’d wager everything I have that the chit knows nothing about any Fenian plots,” Sebastian announced to the Duke of Carlisle as they rendezvoused in a private room of their club the next morning. “She’s smarter than she allows others to realize, but her most pressing concern appears to be ruining herself by any means possible.”
And that means last evening had been first the Earl of Bolton and then himself. For a brief, unwanted instant, he recalled the soft feel of her creamy skin beneath his fingertips. The scent of bergamot would forever be tainted by thoughts of a golden-haired American vixen who’d dared him to kiss her.
Blast.
Carlisle took a sip of his steaming coffee and settled the cup back into its saucer before replying. He was a quiet man, brooding by nature, the sort who observed without ever seeming to participate in the world around him. Now his dark, assessing gaze pinned Sebastian to his seat with the cutthroat precision of a dagger. “Since when have you taken to wagering anything, Trent? I didn’t know you to be a gambling man.”
He fought the urge to shift into a more comfortable position. With images of Miss Daisy Vanreid flitting through the corruptible corner of his mind, his trousers had grown deuced tight. “Merely a figure of speech, Carlisle.”
The duke continued his practice of inwardly dissecting the person he engaged in dialogue with. He’d developed a method of studying tone, body language, words, and mannerisms that had half their brothers in arms believing him a mind reader. Sebastian had never found himself on the receiving end of the treatment before, and he had to admit he damn well didn’t like it.
“I dislike figures of speech,” Carlisle said at last. “They have a way of rendering precisely what one intends to say so bloody imprecise. Tell me, what did you learn from her at the Beresford monstrosity?”
He took great care to remain still and keep his expression blank, for as much as he trusted Carlisle and had worked directly beneath him for the past five years, something about the bent of this interview sent misgiving down his spine like a chill. “Nothing of import.”
“Nothing?” Carlisle raised an imperious brow. “I understand you followed her to a chamber during the ball. The two of you remained in the chamber together for eight minutes. Surely a great deal can be said during such a generous span of time.”
The misgiving blossomed in his chest, tight and heavy. Jesus, was he suspect? He hadn’t been compromised. There was no damn reason for Carlisle to have a man following him. “You had someone watching me last night?”
“You know our credo, Trent.” Carlisle’s tone was calm, offhand, as though he described something as inane as a recent visit to the opera. That too was his gift, never allowing anyone to see beneath the masks he presented to the world. “Eyes and ears everywhere.”
Of course he knew the goddamn credo, but he’d believed he was the ears and the eyes. He stiffened before he could check himself. “Ears and eyes on your own men? For what purpose?”
“Only a fool trusts blindly,” Carlisle quipped. “Eight minutes, Trent. Did you spend them wisely?”
No, damn it, he had not. He had lost his footing for a moment—for the first moment in as long as he could recall—and he’d been struck by Miss Vanreid’s undeniable beauty. Not to mention her boldness.
Perhaps you would like a turn.
He still couldn’t believe the minx had uttered those provocative words to him. She’d shocked him. Worse, he had wanted to do as she invited. To kiss that full, pink mouth of hers, yank down her bodice completely to reveal the bounty of her breasts and discover whether or not her nipples matched.
His mouth was drier than an old, worn shoe. But he wouldn’t show his weakness to Carlisle. Not today. Not after discovering he’d been followed. “I learned that Miss Vanreid is exactly as I’ve suspected over the month I’ve been observing her. She is beautiful, clever, and manipulative. She… seems to have little concern for her reputation. I inquired whether or not she had a beau at home in New York as you requested, but she refused to answer one way or the other.”
Carlisle nodded as though none of the information came as a surprise to him. “I imagine she turned her wiles upon you, Trent.”
Hellfire. It took all of his years of training to suppress the heat that wanted to rise to his cheekbones. “I requested this meeting so that I could be relieved of my duties in regards to Miss Vanreid. Nothing I have uncovered over the last month has led me to believe she has any knowledge of dynamite production, Fenianism, or any plans to otherwise aid in the setting of bombs throughout London, to say the least of what happened in Salford. I respectfully request reassignment, as I can think of innumerable ways to better utilize my time and talents than chasing after an American minx as she flirts her way through the ton.”
Carlisle was silent for far too long, sipping his coffee as if he hadn’t a care. The only sounds in the room were caused by his cup tinkling back into its saucer. At last, he deigned to speak again. “I beg to disagree. Have you forgotten just who the girl’s father is?”
Of course he hadn’t. James Vanreid was well-known to the League, his entanglement with Fenians in New York undeniable. Though his father had been Dutch, his mother had been an Irish immigrant, and Vanreid had not forsaken his roots. He was sinfully wealthy, having amassed a fortune as a shipping magnate, and presided over no fewer than a dozen thriving factories. One of those happened to be an armament factory. And an inordinate number of illegal Vanreid firearms had recently been circulating in London. Vanreid had strong ties to the most aggressive of the Fenians in America, he had ships, he had an endless well of funds from which to draw, all beneath the guise of his various business holdings, and he was, simply put, a grave danger to England.
Sebastian had known all of those facts the first time his eyes had lit on Daisy Vanreid amidst a ballroom crush. But like the many men who hovered about her, drawn by the blinding combination of her sultry beauty and her fortune, he hadn’t cared. For the first time in his years with the League, his assignment had been to gather intelligence on a woman as harmless as a reticule. He’d been drawn to her first, irritated second, and confounded by his inconvenient attraction to her last.
All that aside, he had been watching Daisy Vanreid closely. And he was a damn good spy. He wasn’t about to allow Carlisle to run roughshod over him. His instincts were rarely wrong. Coupled with the fact that his observation of her had produced the same results as he would’ve anticipated had he been monitoring any other debutante, Carlisle’s insistence that Daisy Vanreid was some sort of secret menace was ludicrous.
“I know bloody well who her father is,” he gritted. “I also know that she eats eggs, poached with hollandaise for breakfast, she can’t abide by strawberries, she prefers chocolate over tea, she receives callers from one o’clock to three o’clock in the afternoon, she reads as if it’s her occupation, and that she enjoys courting scandal. Her aunt is meant to chaperone her, but the old biddy gets soused instead, and Miss Vanreid leads her suitors on a merry dance while good old Aunt Caro is snoring into her bosom or having a go at a randy rake in a dark alcove.”
He paused, attempting to rein in the anger that had begun to burn within him as he spoke before silencing his superior with a raised hand and continuing in his diatribe. “Jesus, do you hear how ridiculous this sounds, Carlisle? Do any of those insignificant details seem important, by God? Our nation’s security is at risk, and I’m chasing a vixen about ballrooms and running intelligence through her bloody chambermaids so I know which ball to attend. I feel like a lad in leading strings playing at being a spy with his younger brother.”
Carlisle raised an imperious brow. “Have you finished with your little tantrum, Trent?”
Tantrum. Bloody hell, Sebastian longed to smash his fist into the perfection of Carlisle’s long, aquiline nose. “I’m not having a goddamn tantrum. I am informing you that this nonsensical assignment must come to an end. Daisy Vanreid is as dangerous as an elderly governess, and I’m tired of trailing her about like a bloody spaniel.”
“She’s incredibly valuable to our cause.” Carlisle slammed his fist down. Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup, the delicate china clinking in protest. “She’s the daughter of the man responsible for financing the Fenians in New York, a daughter who is undoubtedly privy to all manner of information that could prove useful for us to possess. Keeping close to her keeps us close to Vanreid. The more we know about Vanreid, the better we’re prepared to dismantle his web and prevent him from harming anyone on our watch. We need to do everything—bloody well anything—we can to uncover the identities of the dynamitards hiding in our midst. If we do nothing, more will come, and we’ll be bloody well inundated. They’ll stop at nothing until they see England brought low.”
“I understand the importance of the task at hand,” Sebastian snapped. “I merely question the wisdom of wasting so much time and resources upon one bloody female.”
“The Home Office believes she has strong ties to the Fenians herself.”
“Ties to the Fenians?” He couldn’t contain his cynicism. Daisy Vanreid, a luscious heiress whose greatest concern was which ball gown to wear and what gentleman she ought to kiss? Who flitted about society like an exotic butterfly that made every man in London want to catch her and make her his? It hardly seemed likely. Indeed, it seemed laughable. Unbelievable.
The information the Home Office had received from their American contacts was ballocks.
Carlisle gave a short nod, warming to his cause. “Miss Vanreid was betrothed to a Mr. Padraig McGuire in New York. The engagement didn’t last long for reasons that remain unclear. However, what is clear is that Padraig McGuire is a vocal Fenian and a known member of the Emerald Club. He’s also Vanreid’s right hand. McGuire is believed to be the lead man for the Fenian skirmishing fund, which supports their bloody endeavors along with Vanreid’s purse.”
Sebastian had heard whispers about McGuire from his sources in America as well. Knowing she’d been engaged to the bastard certainly did make her a bit more intriguing, but hardly enough to justify his continued trailing of her. “You believe he’s raising money to facilitate the manufacturing of dynamite?”
“I know it. Over the last few weeks, he’s been engaged in a public speaking tour to win financial support for his cause. Given the reports of cheering throngs greeting him, it seems only a matter of time before things escalate. The intelligence coming to us from America is quite dire. The Fenians and their sympathizers grow stronger, larger, and more determined by the day. You know as well as I that the consequences promise to be deadly, Trent. An innocent boy has died at the hands of these monsters.”
All the heat that had been building within his body since his encounter with Daisy Vanreid the previous evening suddenly fled. He was left with the aching, cold chill of winter. The kind of cold a man felt in his bones.
Irish-American groups had been calling for Irish home rule by any means for years. But recently, their call had grown ever more vicious. Increasingly, they sought to achieve their goal by the use of violence, waging a campaign of fear, destruction, and death, with dynamite as its chief weapon.
Three months earlier, Salford had seen the first demonstration of the Fenians’ deadly capabilities when a bomb exploded at the armory there. A lad who’d had the misfortune to be walking by at the time of detonation had been killed.
If Miss Vanreid had been betrothed to a man bearing leadership positions in a known Fenian organization, it was nearly impossible for her to be ignorant of the plans being put into motion. England’s network of spies in America had made it clear that a bomb detonation within London was imminent.
Sebastian and his fellow operatives on the ground on their native soil were doing everything within their power to see that such an atrocity never became a reality. London was a great deal more populated and vulnerable to blows than Salford. The casualties would be far greater than one boy, though that lone boy had been one casualty too many.
He took a breath to digest the information his superior had just revealed. Of course, it was Carlisle’s way to only give him a grain of fact in an ever-changing sea of truths. He’d been told Miss Vanreid had suspected knowledge of the dynamite campaign originating from the Fenians in America. And so he had watched her flirt and kiss her way through every ball, musical, and supper thrown for the last month, trailing after her like a man wearing a blindfold.
Could it be that she was even wilier than he’d imagined? And had everything between them last night been an act? An attempt to distract him from his course? An attempt to glean information from him?
What was it she had said to him in her bold, stubborn way? Ah, yes. Foxes don’t frighten me. They never have. He was beginning to get a different picture of Miss Daisy Vanreid, and he didn’t like it. Not one bloody bit. For it seemed that perhaps she was the fox after all, or at the least the mistress of one.
With grim determination, he clenched his jaw and faced Carlisle. “What would you have me do?”
Carlisle paused in the act of raising his cup for another fortifying sip of coffee. “I’m afraid the answer to that question isn’t one you’re prepared to hear.”
The misgiving spreading through him turned into grim foreboding. In the name of Crown and country, he’d been stabbed, shot, and almost burned to death. What could possibly be worse?
“What is it, Carlisle?” he demanded. “It could hardly be more difficult than anything I’ve endured while under your command.”
The duke settled his cup back into its saucer without taking a sip, and for the first time in Sebastian’s acquaintance with him, revealed a tell. He grimaced.
“You must marry the girl,” Carlisle announced.
And Sebastian realized that he’d been wrong to think nothing could be worse than the dangers he’d faced and the risks he’d taken thus far. For marrying Miss Daisy Vanreid was surely the worst fate he could imagine.
There was devotion to one’s country, and then there was sheer stupidity.
“No,” he denied vehemently. “I won’t do it.”
“No,” Daisy said. “I won’t do it.”
Aunt Caroline took longer than necessary to react to Daisy’s outburst. No doubt, the delay had something to do with the four glasses of wine she’d consumed over the course of their host’s elegant dinner. “But Daisy, if Lord Breckly requests it, you must dance with him. He’s reached a tacit agreement with your father for your hand. It wouldn’t do to rebuff your future husband in so public a manner.”
The thought of any agreement involving her hand—let alone the rest of her—and Viscount Breckly was an abomination. It made an unpleasant, ill sensation wash through her stomach. The heated crush of the ballroom didn’t help the situation. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin prickly. A roaring sound rushed to her ears.
Four days remained until her father’s arrival.
She’d gone from desperate to frantic. And she’d decided that tonight at the Darlington ball, she’d have to find a replacement groom. Anyone would do. Dancing with Breckly most assuredly did not fit into her plans of thwarting her impending nuptials with the wretch.
Panicked. That was the proper word to describe her current condition.
Four days, drat it all.
“Aunt Caroline, he smells of hair grease and soiled linen. I won’t be able to bear it in this heat,” she said truthfully. “I feel ill just thinking of it now. There is also the matter of what occurred in the drawing room.”
Her father’s sister frowned at her, but the overall effect was somewhat diminished by a rather indiscreet hiccup. “Oh dear. I’m afraid fish always tends to affect me in such a monstrous way. But that is neither here nor there. It wouldn’t be seemly for you to deny him, and that is that. Your father has a high opinion of the viscount, and if you don’t make this match, he’ll have my hide. I’m sure his lordship was overcome by your beauty, as all men are. You play with them, Daisy, make them into beasts.”
Of course Aunt Caroline would blame the incident on Daisy, Aunt Caroline being cut from the same bolt of cloth as Father. Her marriage into an old blood Knickerbocker family in New York, the years she’d spent abroad, and the fact that she agreed with him in all things had made her Father’s clear choice in chaperone.
“Would it be seemly for me to lose my dinner all over Lord Breckly?” Daisy inquired with sham politeness.
A bejeweled matron swept past them, angling a look of ill-disguised disapproval in their direction. Daisy was accustomed to thinly veiled contempt. It wasn’t easy being an American girl who didn’t fit into the mold of fine English womanhood. Having a wealthy tradesman father who was half Irish and an aunt who liked to tipple didn’t exactly lend to being the belle of any ball. If she hadn’t her wits and her father’s wealth, she wouldn’t have dredged up any suitors at all.
“Hush,” Aunt Caroline directed before issuing another hiccup. “You mustn’t ever speak your mind, Daisy, and certainly not in a ballroom, of all places. Someone could overhear.”
Daisy didn’t particularly care if anyone did overhear. How better to advertise that she was available, ready for ruining? Her dowry was worth a small fortune. Surely some impoverished aristocrat would oblige her by rescuing her from the awful fate that awaited?
She fanned herself, wondering if her face was as shiny as it felt. Of course she had left her pearl powder at home tonight. “Aunt Caroline, do forgive me. It’s merely that I’m overheated in this crush of people. I think I need to step outside for a breath of air.”
“Outside?” Her aunt’s eyes narrowed with a prescient doubt.
“Before I faint,” Daisy added for good measure. She felt not a speck of guilt for leading Aunt Caroline down the garden path, for she was as determined as Daisy’s father to see her sold off to Breckly. “I would hate to cause a scene. Would you mind holding my champagne?”
Aunt Caroline’s slitted gaze fell upon the champagne flute. “Very well then, but don’t linger. And do not venture far. No good comes of young ladies flitting about in the dark.”
Daisy pressed her glass into her aunt’s outstretched hand, completely aware that the glass would be empty upon her return. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Aunt.”
With that, she took her leave of Aunt Caroline who, if past actions were to be an indication of future, would likely indulge in her champagne and spend the next few hours forgetting she had a niece at all. Which was just as well, for Daisy had to find an unsuspecting bachelor as expediently as possible.
She took great care to make her way through the revelers and toward the exit as she’d said she would, lest her aunt watched. In just a few minutes, Aunt Caroline ought to be sufficiently distracted and Daisy could re-enter the ballroom to assess her prey.
As she went, her eyes surveyed the room. The time for flirting and kissing was at an end. She needed to snare herself a husband by any means possible. The only means she could imagine that would force her father to acquiesce to a match other than the one he’d chosen was to ruin herself.
Yes, tonight, she would need to create quite a scandal. A scandal that destroyed her reputation and left her with no recourse except marriage to someone other than Viscount Breckly.
As she studied the gentlemen in attendance, her eyes collided with a familiar gaze. The effect was so stunning that she stopped where she was. Awareness sparked between them in live electrical wire fashion. The breath seemed to freeze in her lungs, and unwanted heat sluiced through her from head to toe, bathing her in a warmth that had nothing to do with the sultriness of the air and everything to do with the man watching her.
The Duke of Trent.
How was it possible that he was even more handsome tonight than the last time she’d seen him? Inexplicably, she recalled the sensation of his large hand, hot and heavy, pressed over her heart, directly to her bare skin. Had he followed her again tonight? Why did he watch her now, unflinching, his expression intense and unreadable? Hadn’t she told him to go play Galahad with someone else?
Yet somehow, here he was, separated from her by a scant few feet and some lords and ladies in between. Looking at her as though he could see inside her, straight to the heart of her. She never wanted to be gazed upon in any other way for the rest of her life. He made her feel as though her entire body was a string pulled taut, waiting for the loving caress of a bow.
Some wicked part of her thought that if she must entrap any man, surely there was no harm in selecting a man as beautiful as he to be her dupe. A man who could make wanton thoughts consume her before a crowded ballroom of people as she stood there in her silk and diamonds.
Yes, let it be him.
At last, she severed the contact, turning to continue her retreat from the ballroom and its noisy crush. She felt his stare on her back like a touch, stinging her shoulder blades. Daisy fanned herself as she stepped into the calming night. It was unseasonably warm for late February, and several others slowly promenaded about the main terrace.
She skirted the perimeter and stole away into the shadows, farther from the din of the ball and prying eyes, farther away from reason and sanity, and deeper into unfamiliar, dangerous territory. For if she intended to carry out her plan to the fullest, she would require privacy.
She stopped when she reached a statue that loomed over her, tall and eerie in the silvery night. Zeus perhaps? In the darkness, she couldn’t be sure. She was far enough that she could no longer hear the conversations of the guests on the terrace. Far enough for what she intended.
A pang of guilt struck her then, for entrapping any man into marriage, let alone the insufferable duke, was the last thing she wanted to do. But when her only other option was accepting the grim fate her father had selected for her, she knew what she needed to do.
Save herself.
“I confess, I’m quite curious to hear why you have such a peculiar fondness for disappearing at balls, Miss Vanreid.”
The voice, low and clipped in perfect born-in-the-purple English, sent a fresh wave of longing through her. She knew without bothering to turn that it was him. How neatly he’d fallen into her trap.
She searched for the bravado that seemed to have suddenly fled her as she slowly spun about. He stood a scant few steps away, gorgeous even in the dim light. Daisy offered him a full, perfect curtsy, for she could behave whenever the need arose. It was simply that she didn’t prefer to behave, having spent her life forced into doing it. “Your Grace. You seem to have a similar, peculiar fondness for following me at balls. Perhaps I too should inquire as to the reason?”
“Inquire all you like, darling.”
There was something about the way he uttered the term of endearment that made the otherwise ordinary word “darling” into a caress that she felt all over her body. Especially in her belly and… lower.
She could play the role of flirt quite well by now, but he had a patent way of disarming her, throwing her off-kilter. Daisy took a step toward him, willing herself to keep her goal foremost in her mind. The urge to trade wits and verbally spar with him was strong. But clashing with the Duke of Trent would not compromise her, and so she needed to resort to different tactics.
“If I ask, will you answer?” She took another step until she was near enough that she could smell him, and his scent began a steady ache deep within her. A need for something she didn’t understand.
He still hadn’t moved, his large body illuminated by the moon’s sheen. “That depends.”
Another step. “Upon?”
“Upon whether or not I’m to expect one of your suitors.”
She smiled despite herself, enjoying this game, and unable to resist baiting him after all. “Do you refer to the Earl of Bolton? Or perhaps to Wilford? Prestley? Tell me, Your Grace, do you keep a ledger of them all?”
“I doubt any ledger of mine would contain enough pages.” His tone was grim.
She flinched at the insult, but forced herself to take another step. She’d earned her reputation after all, even if it was in the name of a good cause: her own rescue. Little space separated them at all now, and in spite of his singular lack of charm, she was still determined to win her escape from Lord Breckly’s officious clutches.
“One must wonder, Your Grace, why you followed me at all if your opinion of me is so poor,” she said then, careful to keep her tone flippant and unaffected.
At long last, he moved, and with a lightning quickness that took her by surprise as he brought their bodies flush together. His hands settled on her waist when she would’ve lost her footing, anchoring her to him. Her breasts pressed to his chest. His breath coasted over her lips.
“I never said my opinion of you was poor, Miss Vanreid,” he said slowly. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”
“Forgive me if I doubt that.” The breathlessness of her own voice alarmed her.
Indecision threatened her suddenly, making her feel skittish. In the darkness, the duke was a force of nature, tall and large and potent. She couldn’t shake the odd notion that beneath his polished exterior lay a feral beast, waiting to lunge. To claim.
There was more, far more, to the Duke of Trent than she had ever supposed. But she could sense it now, in the heat and strength of him, in the barely leashed savagery of the way he’d so neatly caught her in his trap.
And all this time, she’d been fancying she’d trapped him. It suddenly seemed quite the opposite. But she wasn’t frightened. Rather, he intrigued her.
“I’ve decided I want my turn,” he said.
She blinked, wishing she could better see his expression through the darkness. Wishing she could read him, but the man had her at a complete loss. “I’m sorry, Your Grace?”
“You asked me before if I wanted a turn.” His hand traveled from her waist to cup her jaw with a tenderness that belied the strength radiating from him. The unexpected gentleness shook her. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, sending a rush of sensation through her frenzied body.
Ah yes, so she had, foolishly upon their last meeting. But she had meant to taunt him, to wring from him the truth of why he had seemed to dog her every move through society. It could have all been coincidence, of course. Anyone else—anyone whose mind didn’t operate the way Daisy’s did—would have likely never taken note. Would have never wondered. Would never have been suspicious. Dear Lord, not of a peer of the realm, and a duke at that.
But Daisy wasn’t anyone else. She was herself, and she knew herself well enough to know that she was something of an oddity. She didn’t seem to fit in with anyone anywhere, though her father had done an admirable job of attempting to force her into any number of roles that suited him. Thus far, she had dodged them all, and she didn’t intend for that to change four days from now.
Which brought her back to her plan. Her necessity.
She needed the Duke of Trent to compromise her. Tonight.
She took a deep, steadying breath and exhaled over the thumb that continued its slow exploration of her lip. “So take your turn then, Your Grace. Take it now.”
He made a deep sound in his throat, and she couldn’t tell if it was a growl or a hum of satisfaction. “I believe I will.”
In the next breath, his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding as she had imagined it would be. Daisy had been kissed many times before, but never the way the duke kissed her. His lips angled over hers, fitting perfectly, with a voracious hunger. This kiss claimed. It sent a flurry of something foreign washing over her, something that was part languor, part need.
She caught his broad shoulders, clutching him to her as he ravaged her mouth, feeling the powerful muscles hidden beneath his evening finery. His tongue swept the seam of her lips, seeking entry, and she opened without hesitation. Nothing about the way the Duke of Trent affected her was feigned or forced. There was something indefinable—something primitive and raw—within him that called to her. That told her she was where she belonged.
In his arms.
Yes, if she had to marry any man, please Lord let it be a man who kissed the way the duke did. Who smelled the way the duke did. Who looked and felt as he did. Let it simply be him.
Only him.
His mouth left hers to trail a path of fire down her throat, lingering over the sensitive hollow beneath her ear. Who had known such a place would not only long to be kissed but that his lips grazing her there would send a pulsing ache of pleasure to her core? And then he licked her, his tongue darting out to tease her flesh, to taste her. To drive her mad.
A mewling sound tore from her. She wanted more, even though she didn’t know what more was. He caught her earlobe in his teeth and tugged, tongued the whorl of her ear. His breath was hot and decadent upon her as he moved his mouth lower still, to her collarbone, and from there downward to her décolletage.
He kissed over the swell of her breast, and she knew a poignant longing. How she wished for him to be unrestrained by her gown and corset, to be free to move his lovely mouth over every inch of her body. Especially to the aching tips of her breasts that had begun tingling in a most alarming fashion.
She wondered fuzzily why no man before him had ever taken such a liberty, and then she was instantly glad they had not. For she couldn’t imagine enjoying this wickedness with anyone save him. She felt that she was made for him.
And then, he snagged the delicate tulle of her sleeve and tugged. The sound of fabric rending split the night, sending a rush of cold air over her. She stiffened in his arms, training so ingrained in her that despite seeking her complete compromise tonight, she nearly pushed him away. A torn bodice was the ultimate hallmark of sin. What could he be thinking? Daisy could not face her aunt or return to the ballroom with a ball gown that had been damaged.
Perhaps he had lost his head, for he seemed undeterred by the spoiling he’d just done, continuing to kiss his way across the bare expanse of her bosom. An odd calm settled over her then, a calm she hadn’t felt in as long as she could recall.
She was ruined.
And it felt, in a word, divine.
Overcome by the urge, she ran her fingers through his thick, soft hair and then pressed an impulsive kiss to his crown. Even his hair smelled good. He stilled in his exploration, his lips still pressed to her skin.
Had she gone too far? Had he realized how far he, in turn, had gone? She’d never know, for he gave a quick, strong yank, and everything—her bodice, corset, and chemise—went down with it. Her breasts were bared, on full display in the moonlight.
Daisy, wicked girl that she was, forgot that she had only meant to allow things to reach a certain point before demurely demanding he return her to her aunt along with a marriage proposal. She forgot that they stood not far removed from a ballroom full of people. Forgot that she had no business guiding the duke’s kisses lower, to the place she wanted them the most.
Because in the next instant, he took her into his mouth.
And in the next instant, she heard the shocked exclamation of none other than Aunt Caroline, who stood in the moonlight, gawping at them with a stranger by her side.