To Taste Temptation (Legend of the Four Soldiers #1)(40)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

As they walked over the downs, he paced his longer strides to hers, and they soon left the picnickers behind. Now that he had his way and they were strolling together, she’d expected him to immediately start a conversation, but instead he was silent. She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. He had a slight frown on his face as he watched the path. What was he thinking? And why in the world should she care?

She huffed out a breath of air and turned her own eyes forward again. It was a beautiful day, after all. Why let a surly companion spoil—

“Who’s that young man talking to Rebecca and the other girls?” Samuel’s voice cut into her thoughts.

And how silly to feel a twinge of disappointment that he’d begun the conversation with his sister. Had he forgotten all about the kiss he’d given her the week before? Perhaps he had. Well, then, so would she. “Which one?”

Samuel waved a hand impatiently. “The one with the idiot laugh.”

She smiled. Unfortunately, that described the young man rather too well. “Mr. Theodore Green. He has a very nice annual income and an estate in Oxford.”

“Do you know anything else about him?”

She shrugged, feeling contrary. “What else is there to know? I don’t believe he gambles.”

He glanced at her with something like disappointment in his eyes. “Is that the only way in which you judge a man? His income?”

“And rank, of course,” she drawled.

“Of course.”

“He’s the nephew of a baron. A very nice catch for Rebecca, if she can overlook the idiot laugh,” she said as if considering. Something seemed to drive her to provoke this man. “Really, I don’t think we can aim any higher for her. Your colonial money will only buy her into a certain level of society and no further. I’m afraid your family can be of no consequence in the matter.”

His lip curled. “You aren’t as shallow as you pretend.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” She was glad she faced forward, for she wasn’t sure she could control her expression. The wind picked up the hem of her skirts playfully, and she batted them down.

“All this talk of money and rank. As if that was all that made a man.”

“We are discussing your sister and prospective husbands, are we not? How would you have me judge a gentleman?”

“Character, intellect, kindness to others,” he listed rapidly. His tone was low and intense. They’d crested a little hill, and golden fields demarcated by hedges and low stone walls lay before them. “How he fulfills his duty and looks after those who depend on him. There are any number of points I’d place above income in a man I would wish Rebecca to marry.”

Emeline pursed her lips. “So, then, if I found a kind, intelligent beggar in the street, you would immediately want to draw up a marriage contract?”

“Don’t pretend to be obtuse.” His arm was hard as rock under her fingers. “It doesn’t become you, and you know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Do I?” She gave a short laugh. “I beg your pardon, but perhaps I am obtuse. Here in England, we like to marry our daughters and sisters to gentlemen who can properly keep them—”

“Even if the man is a rakehell or a half-wit or—”

“Yes!” He was striding so fast now that she had to skip to keep up. “We think only of money and rank because we’re such greedy wretches. Why, if I could find an earl with twenty thousand a year, I’d marry him even if he were riddled with disease and senile to boot!”

He stopped short and grabbed her by the upper arms, which was just as well, as she would’ve fallen otherwise. When she looked up into his face, she knew that she ought to be afraid. He was pale with rage, his mouth twisted in a sneer. Fear, however, was the last thing she felt.

“Cat,” he hissed at her, and then he lifted her nearly off her feet to bring her mouth to his.

The word kiss did not adequately describe their embrace. His mouth ground down on hers, forcing her lips apart, forcing her to accept his tongue. And she gloried in it. She met his rage with her own fury. She gripped at his shoulders and dug her fingernails into the fabric of his coat. Had she access to his bare skin, she would’ve scored him, marked him with her despair and been glad. She was panting, almost crying, her mouth working under his, their teeth scraping against each other inelegantly. There was no finesse, no pretty caress in their kiss. This was a display of lust and anger.

She could smell his skin. He wore no powder or pomades or perfume, it was purely him, and she was driven mad by his scent. She wanted to tear the coat from his shoulders, rip off his shirt and neckcloth and bury her nose in his naked neck. The desire was animalistic and nearly out of control and that was what finally made her stop. She pulled her head back and saw that he watched her almost analytically. His eyes were far more calm than she felt.

Damn him! How dare he not be as affected as she?

He must’ve seen the anger in her eyes. His mouth curved, though not into a smile. “You do it apurpose.”

“What?” she gasped in real confusion.

He studied her face. “You argue with me, enrage me, until I can’t stand it anymore and kiss you.”

“You say that as if I plan to make you kiss me.” She pulled at his grip, but he wouldn’t let her go.

“Don’t you?”

“Of course not.”

“I think you do,” he whispered. “I think you feel you can only accept my touch when it is forced upon you.”

“That’s not true!”

“Then prove it,” he murmured as his head lowered to hers again. “Sheath your claws and kiss me.”

He brushed his lips softly over hers, a caress that was almost reverent. She gasped, parting her lips, and he kissed her openmouthed. Lushly. Sweetly. She could drown in a kiss like this; it was much more dangerous than their near-violent sparring of before. This kiss spoke of yearning, of need. She shook at the possibility that this man could want her so much. And that she wanted him in return. She knew she shouldn’t, but she pressed her mouth back at his. She kissed Samuel, all her hopeless yearning caught in the whisper of breath between them. If only she—

He suddenly raised his head, and she opened her eyes dazedly, missing his mouth.

He was looking over her shoulder. “The footmen Lady Hasselthorpe sent back are about to join us. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Her hands were trembling, but she buried them in her skirts and turned, pasting a bored expression on her face. The footmen were indeed trudging up the little hill, carrying a basket of wine bottles between them. They didn’t look particularly interested, so perhaps the footmen had missed their explosive embrace.