Authors: Mia Marlowe
Tags: #georgian regency victorian historical romance paranormal sensual
Touch of a Lady (10 page)
“Regret is a waste of time,” she said with certainty. “First impressions are generally correct. If Lord Devonwood insists on
behaving
like a perfect scoundrel, it’s more than likely that’s what he
is
.”
He longed to plant his lips on the dimple that marked her cheek. Then he’d show her just how a perfect scoundrel steals a real kiss. Merely thinking about it eased the ache in his head as blood rushed to another part of his body altogether.
“Tell me. Why are you here to see Lord Devonwood?”
“I’m not in the habit of discussing my personal business with strangers, but if you must know . . .” She chose that moment to flip to a fresh page in her sketchbook and accidently dropped her pencil.
In hindsight, Devon would come to realize he never should have bent to retrieve it, but his mother had tried to raise a gentleman. If the countess failed in some areas of her son’s upbringing, she succeeded soundly in others. As soon as his fingers closed over the wood, the world around Devon faded to muted colors and a vision poured into him, more real than his next heartbeat.
Her breath streamed across his lips, warming as a sip of brandy. She tipped her chin up to meet his gaze, her dark eyes wide.
Devon didn’t wait for another invitation. His mouth covered hers, slanting to create a firm seal. Her uniquely feminine scent tickled his nostrils. Sweet and ripe, like a peach in the sun.
He kept his eyes open as he kissed her, but hers fluttered closed. Dark lashes trembled in feathery crescents on her cheeks.
She made a small noise into his mouth, a needy sound that went straight to his groin. He pulled her flush against his body, wishing her boned corset would allow him to feel her breasts yield to the solid expanse of his chest.
The mere thought of those soft mounds roused him to aching hardness.
Hunger roared inside him, every fiber of his body vibrant with straining life. He deepened the kiss, sweeping in to explore the hot, moist cavern of her mouth. He made rough love to her with his tongue, thrusting and teasing.
She answered his invasion with her own, nipping and suckling his bottom lip, her kiss
urgent and needy. She arched into him, pressing herself against his hardness.
His hands found the buttons on her bodice . . .
The pencil slipped from his fingers and the connection with his gift shattered. The vision evaporated like morning mist as his headache resumed its persistent throb. Miss Farnsworth’s face came into sharp focus.
“Well, it appears neither of us can keep hold of this pencil,” she said as she bent to pluck it from the clipped grass.
He reached for it as well, half-hoping for another few seconds of his vision, but he caught her hand instead. Her skin was warm and smooth and his headache suddenly lifted. The pain wasn’t masked or dulled. It was completely eradicated. He held her fingers for a fraction longer than necessary, reveling in the unexpected sensation of normalcy.
“If you don’t mind . . .” She gently tugged her hand away and the relentless ache slammed back into him.
The vision itself had been a welcome one for a change. He’d have liked to let the pleasant interlude spool out to its sweet conclusion.
One thing was certain though. Sometime within the next twelve hours, the farthest edge of his foreknowledge, he and Miss Farnsworth were destined to become better acquainted.
Much better acquainted.
Lord, she was sweet. Soft and pliant and responsive. The vision left him crowding his trousers.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, cocking her head at him, a hint of panic in her taut features.
He was saved from a reply when a voice called from behind him.
“Oh, there you are, Devon.”
When he turned, he was surprised to see his younger brother, Theodore, coming toward him. Always the sartorial peacock, Teddy was well turned out for mid-morning. His natty hat was rakishly askew and the boots that crunched along the garden path were spit-shined to a high gloss. An older gentleman in a tweed jacket trailed in his wake. Devon rose and strode forward to meet his brother, hand extended in welcome.
“You weren’t due home for another week, Ted. If you’d sent a wire, I’d have met you at the pier.”
“Plans change, brother. And I’ll confess to being too preoccupied to send word.”
Theodore’s handsome face was thinner than it had been when Devon had seen him last, but his skin was so deeply tanned, his smile was blinding. Ted’s half-year tour of the major cities ringing the Mediterranean had obviously agreed with him. He pumped Devon’s hand while peering around him to smile at the woman. She had risen from the bench and approached them with graceful steps.
“I say, old chap,” his brother said, “you’re not trying to steal my girl, are you?”
“What? No.”
His girl?
Devon’s gut churned furiously. “What do you mean?”
Teddy pushed past him, put his arm around Miss Farnsworth’s waist, and cinched her close. “Emmaline, I’d like you to meet my curmudgeon of a big brother, Lord High and Mighty, the Earl of Devonwood. Call him Devon, if you like. We all do.”
Then Teddy turned to him with a triumphant grin. “All our lives, you’ve been first, brother. First to ride a pony, first to go away to school, first at everything. But I always intended to be first at something. Devon, may I present to you Miss Emmaline Farnsworth?” The gaze Teddy cast toward her was filled with such adoration, it bordered on idolatry. “My fiancée.”
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