“Tomorrow, we travel to the home of a trusted friend of mine.” He raised his own glass of wine to his lips, draining it to the dregs. “We will be safe there as well, though perhaps more expected there than here, which is why we will need to marry as soon as possible upon our arrival.”
“As soon as possible?” If her voice squeaked when she repeated his words, it could hardly be helped. The mere notion of marrying the Duke of Strathmore as soon as possible left her breathless and heated and flushed all over and…anticipatory.
He gave a single sharp nod, his expression growing closed and tense. “Yes, as long as you are still in accordance with the plan. You do want to marry me and become my duchess, do you not?”
She was beginning to realize he was a man of many masks, only some of which he deigned to show her. In that respect, he was rather a great deal like Lucien. Little wonder they seemed to despise each other. Little wonder each man wanted to bring the other to his knees.
The errant thought made her frown. Was that the way of it? Did Griffin merely want to lay Lucien low, and that was the reason for his acceptance of her proposal?
“Why do you wish to marry me?” she blurted, telling herself not to flush with embarrassment, that it was a normal question, a valid question. That she deserved to hear the answer.
His stare was hot and intense, eating her alive. “Do you not think yourself beyond the time for posing such a question, spitfire?”
“No,” she countered, meeting him, bluster for bluster. “This home has a door. I can walk through it if necessary.”
Not that she intended to do so. When she had left Lark House with him, she had felt the finality of her decision in her heart. There would be no going back.
“Excellent observation,” he said grimly, almost as if he had been privy to her tumultuous thoughts. “Just remember you asked the question, lest you decide you do not like the answer. I want to marry you for several reasons, all of which are selfish and thoroughly wrong, and I know it.”
His admission startled her in its candor. She wanted to know more. “And they are?”
His expression darkened, his eyes the deep blue of a sky after a summer thunderstorm. “Because I want to bed you. Because I want to strip you of every layer of silk, lace, and linen until you are bare before me. Until you are lying in my bed beneath me, and I am kissing you and…Christ. Do you want more? I can assure you that you do not, Violet.”
She wanted more. Of course she did. But she could not admit it aloud. Only Wicked Violet could admit such sinful feelings. Except, the evening seemed to burn and sizzle with possibility. She felt alive, truly alive.
And so she said the only two words that would roll off her lips. “More, please.”
“More tartlet?” he teased, his expression growing less strained.
“You know,” she countered, breathless. “Give me more. Tell me more. More details.”
His nostrils flared, the only sign her request affected him, but it was enough. “I want to marry you because I want to fuck you, Violet. There. Do you like that word? Are you happy now? I want to fuck you so deep and so hard and so well that you never again think of anyone named Charles, or any other faceless, nameless man for the rest of your life. I want you to be mine alone, now and always. Forever. Does that make you happy? Have I thoroughly shocked and horrified you yet?”
Dear God, his words—his wicked, bad, altogether naughty words—took her next breath and the one after that.
Was it how he truly felt about her? Did he want her with such ferocity? Did he want her every bit as badly as she wanted him?
She met his stare, refusing to retreat. “That depends.”
A dark brow rose, questioning. “Upon what?”
Upon everything. Upon nothing. She did not know. All she did know was she had run away with the Duke of Strathmore. She had feigned her own abduction. She was now alone with a man who had said…Lord in heaven, she could not even repeat his words in her mind, for they were so sinful and carnal.
For the years of her life following her mother’s death, she had always been so careful. Her every action had been made with great deliberation, taken to please her brother, to prove she was not cut from the same cloth as Mama.
But the time had come to rebel. She felt it now, here, with the sweet taste of a custard tart on her tongue and the most handsome man she’d ever met staring at her across the table, close enough to touch.
She straightened in her chair, her gaze never wavering from his. “Upon whether or not you mean what you just said.”
He met her gaze, his burning into hers with an intensity she could not shake. “Of course I mean it. I mean all of it, and I have from the moment you felled me with your knitting.”
“Crocheting.” She corrected him as if it mattered, staring at him hard, reading his gaze, inspecting his posture and bearing, the muscle ticking in his jaw.
“Crocheting,” he repeated with a devastating smile. He held out his hand to her, palm up, stretched across the table like an offering.
For a few beats, she considered him, studying his hand, his smile.
It was a smile she felt, not just in her heart, but in her soul, that part of herself which could not be caged. Violet stared at the man opposite her—Griffin, she reminded herself—and something strange happened. A shift, a feeling, an instinct…whatever it was, it settled upon her, and she could not shake it.
When she had been a girl, before her mother’s death, she had delighted in taking off her shoes and stockings and splashing in spring puddles when no one else was about to reprimand her. There had been something freeing about mud between her toes, about acting without the burden of being Lady Violet, about simply being one with the earth, her skin absorbing the fresh, cool rain water.
Her mother had caught her one day in the gardens at Hawksleigh, the bloodless Tudor affair that served as the seat for the Duke of Arden. Violet had been so certain she would receive a scold, but instead, her mother had taken off her own shoes and stockings, and she had taken Violet’s hands in hers, and they had laughed together, laughed with the sun shining down on them after the rain, laughed as if nothing mattered beyond the moment.
It was one of her happiest memories of Mama, her smile, upturned face, the mud puddles splashing their fine silk gowns, their feet dirty and cold, the freeing sensation of rebellion. Of refusing to do as they ought to, as they were told.
Here in the kitchen of this small, inelegant home, seated across from Strathmore, Violet felt that same, charmed sense of the weights holding her down being removed. She was once more the carefree girl who dared to splash in puddles.
She placed her hand in Griffin’s, and when his fingers tightened over hers, that same, freeing sensation buoyed up within her, lifting her like an ascension balloon. And she was the girl who had dared. He was the person in her life who witnessed that daring, and applauded it, rather than trying to stifle it.
“I like those wicked words,” she told him. “I am not at all shocked or horrified, for I want all those things too.”
Chapter Eleven
Griffin had intended to be a gentleman.
He had told himself, repeatedly and sternly, that Lady Violet was giving up enough in this madcap scheme of theirs. He had also warned himself not to take her innocence before their wedding day. Though he was manipulating her, and though he was not being entirely honest with her about his intentions, he owed her a proper bedding as man and wife, not some furtive coupling on their way to Oxfordshire.
But that did not mean he could not give her pleasure in other ways, and it was the devil in him, rather than the gentleman, who was leading her by their linked hands from the scarred kitchen table to the stairs. He gestured for her to precede him. Neither one of them said a word, the heat emanating between them enough to ignite tinder into an inferno. Her sweet voice was an echo in his thoughts, spurring him onward.
I like those wicked words, she had said.
Sodding hell. He had told her h
e wanted to fuck her, as if she were accustomed to such raw, coarse declarations. As if she had heard those words before, words not proper, not befitting a lady. It was entirely possible she did not fully comprehend his confessions to her. It was also completely possible—a fact, really—that he did not give a damn. He would teach her everything.
And with great, excruciating pleasure.
But first…
First, he could not travel one more step without kissing her. Without tasting her again, feeling her lush lips molding to his, opening for him. It seemed a dream she would be his; this complex, intelligent, fiercely lovely creature. That a future, which had been beyond his control mere days ago, was now once more within his reach.
He wanted to thank her. To praise her. To devour her.
Halfway up the steep stairway leading to the second floor, he was driven to the edge of reason by the sight of her nipped waist and the intricate braid of her dark hair before him. He laid the lamp he had been carrying carefully on the stair behind him. And then his hands found her waist, stilling her, pausing the both of them. With his gentle guidance she turned, facing him, one step above, which rendered them an equal height. They stood nose to nose.
He fell into her eyes, brilliant and verdant. She was a goddess, Demeter, the abundance of life and fertility, and he wanted her so badly, he ached everywhere. Need was a fiery beast, rampaging through him, making him bold, telling him to grasp, to claim.
His hands tightened on her waist.
Because part of him—the small, sliver of goodness remaining, buried deep within the rest—insisted upon playing the gentleman, he did not ravage her mouth as he longed to do. Instead, he requested permission.
He released her waist with one hand and dragged the backs of his fingers over her silken cheek. “May I kiss you?”
Her hands framed his face, and damn it if that innocent touch, those silken palms upon his cheeks, were not together the most erotic sensations he had felt in as long as he could recall.
“Yes,” she whispered, unknowingly echoing his thoughts. Her eyes fluttered closed. Those dark, long lashes fanned over her pale cheeks. “Always.”
How he wished he could believe that. How he wished he could be certain she would answer him thus each time he asked. But in truth, when she realized his intention to destroy her brother, her response would be far different. Likely a resounding, perhaps eternal, no.
But tonight was not the future, and neither would he dwell upon its uncertainty. Tonight was wild and free. Tonight was Griffin and Violet, entirely alone, with nothing and no one else between them.
No past.
No future.
Nothing but the present. Nothing but the fire burning between them.
His mouth was on hers in the next breath, precisely where it belonged. His hands were in her hair, holding her head in a gentle grip, angling her just the way he wanted. And her mouth was his for the taking. So take he did.
Hard and fast, lips melding, tongues tangling. She tasted of the sweetness of her red wine from dinner and the tartlet he had made for dessert and something else, a rich, delicate note that was undeniably hers. She tasted better than anything he had ever consumed.
And she was about to become his in truth.
He kissed her furiously, feverishly, spurred on by that knowledge, settling in his gut. She was perfection in his arms, not just beautiful, but intelligent and kind and interesting, and she had depths and scars within her that matched his own. She cared about him, when she ought not to. She believed in him, when believing in him was akin to her own ruin. She had followed him here. She trusted him.
His.
Hell, yes.
They kissed and kissed, slow and soft. Tongues. Teeth. Lips. It was all consuming. It was also not enough. He wanted more. He told himself he should not. But he could not stop. He was a conqueror, determined to take and claim.
And though they were paused upon the steps, he could not stop himself. He kissed his way across her jaw, to her ear. He kissed the shell, licking the hollow behind it until she quivered. He had never been so consumed with lust in his entire life as he was in this moment, and without ever having stripped her of one piece of clothing. She remained in full dress, all her layers of battle between them.
But those layers did not matter one whit. She could set him on fire with them, and the rigid cock in his trousers was ample evidence of that. He kissed her mouth again, harder this time, more demanding, his tongue surging inside to duel with hers.
She sucked his tongue.
He swallowed a moan.
She would be his undoing, Lady Violet West. She was all he had ever wanted, without knowing such a woman existed. Everything he had never imagined she would be; sweet and hot, brazen yet prim, the contradiction he wanted more than ever. She was the one beacon in his life of darkness, the sole bright light. He never wanted her to fade, to fall away from him.
Some perverse part of him wanted to keep her here forever, just as she was, alive and alight in his arms, her eyes filled with warmth and understanding. But that was not to be, and he knew it. He knew it better than anyone. He would destroy her, destroy those lights and that warmth.
Because it was what he had to do to survive. And if there was one thing he had always excelled at, it was survival.
“Griffin,” she whispered.
His name, and it was all she said, but it was enough.
Indeed, his name in her sweet voice, half husky with desire, half dripping with her need for him, was all he wanted to hear for the rest of his life. If he lost his ability to hear from this moment forward, and his last memory of sound was her husky voice calling out his name, it would be more than enough to sustain him.
He kissed her again, deeper, harder. Then harder still. His lips were unforgiving upon hers, molding, taking. But she kissed him back with every bit of his furor, not shying away from his roughness.
Her fingers were in his hair, tightening, her nails raking his scalp, and he loved it. He wanted her aggression. Her intensity. He wanted her to transform him. To make him hers forever, the same way she would be his.
He dragged his mouth down her throat. His hands found her skirts, bunching, lifting. Even though it had not been his intention, he could not help himself. He believed in functionality, in decisions founded in logic and pragmatism. Indeed, he had based his life upon such principles.
But Violet made him change his every preconceived notion.
She brought him to the precipice, straight to the dangerous edge, where he could linger on the cliff on his own, or choose to leap. Part of him knew he should escort her to bed. Kiss her chastely on the forehead. Bid her goodnight. But now he had started something he could not stop.
He had to have her.
More of her.
All of her.
Whatever part of her he could have. He had her skirts in his hands, still kissing her, for he could not stop. He laid her against the stairs, pressing her into them with his weight, his mouth on hers; open, coaxing, commanding.
She made a sound, half strangled, and reality returned to him. He had Violet pinned to the stairs like a rutting beast. Christ.
He tore his mouth from hers, chest heaving, cock straining, and stared down at her. Her lips were swollen and dark red from the force of their kisses, her eyes glittering back at him, dazed. “I am sorry. You must be dreadfully uncomfortable. Forgive me, my lady, I—”
She caught the slice of his shirt visible above his waistcoat, gripped a handful, and yanked him toward her. “Do not be sorry. Just kiss me.”
Nothing any woman had ever said to him had made him as wild as Violet did with two simple sentences. His mind clamored with reasons why he ought to listen to the tiny speck of him that still possessed the capacity to be a gentleman.
He told them all to go to the devil, and he obeyed his woman.
He took her mouth with his, shifting them so his left arm became a pillow for her head. His right hand sank into her skirts, dragging t
hem to her waist so he could touch her as he wished. His palm skimmed over a trim ankle encased in silk stockings, up the delicious curve of her calf to her knee.
Here was the sweet spot, a place he loved on a woman’s body, that mouthwatering crook of skin serving as the delineation between the lush pleasures of her cunny, and the innocence of her lower limbs. It was the gateway to temptation. He wanted to taste her there, to lick the sensitive skin, to breathe her in. Would she smell sweetly of roses even behind her knee?
But he could not devour her here on the stairs, he reminded himself firmly. She was an innocent, her trust in him as potent as whisky and every bit as fiery inside him. He had to go slowly. To treat her with care.
His fingers traveled higher without breaking the kiss. Over the smooth, supple curve of her outer thigh, finding the heat of her through her soft drawers. There were too many impediments keeping him from what he wanted. Rules. Layers. Conscience.
To hell with them. Perhaps he could pleasure her here after all. If he pleasured her on a bed, he would not stop until he was inside her, and he had promised himself he would not take her until she was his. If they were caught—if for any reason, their marriage did not occur—he would not take that risk with her. She would remain an innocent until she was his wife.
Or she would become another’s.
The last thought filled him with such blinding, driving possession, he kissed her harder. He could not bear for her to be another man’s. She was his. And she was growing restless. Making beautiful sounds of need, arching against him. He would give her what she wanted, what her body desired. What they both so desperately needed.
Tearing his mouth from hers at last, he kissed down her throat. He spoke her name into her silken skin. This woman was made for sin. Made for him. He licked the tender cord of her neck, found her throbbing pulse and kissed her there, made his way back to her ear, giving it a nibble that earned him a new, husky moan. He did it again, his hand skimming over her hip, guiding her legs apart.
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