The Bridal Quest. Candace Camp
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be a practical arrangement, something that would be advantageous for you, as well. I assumed that you had passed the age of holding girlish fantasies about love.”
“Believe me, I was never so young as to hold that sort of fantasy,” Irene shot back. Anger vibrated through her, making her oblivious to everything else.
She took a step forward, hands clenched into fists at her sides, and glared up into his face, finding his icy calm more infuriating than any raw display of temper. “Did you think that I was so desperate to marry, so unable to make my way through this world without the guidance of a man, that I would jump at such an opportunity?”
“I thought you would be mature and logical enough to see the advantages for both of us in such an arrangement,” he retorted. “Obviously I was mistaken.”
“Yes. Obviously. You may find me ‘suitable,’ but I can assure you that there is nothing about you that suits me!”
His eyes sparked at her words. It occurred to Irene that perhaps she had gone a step too far in her anger. But she refused to back down and appear intimidated before this fierce man looming over her. Instead she gazed straight back at him, setting her jaw defiantly.
His hand lashed out and wrapped around her wrist, holding her where she stood—though it was not necessary, for Irene would never have revealed weakness by stepping back from him. He looked into her face, his eyes as cold and hard as glass.
“Is there not?” he murmured in a tone all the more dangerous for its softness. “I think, my lady, that you might just find out differently.”
With that he bent his head, his other hand coming up to cup the back of her neck, and fastened his lips to hers.
CHAPTER FOUR
IRENE WENT STILL, shocked into immobility. No man had ever had the audacity to kiss her before. His lips were warm against hers, firm yet soft, and they awakened in her a host of sensations that she had never experienced. She felt at once flushed and cold, and a tremor ran down through her body, bursting in a ball of heat in her abdomen.
His mouth pressed harder against hers, and her lips opened instinctively. His tongue slipped inside, startling her even more and starting up a new thrum of pleasure deep inside her. Radbourne wrapped his arms around her, pressing her more tightly against him, so that she felt the hard line of his body all down the length of her own. She was surrounded by his strength and warmth, her breasts crushed against the hard muscles of his chest. Later she would think to herself that she should have been frightened at how easily he held her still, but in this moment she felt no fear, only the eager rush of excitement, the breathless pleasure of her blood pounding through her veins, the sudden awakening of her entire body.
She felt the hot outrush of his breath against her cheek, heard the rough sound he made low in his throat, and she trembled in his arms, unprepared for the myriad of feelings that poured through her. Something seemed to open deep within her, aching and hot, spreading outward. She squeezed her legs tightly together, amazed at the yearning that was blossoming there.
His hands slid down her back and curved beneath her buttocks. His fingers dug in, lifting her up and into him, so that she felt the hard line of his desire pressing into her flesh, and his mouth shifted on hers, digging deeper, his tongue taking her.
Irene dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding on to him as desire swirled through her, urgent and compelling. Her tongue met his and twined around it, and she felt a shudder shake him. He wrapped his arms around her again, so tightly that it felt as if he wanted to melt into her. Irene wound her arms around his neck, lost in sensation, hungry in a way she had never imagined, eager for something she could not even name.
There was the sound of voices as someone stepped outside onto the terrace, the scrape of a foot upon the stone. As the noises penetrated Irene’s consciousness, Radbourne dropped his arms abruptly and stepped back, sucking in a long breath. His eyes glittered, wide and dark in his face, and the skin seemed stretched across his cheekbones, stark and taut. They stared at one another. Irene’s mind was blank, aware only of the feelings coursing through her body.
For a moment he looked as stunned as she, but then he blinked and half turned away, glancing toward the other end of the terrace, where a couple had emerged and were standing, talking together. The woman’s laughter floated across the night air toward them, and the couple turned, strolling in the opposite direction.
As if the others’ movement had broken her trance, Irene came crashing back to earth. Her body still hummed with the passion that had overtaken her, but her mind was alert again. She realized with horror that she had been wrapped in Radbourne’s arms, kissing him passionately, and that anyone at any moment could have stepped out of the ballroom and seen them. Her reputation would have been ruined, of course, but that was not what most exercised her mind.
What truly horrified her was the fact that she had, for a few moments, completely lost herself in passion. She had not thought about that—not about her good name or what she was risking or, indeed, about anything at all. She had been held entirely in the grip of physical hunger, blind with need, driven solely by desire, like the basest animal.
Irene had always prided herself on her control, on her intellect and reasoning. She had told herself that she was nothing like her father, who had been ruled by primitive urges and basic emotions. She thought before she acted; she wanted a rational life, free from the turmoil of emotions.
Yet here she had been under the control not of her mind, but of her lowest instincts. She had thought of nothing, wanted nothing, but to satisfy her physical craving. Like her father, she had been filled with a primitive hunger, and she had let herself be ruled by it. When Lord Radbourne seized her in his grip and kissed her, she should have pulled away and slapped him. She should have given him the sort of brutal set-down his actions had deserved.
Instead, she had melted in his arms. Flooded with desire, she had kissed him back, had thrown her arms around his neck and clung to him. She had given herself up to him like the most feebleminded of maidens, letting him control her. Dominate her.
She was filled with anger and disgust for herself—equal to the anger and disgust she felt for the man who had brought her to this state. She glared at the earl, relieved at the surge of anger within her, as it pushed out the passion that had filled her earlier.
He gazed back at her, and she could see that he, too, had recovered from whatever desire had gripped him. Gone was the fierce gleam in his eyes. His face was devoid of expression, his lips thinned into a straight line.
“It seems I am not so unsuitable after all, am I?” he asked quietly. “At least in one way.”
Rage shot through her, and without thinking, she lashed out, slapping him hard. His head turned aside from the force of her blow, but when he swiveled back to her, the mark of her fingers stood out, white against the tan of his skin, before turning red. He clenched his jaw, and for an instant his eyes sparked with fury, but he said nothing.
“I will not marry anyone,” Irene choked out, close to tears. “But if I did, through some bizarre circumstance, marry, it would certainly never be you!”
She whirled and stalked back to the ballroom, not looking back.
FRANCESCA HAD FOUND a vantage point from which she could keep an eye on the dancers and also watch the two doors leading out onto the terrace. She was removed from most of the other guests and slightly shielded by a potted palm, and therefore she had been able to pass the last fifteen minutes or so without being pulled into conversation with anyone. She had found the spot shortly after Lord Radbourne strolled off with Irene Wyngate.
She had been rather surprised when the earl had managed to maneuver Irene into a stroll about the room, and unless she was very much mistaken, she thought that Radbourne had led Lady Irene out onto the terrace. The earl, she thought, must be a great deal more determined or clever than most men, for Irene rarely allowed a man to persuade her to do anything. Of course, few men were brave enough to try. Her sharp tongue and dislike of flirtation were well-known among the ton. It was something out of the way for a man