Free Lord of the Rakes by Darcie Wilde Page A

bare inch from her skirt. She would stroke her naked hand up his thigh, until . . . until . . .
    “I thought it would be simple,” she murmured.
    “So many think seduction is an easy matter. But like other arts, it requires a certain amount of practice.”
    “One hears, however, that gentlemen are extremely susceptible.”
    “We are, extremely susceptible. But now you look worried again. You have a little crease. Here.” Philip laid one fingertip at the corner of her brow.
    Unreasoning vanity flashed through her. “I do not. You are making excuses to touch me.”
    “Why, so I am, Caroline. Do you want me to stop?”
    She could have made any of a dozen tart replies at this impertinence, and under other circumstances she might have. Despite the attempts by her male relations to isolate her, Caroline had dealt with rude gentlemen who fancied themselves the second coming of Casanova before. But the effect produced by Philip’s attentions was nothing at all like that created by their sly glances and oily words. They made her long to flee to some other country. Philip drew her closer with each bold glance.
    “No,” she breathed. “I would like to continue as we are.”
    “Then we will.” He drew his fingertip down her temple to rest against the soft place behind her jaw. “We can talk and you can tell me what was it you had planned for me. Had we not been interrupted by Miss Georgiana and her unfortunate paramour, what would you have done?”
    “I can’t remember what I was thinking.” She could hardly remember to breathe anymore. Philip’s fingertip traveled down her throat, across her naked shoulder, to the edge of her silken sleeve. There, his hand paused, but his eyes continued on to the swell of her breast where it was revealed by her gown’s daring neckline.
    “Let us see if I can help you recall it,” said Philip. “You sent your note. You made sure I had received it. You descended the stairs. Did you know I followed?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did you feel then?” His fingers traced their way down her sleeve. She had been so proud of those sleeves, with their new, fashionable cut, and the generous amount of fabric used in their construction. They had quite altered her old-fashioned gown. Now she hated everything about them, because they were yet another barrier between his hand and her skin.
    “Were you afraid?” Philip’s question might have been meant to tease, but his face remained entirely serious.
    “No,” she answered. His fingers reached the edge of her glove, just below her elbow. She was all confusion about how to respond. Should she touch him? Where? How? She had not thought this far ahead, and she could barely think at all now. Her awareness was entirely focused on the place his fingers lingered. There was none left for decisions. “It was as if . . . as if . . .”
    “Tell me.” Philip fingered the pearl buttons that decorated her glove, as if considering how such devices functioned, and how long it would take to undo them. There were so many. Far, far too many.
    “It was as if I already felt you behind me. I wanted to look back, but I didn’t dare. I wanted . . .”
    “What did you want?”
    “I wanted you to be close. I wanted to take your hand, and bring you with me.”
    “Into the dark?”
    “Yes,” she agreed. She would have agreed to anything, especially if it would make him smile at her again.
    “What then?”
    “I would have turned toward you. I would have stepped into your embrace.” She imagined his arms folding around her, simply and naturally. She imagined him pulling her close until the whole of her body pressed against him. She shivered, hard.
    “Would you have touched me?” he asked.
    “Oh, yes,” she breathed.
Touched you and kissed you. Your arms, your chest, your face, your thighs. I’d wrap my arms tight around you, pull you close, kiss you and kiss you again . . .
    “Do you want to touch me now?”
    Caroline’s rational faculties