Not long ago she'd been pink as a sunset. Now she was pale as milk. "Stop it."
"No." His grip firmed. "Stay with me."
She stiffened and spoke in a cold voice. "I'm not going to your bed with my son in the house."
He smiled faintly. "I'm not expecting your capitulation tonight—however nice it would be."
"Mr. Townsend—"
"Anthony."
"Mr. Townsend, this serves no purpose. I'm sorry I admitted my…my penchant."
"I'm not."
Her eyes narrowed, although unwilling amusement tugged at her lips. "It's like listening to your nephew wheedling to leave Eton. You're incorrigible."
"I'm enchanted. Stay and get to know me. Get to know Carey. Spend a few stolen days with Brand. I promise I won't put any pressure on you."
He saw she was tempted. "I can easily take Brand back with me tomorrow."
"Do you really mean to split the lads up, just because our attraction frightens you?"
"Emotional blackmail won't force me into your bed, sir."
"Anthony."
"And I didn't give you permission to call me Fenella."
"Lady Deerham is a prisoner of her sad past. Fenella, on the other hand, is warm and lovely and within reach."
"So call me Lady Deerham," she said crossly. "I see why you've succeeded in business. You browbeat your poor customers into submission."
"Does that mean you consent?"
She drew herself up and ripped her hand from his. "No, it means I'd appreciate the loan of a carriage tomorrow morning so I can return to London and do my best to scotch any talk."
"Will you leave Brand here?"
She regarded him uncertainly. "Common sense says it's best to sever all ties."
"So Brand pays the price for your cowardice?"
Her expression turned mutinous. "You're doing it again."
He spread his hands. "I need to use what weapons I have."
"No, you need to wave the white flag and surrender."
A pleased smile lifted his lips. "Ah, surrender is such a bonny word."
Her response was unimpressed. "I shall be frank, Mr. Townsend—"
"Anthony."
"Mr. Townsend. I shall be frank because you seem incapable of taking a polite no for an answer."
He snorted. "Polite?"
She ignored him and plowed on. "You're wasting your time pursuing me. I'm devoted to my late husband's memory. Please respect that and ignore my unwise admission of attraction. We met in unusual and dramatic circumstances. Neither of us really knows the other, and I suspect if we'd been introduced in a more prosaic setting, we'd find no particular affinity."
He bowed shortly. "You're brutally clear, my lady."
Fleeting regret darkened her eyes, but her delicate jaw set in a stubborn line. "I…I have no wish to change my life—however enticing the incentive."
He hid a smile. The ruthless tone hadn't lasted long. "I'll call upon you in London."
"Haven't you heard a word I said?"
"You said you mistrust any link formed in such circumstances. I acknowledge the justice of your doubts—and also that we've known each other a mere day. I shall endeavor to prove that we're attracted because of who we are, and not because we've had too much excitement."
She threw her hands up. "Oh, you're impossible. I'll be glad to get back to my real life."
"Will you?" he asked softly.
For a moment, she looked unsure, then her lush mouth firmed. "At least in Mayfair, I'm free of insane plutocrats and their persuasions."
He laughed, enjoying himself. "Yet."
He'd always intended to pursue her, but her confession of a weakness for him invited a more overt wooing. She was a grand little fighter, but he doubted she'd win when Anthony Townsend allied with her own desire against her.
"There's no point continuing. I'm tired, and you're off your head. Good night, Mr. Townsend." With an irritated swish of her skirts, she flounced off. He let her reach the door before he spoke. "Lady Deerham, there is one more thing."
"What is it?" Annoyance roughened her voice.
A man of his size could cross the room in a couple of paces. He caught her arm and using her surprise, swung her around to face him. A gentle push and her back bumped against the closed door. "This."
Furious eyes snapping blue fire focused on his face. "Mr. Townsend, just what on earth do you think you're doing?"
"My dear Lady Deerham, surely it hasn't been that long."
"I'll scream," she warned, trying to slay him with her disapproval. Unfortunately for her, he found her spirit arousing. This close she smelled like a flower garden in spring. He drew that glorious scent deep into his lungs.
"I dare you." One hand pressed her shoulder against the door while the other caught her chin to hold her still.
Not that she was struggling. Which was dashed interesting.
"You are the most provoking man," she muttered.
"That's insane plutocrats for you." He hid a smile as anticipation made his blood rush. "Now stand still so I can kiss you."
"Well, really," she gasped before his lips stole her breath away.
Chapter Eight
* * *
Fenella's resistance dissolved in an ocean of wildfire. Everything was heat, strength, dominance.
Mr. Townsend crushed her against him while his mouth plundered hers. For too long, shock held her rigid. Then she made a muffled protest and struggled to push him away. He only growled deep in his throat and folded her closer into that big body.
She felt seized, conquered, compelled. And wickedly, unforgivably excited.
Her hands closed into fists and she beat on those wide, straight shoulders. When that didn't work, she pulled sharply at his thick, black hair and struggled to ignore its silky texture against her fingers.
He wrenched free and stared down at her with an appalled expression. His arms fell away from her. She sucked air into her lungs and prayed that her knees supported her. Her heart banged crazily against her ribs.
"Oh, hell, Fenella, I'm sorry."
She slumped breathlessly against the door, the oak hard against her back. As hard as Mr. Townsend's body. His rich male scent, brandy and sandalwood and clean healthy skin, teased her overstimulated senses.
"You…you shouldn't have done that," she said unsteadily.
She raised a shaking hand to lips that still burned. The kiss had lasted a mere sizzling second—although it had seemed an eternity. She'd forgotten the way huge, potent maleness could wrap around her and exclude the rest of the world. Although when it came to size and potency, Mr. Townsend completely eclipsed dear, loving Henry, the only other man she'd ever kissed.
The thought, however accurate, struck her as disloyal. Self-disgust straightened her backbone in a way nothing else could. "You didn't act like a gentleman."
"But then I'm not a gentleman."
She should be furious that he'd manhandled her, yet strangely, she wasn't. Perhaps because while he'd been masterful, he hadn't been rough. Which should be no excuse.
"I must go."
Except that her feet remained stubbornly glued to the floor. And Mr. Townsend remained far too close. Close enough for his warmth to entice her.
When Henry died, a great and eternal coldness had descended that not even her love for Brandon could vanquish.
Apparently the chill wasn't eternal after all. Cold was the last word to describe her reaction to that impetuous kiss. She'd never imagined she could feel like this again. She'd never wanted to feel like this again.
"Damn you, Fenella," he rasped. His body vibrated with tension, and he looked ready to fight an army single-handed. "If you're going, go. Or take the consequences."
Staring up at him, she flattened her palms against the door behind her. She should be terrified. But fear, like anger, proved elusive. Instead she was curious to discover if that immense strength could cherish as well as insist.
How brazen.
And dang
erous. Mr. Townsend blazed with desire. She shouldn't encourage him. But dear heaven, that warmth drew her, reminded her that through nearly six empty years, no man had placed his hands on her in passion.
She shivered. His ferocious need was shamefully thrilling. Henry, for all his bravery as a soldier, had been the gentlest of men off the battlefield. Mr. Townsend looked ready to gobble her up with one snap of those strong white teeth.
He misunderstood her trembling silence. "After that gaucherie, you have no reason to believe me, but you're safe."
"I know I am." She hardly recognized the reedy voice as hers.
His face, all harsh angles and hard male determination, filled with a tenderness that reminded her how careful he'd been with Carey. Even now, when he burned for her, he kept his hands off her.
Which suddenly struck her as a pity.
Misgivings receded under a wave of need. With breathtaking daring, she lifted one hand and laid it on his fine black coat above his thundering heart.
"Fenella? You're playing with fire."
"Oh, I do hope so," she murmured, stretching up on her tiptoes to brush her lips across his.
He didn't immediately react, so she did it again. Another disappointing lack of response, although a hum emerged from his throat.
Her skills must be rusty. She battled to recall what had once been so spontaneous. It had taken her so long to want to kiss a man again. She had no intention of retiring defeated.
Seeking a clue to how to approach him, she studied Mr. Townsend. He looked disgruntled and bewildered—as well he might, given the way she'd pushed him away after that first tempestuous kiss.
She sucked in a shuddering breath, told herself to be brave, and slid her hand up his chest and around that powerful neck. Tension turned the muscles under her fingers to rock.
Fenella stroked her other hand down his face, tracing the strong, austere bones. She'd forgotten, too, how fascinatingly different a man's body was from hers. And Anthony Townsend had struck her from the first as an uncompromisingly masculine man. She drew his head down and ran her lips over that obstinate jaw.
A muscle flickered in his cheek and his breath emerged on a hiss. "Blast you, lass, you test me too far."
Implacable hands caught her waist. For a fraught instant, she wasn't sure if he meant to push her away or drag her closer. That strained, striking face told her he wasn't sure either.
He hauled her against him. She braced for another demonstration of male power.
But this kiss was different. His lips wooed and sipped and tasted. They requested her cooperation instead of demanding it. How could she say no? With a sigh, she gave herself up to him.
* * *
Fenella Deerham was as luscious as a ripe peach, as fragrant as a rose, as soft as new fallen snow. Anthony hungered to seize her and use her for his relentless enjoyment until they sprawled, wrung out and sated.
But even now, when she melted in wordless consent, he wasn't a complete fool. Although he'd been close to completely witless since, instead of slapping his face, she'd launched a seduction of her own.
This was a woman to treasure, not commandeer.
So he eased his death grip on her waist—despite the urge to clutch her tight and never let go—and rather than ravishing her mouth, he played lazily with her lips. Little kisses. A stroke of the tongue too brief to threaten invasion. A nibble here. A nip there.
The storm inside him eased, and languorous pleasure became its own reward. The night and the rambling old house closed around them in soft embrace.
Anthony caught her head between his hands as he pursued his sensual discovery. The full lower lip. The precise cut of her upper lip. The indented corners. He dared a sweep of his tongue along the closed seam, provoking a quick gasp of breath, but didn't press his advantage. He felt like he had all the time in the world to gain a fuller surrender.
The kiss continued in sweet innocence. Although he'd had no claim to innocence since boyhood, and Fenella had known a husband's love. But still her kiss held a delicately untried quality. He recalled with a stab of indefinable emotion that this beautiful woman hadn't had a lover in over five years.
So his touch remained exploratory, rather than insistent, tender rather than passionate. However powerfully passion strained to break free.
"For pity's sake, Anthony, kiss me like you mean it," she gasped.
He gave a brief laugh and ran his lips down her throat, making her shiver. At last she'd called him Anthony—and without him asking. "Don't you like this?"
She made a wordless protest. "You know I do."
He commanded his hands to hold her lightly, despite driving need, as he scraped his teeth along the graceful curve where neck met shoulder. She smelled delicious there. Warm. Womanly. Needy. "So?"
She tugged sharply at his hair. His rose had thorns—he relished that hint of spice under all the sugar. "I'd like it more if you stopped treating me like I might shatter."
"Very well," he said and wrapped his arms around her. A step or two, and she lay flat under him on the chaise longue.
Blue eyes widened with shock. Now she knew exactly how much he wanted her. "Mr. Townsend?"
A wry smile twisted his lips. "I was Anthony last time."
"Perhaps…perhaps we should stand up."
He rose on his elbows. She was so delightfully ruffled and flushed, he couldn't resist another kiss. She spread beneath him like every dream come true. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."
She was clever enough to see the flaw in his offer. "That's no protection."
He frowned faintly. "Fenella, I swear I won't trespass beyond a few kisses. Despite wanting more."
"I knew this was a bad idea," she said shakily, fingers lacing through his hair.
"It doesn't feel like a bad idea."
Except, damn him, it did. If he had any claim to honor, he'd roll off her and exile her to her chaste widow's bed.
But he wasn't averse to taking risks—otherwise he'd still be running an obscure, not particularly profitable shipping firm. And while he was neither lunatic nor hopeful enough to imagine she'd surrender all at the first invitation, he wasn't ready to stop. Even if kissing her was an agonizing combination of delight and frustration.
* * *
This kiss was no longer teasing. It demanded that she counter Anthony's heat with her own. When his tongue traced her lips, Fenella opened in helpless pleasure. He tasted delicious, brandy and desire.
Sensations repressed too long overwhelmed her. Banishing the proper widow, and reviving the young girl, in love with her handsome husband. She'd forgotten what this sweet itch for a man's touch was like.
She remembered now. Dear Lord, how she remembered.
Except this was different. Perhaps five years of denying that ardent girl built this wild release. Or thirty-year-old Fenella was a more complex woman than the innocent who had pledged herself to Henry Deerham.
Whatever the reason, Anthony's kisses stirred a dark tide of response she'd never known. When she plunged eager hands into his thick hair to bring that seeking mouth closer, he released a grunt of surprise. But she was past false modesty or pretend reluctance. For the first time in five years, she had blood in her veins, instead of rivers of cold salt tears.
She tugged at Anthony's neck cloth until his shirt fell open. When her hand found hot, smooth skin, she made a sound of satisfaction. She nipped at his lips, then sucked his tongue into her mouth.
This was like magic. This was like flying. This was like…
Betrayal.
A stifled protest escaped her, and the embrace turned alien and unwelcome. This time, when she caught his shoulders, she didn't mean to caress but to deny. Although surely no man would heed her when only seconds ago, she'd lain in his arms, delirious with rising passion.
To her relief, Anthony shifted away. He stared down at her, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Pleasure softened his rough-hewn features, giving him the look of a sleepy lion. "Fenella?"
Until Anthony—Mr. Townsend—had kissed her, she'd had no idea how desperate she was for a man's touch. Since losing Henry, she'd lived frozen but safe. Now the ice melted forever. She hated to be so weak. So demanding. So pathetic.
Her hands clenched against those broad shoulders and sick with shame, she closed her eyes. His legs remained tangled in her filmy pink skirts and on the narrow chaise longue, she couldn't avoid the massive weight of his arousal.
"Please…let me go."
With a powerful surge, he rose to his feet. "Forgive me."
Shakily she pushed up against the back of the chair. Sliding her feet to the floor didn't help her feel any more grounded. Her heart still raced, her blood simmered, and her lips throbbed from his kisses.
Much as she'd like to blame him for her loss of control, honesty prevailed. "No. I should have stopped you at the door. I've behaved disgracefully. What must you think of me?"
Unexpected humor twisted his lips. "It's not as bad as all that, surely. You haven't murdered anyone, lass."
"I beg your pardon?" she stammered. Part of her wanted to bewail her lapse. Another part wanted to slap him. And one tiny element wanted to cling to that superb form and let his kisses find their natural end.
"No need." His cheerful smile made the urge to clout him paramount. "I had a thoroughly nice time."
She spluttered like an outraged dowager hearing an off-color joke. "I meant I must have misheard what you said."
He laughed and extended his hand. "I know what you meant. But there's no need for all this breast beating."
"I let you touch me."
"And you enjoyed it."
"I know," she said desolately, and without thinking curled her fingers around that capable, callused hand. It was a working man's hand, reminding her again how different he was from her London beaux. But those large, blunt fingers had their own grace—and breathtaking skill on a woman's skin.
"Be a mite kinder to yourself, Fenella. Succumbing to a moment's temptation doesn't consign you to the lowest circle of hell."
She stood on rubbery legs. It took a worrying effort of will to release Anthony's hand. Everything about him was so big and warm. Her deepest instinct was to cuddle up against him and let him protect her from the cold, nasty world. When right now, the greatest threat to everything she'd ever believed about herself was Mr. Anthony Townsend.
Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows) Page 7