He did. God help him, Toby wanted nothing more than to try all of her—every sinuous curve and delightfully wicked twist. But he would settle for the wicked twist of her lips that put that devious dimple in the middle of her cheek.

He kissed her the way a man kisses a woman he wants beyond distraction—with heat and perhaps a little anger. But he was angry—angry that she tempted him so. Angry that he couldn’t stop himself from wanting her just the same. Angry that she kissed him like he’d never been kissed before—as if she knew she was the most precious jewel he would ever hold in his hands.

But they were in too public a place. Anyone might come by—her mother, her step-brother Arthur, her step-father the viscount. “Come,” he whispered against her lips, and she came willingly, grasping the hand her offered her to lead her down a corridor to the first door that gave out into the courtyard, where the winter wind lashed against her bare arms.

Toby immediately turned back, determined to find someplace indoors.

“No.” Despite the cold, she was just as determined. “I think I know a spot.”

She led him at a run to the carriage house, which was well-lit on the alley side, with braziers put out to warm the gathered coachmen as they waited for their charges within the house.

But Caledonia Bowmont was as clever as she was beautiful, steering them toward the back of the carriage house, where the Meecham town coach was put up tight and snug. And best of all, dark and inviting.

She clambered in and immediately pulled out a thick, fur-lined rug. “This will keep us warm.”

“No,” he contradicted even as he wrapped the dark sable around her shoulders. “I’ll keep you warm.”

He drew her close to kiss her, so close she was almost in his lap. And then she was in his lap, with her arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, kissing him as if it were the rightest and best thing in the world. As if they had always meant to meet in a dark, velvet-lined carriage. As if he had always dreamed of kissing her wrapped in fur and delight.

She smelled of sweet orange blossom—sunshine in the dark of winter—and she tasted of wicked desire and sparkling champagne. Of brightness and light. Of happiness. Of possibility.

That was her allure—that was her danger.

Because she made him think of impossible things.

She made him hope.

She pressed herself to him, all heat and happy ardor. Everything within him, every nerve, every fiber of his being was attuned to her enthusiasm. And her urgency—she slid her hands along the line of his jaw to tip his head more to her liking.

No docile, sighing miss, she. She was all direct appreciation, murmuring approvingly as she took his lips delicately between her teeth, and bit down just firmly enough that she could be in no doubt of his state of arousal.

She was not in any doubt. “I’m flattered,” she whispered into his ear, before her hand found him, hard and wanting, while she kissed her way down his neck, leaving a scorched wake.

He wanted to say something arch and suggestive. He wanted to give her as good as he got, but already he was having trouble thinking enough to speak.

So he abandoned all pretense of thought and reason and gave in to the decadent hedonism sliding under his skin like quickfire—he set his hands to her bodice, reaching around to find her buttons before he pushed the gauzy sleeves off her shoulders to bare the top of her stays. His mouth was on her skin above the line of her shift, and she was arching her head back to grant him access, murmuring her approval.

Toby was happy to oblige—kissing and pushing away fabric, layer by layer, working her sleeves down far enough that he could assay the laces on her stays, and free her breasts to tease the honeyed tips with his tongue.

And set her pearls loose to fall into his hands.

But he was interested in pearls of a different type—he placed the necklace in her cupped hand, saying only, “Keep track of these,” before he returned to his leisurely perusal of her beautiful breasts.

Devil help him, but she was exquisite—her skin painted golden by the spill of warm lamplight cutting through the chill.

Her breath came in exuberant, visible gasps and appreciative pants. Within the confines of the carriage, the temperature was warming apace—enough for him to shuck the tight restriction of his evening coat and wrap it around her back. She took the moment to tangle her hands through his hair, urging him to her breasts to suck and tongue her over and over, moving from one tightly furled peak to the other, lavishing his attention upon her in the most intimate way.

“And you,” she said, and immediately went at the buttons of his waistcoat before she made short work of his cravat.

For the moment he couldn’t kiss, so he spoke. “We’re going to need a maid and valet to make us even reasonably presentable enough to return—”

“I don’t care.” She stripped the cravat from his neck and flung it away. “I have no intention of going back.”

That she meant every word of her declaration was evident in her haste to bare him as he had bared her, pushing his waistcoat off his shoulders, and opening the neck of his shirt. Tasting him as he had tasted her, setting her lips skimming across his chest, nipping and kissing from the hollow of his throat down. Setting his blood roaring in his veins.

“Your husband was a lucky man,” he said before he thought better of it.

She stilled for only the smallest fraction of a moment. “He was. And I was a lucky woman. But he’s not here anymore. And you are. So do shut up and kiss me.”

He did so, and then he let her go, picking her up and pressing her into the seat opposite. “I’ll do you better than merely kiss.”

He left her there, leaning back against the upholstery, bared to the waist and watching impatiently while he began to divest himself of unneeded clothing.

Toby stripped his shirt over his head and tossed it into her lap. “Hold on to that for me, will you,” he whispered as he reached down and raised her legs to either side of him, resting on the opposite seat. “Because you’re going to want to hold on to something.”