was it an illusion? If she believed John, Lord Framlington thought nothing of her; he only cared for money.
He turned to face her, illuminated by moonlight through the glass above them, his starkly handsome face painted silver. He smiled, a smile that shone in his eyes too. He stepped backward one pace, then another, pulling her with him, leading her deeper into the glasshouse. “The exemplarily Miss Marlow has fallen from her pedestal.” His tone teased.
“Or perhaps a certain Lord has pulled her from it.”
His smile lifted again, this time it had a wicked lilt. “I accept the charge. I am sure it was deadly dull upon it anyway.”
Yes, yes it was, and lonely at times.
Perhaps that was why he tempted her. She should not feel lonely in such a large loving family but she had no space to be an individual. She wished to be loved singularly, to be the most special person to someone, to him. Like her father was to her mother, and her mother to her father.
She looked beyond him, closing her lips on her disloyal thoughts.
A small wrought iron table stood on a paved area among the plants, with a few chairs gathered about it. Beyond it she saw the river Thames through the glass. She’d forgotten the garden bordered it.
Ripples ran with the current of the river, shimmering in the moonlight. While dots of light sparkled from windows and lanterns on the far bank. It was a scene from fairytales.
Lord Framlington lifted their joined hands, pulling her awareness back to him as he brought her fingers to his lips, then kissed them. His dark eyes gleamed staring at her glove, then he freed the button at her wrist, and then began to pull each fingertip free.
Once the glove was loose he stripped it off and tossed it on the table where his gloves laid. Then he removed the other too.
She should not allow him to touch her skin, but beautiful sensations skipped up her arm as his lips pressed on her bare knuckles.
Was everything which felt good wicked?
“What are you thinking?” He pressed a kiss on each of her fingertips.
Her heartbeat stuttered, she could not find words to reply while his breath warmed her skin.
Pain circled low in her stomach.
His gaze lifted to hers, “What, Mary?” then lowered. He slipped the tip of her little finger into his mouth and sucked it gently.
She pulled her hand from his grip, a blush burning. “I should not allow you to do this.”
“You should not be here, come to that.” His voice was deep and low.
“No…”
“But you are.” His hands braced her waist.
The danger she faced reared. They were a long way from the house. No one would hear her cry out if he forced himself on her.
Her heart raced harder as her fingers gripped the muscle of his arms through his evening coat and her breath caught in her lungs as she looked up at him.
“You do not trust me.” It was a statement, not a question.
She did not. How could she? “I barely know you…”
“Apart from your brother’s tales.”
His face had moved into shadow. What had seemed an enchanted place, suddenly felt like a gothic novel.
“I’ll not hurt you,” he whispered. “Don’t heed him, I am no monster, Mary, darling. I do not wish you harm. I want you to be my wife, why would I hurt you?”
“I… I…” She struggled to find words as his gaze dropped to her lips.
She turned her head, so he would not kiss her. He merely kissed her cheek instead.
A tremor raked her muscles as his lips touched her earlobe too, then her neck.
Her fingers clasped his arm. “Why does John dislike you so much?”
His head lifted, moonlight catching as a glimmer in his eyes, which were dark here. “Pembroke sees himself in me. He was not always a saint. He had an affair with my eldest sister.”
“With your sister…”
He smiled. “I suppose he did not mention it. Yes, he cuckolded my brother-in-law, Lord Ponsonby, not that I think Ponsonby cared. It was when we were in Paris.”
“You