A Whisper of Desire (2 page)

“My apologies, Lady Marisa. You should look where you are going.”

She'd known His Grace since childhood, and still he referred to her as Lady Marisa, always so formal. She disliked the deep voice void of any emotion, but it still sent shivers down her spine. Why, after her improper thoughts, did it have to be Maitland, of all men? Anger spiked at the implication she was at fault.

She looked up into features too cold to be thought handsome, yet there was something compelling about him. She studied the strands of dark copper hair cut slightly longer than acceptable—the man did not conform to any of society's dictates. The hint of silver at his temples added to his air of remoteness, not making him look old, merely distinguished. She knew he was the same age as her brother, thirty. He was not smiling. His face in its severity was a conundrum of hard cheekbones and strong jaw, yet his eyes were almost feminine, with long, dark eyelashes highlighting eyes the color of newly cultivated grass after the snow melts. She almost lost herself in their glare.

Suddenly conscious of her hands still resting upon his chest, she pulled back as if burned.

His mouth tightened into a thin line, but his bottom lip hinted at a devastating smile that could change his demeanor if only he had an ounce of fun and flirtation in him. She wondered if he ever smiled. In all the years he'd been coming to see her brother, she'd never seen any joy in his features. There were certainly no “laughter lines” around his eyes.

“Your Grace, always a pleasure.” Marisa smiled sweetly at him while wanting to kick him in the shins. “Perhaps you shouldn't sneak up on a lady if you don't wish to have her fall into your arms.”

He looked at her thoughtfully, as if assessing her person. She ran a hand over her hair, checking to see if anything was out of place. He continued to gaze down at her with a peculiar look upon his face. “If a woman is as beautiful as you, I don't mind her falling into my arms.”

Marisa only just stopped her mouth from gaping open. Never had Maitland ever openly flirted with her; the other Libertine Scholars, her brother's friends, of course had playfully bantered with her, but never Maitland. They were all exceedingly handsome men, and all that attention could go to a girl's head.

Maitland Spencer, the Duke of Lyttleton, had always simply been her older brother's somewhat handsome yet standoffish friend. He'd never shown an ounce of interest in her, or her in him. She looked him over. “Are you ill?”

Perfectly arched eyebrows lowered into a frown. “I'm very well, and you?”

“I'm stunned, actually. You're flirting with me.”

“I wasn't flirting. I was merely stating a fact.”

Of course he was. Literal was his middle name. “Then perhaps you can unhand me, sir,” she said, looking pointedly at his large hands still firmly holding her waist, “unless you
do
have intentions of flirting with me.”

To her dismay, he did not take his hands from her; instead, they tightened and pulled her close, and he gently moved her into an alcove, away from prying eyes.

“What if I decided I did want to flirt with you? Perhaps even declare my suit? Don't look surprised—you are one of the most sought-after debutantes this season.”

“Has Sebastian put you up to this? There is no need for him to pester me. I know who I will marry; I'm simply waiting for him to ask.”

Maitland's eyes roamed her face, stopping at her lips. “A beauty such as you should not have to wait. I would decline him on principle. What would you do if I got down on bended knee here and now?”

Heat flared over her skin. Flustered, she didn't know how to reply. What had come over His Grace tonight?

“I suspect I would think you in your cups, Your Grace. In all the years I have known you, you've never looked at me twice.”

He pressed closer. “That's not true, little one. It would have been inappropriate for me to notice you until I knew my mind. I find that tonight I know exactly what I want.”

His eyes flared with something she'd swear was heat. Perhaps their dance earlier had affected him as much as it had affected her.

“I'm not for the wanting, so you can stop this silly flirtation.”

“I have no need to flirt, little one. When I want a woman she is left in no doubt as to my intentions.” His mouth trailed up her neck until he reached her ear. He softly added, “And they rarely deny me.”

This wasn't the Maitland she knew and usually ignored. Normally they traded—actually nothing—he was not one to engage in banter, nor tender touches and breathless entreaties. However, this Maitland, this man who held her captive with his presence, was all fire and ice and had her undivided attention.

His seductive words, coupled with the hard body she found herself pressed against, twisted something in her stomach. Her body heated and her pulse raced like a feather tossed by a hurricane. She licked her lips. For one crazy second she wanted to press closer, wanted those velvet lips on hers.

Then sanity returned. She hated how he referred to her as “little one.” He'd called her that since her fifteenth birthday. She'd grown tall, taller than most men. She hated her height, and that was why Rutherford was so perfect: He was taller by several inches. She noted His Grace was taller still. Why did that thought enter her head?

Goodness, if Rutherford found her like this, if anyone found her like this…

“Maitland”—she must be flustered; she never referred to His Grace by his first name—“Maitland,” she repeated more firmly, “stop this game at once. You are toying with me and I won't have it. What would Sebastian think?”

He drew back and she looked into his eyes, and another shiver passed over her at what she saw there. Heat and fire flared, nothing like the iceberg she thought him to be.

“That's what I am trying to tell you. I'm not toying.” He stroked the upper swell of her breasts with his finger and she gasped. “You
are
very beautiful. You are a woman fit to become my duchess.”

She slapped his hand away while her body betrayed her—her nipples hardened against the silk of her chemise. His touch ignited a yearning she knew well. A yearning she normally associated with Rutherford. What was wrong with her? Why was the stuffy Maitland having this effect on her tonight, of all nights? “I cannot believe you just did that. My brother would skin alive any man who touched me so inappropriately.” She leaned forward to smell his breath. “If I didn't know better, as I said before, I'd say you were in your cups, yet I cannot smell any liquor on your breath.”

One of his long, elegant fingers touched her peaked nipple through her dress. “The woman does protest too much. Your body recognizes how it could be between us.” He pressed her against the pillar at her back. One hand stroked down her neck while the other continued to hold her waist. “Have you ever been kissed to the point you lose all sense of right and wrong and you can barely stand?”

What a question! Rutherford had kissed her, but she suspected his kisses were tame in comparison to what Maitland was suggesting. Her knees had never buckled from Rutherford's kisses. He respected her too much to push for more,
unfortunately.

“Of course I have been kissed,” she brazened.

He leaned his inviting lips so close they were almost upon hers. “Liar.”

“I do not lie. If I were a man I'd call you out.”

“But you're not a man, Marisa. You are very much a woman.”

With that, he ran the tip of his tongue over her bottom lip. She drew in a deep breath, surprised at her body's sudden, feminine reaction to his words. Her stomach clenched into a tight, silken fist. Never before had the sound of her name from Maitland's lips evoked such overwhelming sensations. Her body hummed with desire. Maybe it was just the way his voice seemed to caress, deepening to a low, dark pitch that was almost dangerous. Maybe it was the sudden glint of need she caught in his eyes that made her wonder how a man with obvious fire in his soul could let the world think he was cold and aloof. How had this powerful man's upbringing shaped his life, and why did she suddenly care?

It was as if a strong ocean tide was pulling at her—she knew she wanted to swim, but she was scared she'd drown in the undertow.

Her mistake was to look into his clear green eyes, for they trapped her with pure heat. Unable to resist, she leaned in and her tongue slipped out to touch his. At the small sigh that unintentionally escaped from her, the normally cool and contained duke disappeared, and with a groan so filled with longing he pulled her deep into an embrace and his lips firmly but gently took hers in a kiss that was—oh, goodness—so much more than anything she'd ever experienced in her life. It thrilled and frightened her. Frightened her because she was consumed with want and need and hunger…and this was Maitland Spencer, the Cold Duke.

“Open, little one,” he commanded in a voice laden with desire, and she did. His tongue swept into her mouth and each relentless stroke was like heaven. She'd never tasted a man before. He tasted of brandy and cheroots, everything addictive to a woman who craved more.

His hands were wrapped tightly in her hair, holding her head exactly right for his invasion. His body pressed her back against the pillar, and she welcomed the cold marble to combat the heat he generated. She felt something hard and long pressing against her stomach; she knew she should be appalled, but his mouth was creating such amazing sensations that she simply pressed closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and whimpering for more.

He gave her more. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth in a dance that demanded she follow. She dueled for dominance, her tongue entering his mouth like a queen at the head of her army. He welcomed the invasion, and another groan echoed deep in his throat as he ground his hardness against her.

This was heaven. She never wanted the kiss to end, and, blast it all to Hades, he was right, for when his clever fingers found her hardened nipple, her knees gave out and she sagged in his arms.

Only then did he break the kiss. There was no gloating in his gaze or upon his features, merely heat, want, and need, surely matching her own.

They stood close together in the alcove, forehead to forehead, breathing heavily.

She was stunned. Never in all the times he'd come to her brother's house had Maitland shown the remotest interest in her. Last year she'd briefly considered him as a possible prospect. He was handsome in his way, a duke with considerable wealth, and for some reason her senses seemed to stir when he was present. She had no idea why, because he seldom seemed to notice her at all.

She liked his more staid demeanor. He was not considered in her brother's league as far as a man's rakish ways, which she considered to be highly desirable in a husband. He was kind, considerate, and a true gentleman.

However, she'd crossed him off her list of potential husbands, thinking him too cold to rouse her passions. Plus, when she decided she'd marry only for love like her brother, she realized it was likely a man so contained would not be easy to love. She needed passion, desire, and a man willing to open his heart. She'd wondered if he had a warm heart under his cold exterior. Apparently he did.

It would appear she'd read Maitland wrong. He simply kept his passions well in check. She would never have guessed the roaring fire banked inside the formal peer.

Yet here she stood, ready to dissolve in a puddle of delicious desire. One kiss had changed her world, and she stared at Maitland. The mask of indifference he usually wore was back in place. If she couldn't still feel his erection hard against her belly, she would never have thought he desired her at all.

The Cold Duke was like a volcano covered in ice; he had a molten core he kept hidden from the world.

She needed air, needed to clear her head of his scent and taste. More than anything, she needed to think of Rutherford.
Rutherford!

She made to move around him, saying, “This is ridiculous. I am almost engaged.” She walked quickly out of the alcove, her fingers flying to repair the damage to her hair.

He took one large stride and was by her side. “
Almost
means you are still free. I think you should consider my suit seriously.”

She ground her teeth and kept smiling, given the number of people looking their way. “Suit? You have not once called on me this season.”

“In all fairness, I
have
been busy hunting a madwoman.”

She remained silent. That was, in fact, true, and one of the reasons she felt Rutherford had not proposed. She was almost being kept under lock and key and had had little opportunity to progress her relationship with Lord Rutherford. Sebastian, as always, was being overprotective.

A servant approached with a tray of glasses filled with champagne. He stopped and offered her a glass, and she took the opportunity to turn from His Grace and take one for something to do with her hands, which she noticed were fidgeting with her gown. She never fidgeted. Maitland took a glass, drank it down, and reached for another. Once the servant left she glared up at him. “I realize my brother asked you to see to my safety tonight”—she searched the room for Sebastian—“but I hardly think he required you to pursue me in such a scandalously romantic fashion.”

Maitland's face went from severe to breathtaking, as the first smile she'd ever seen on him suddenly broke over his features. “I may be pursuing you as you say, but certainly not in a romantic way. I merely find you a very attractive woman from a good family. You would make an exceptional duchess. You're intelligent, strong, kind, and did I mention beautiful—oh, I believe I have.”

Her mouth dropped open. She struggled to find the words.

“Don't be so surprised. With a madwoman out to do me harm, it is expedient I find a wife and have a son. You, little one, would be perfect in the role.”