Free Romancing the Duke by Tessa Dare Page A

him rattled to his boots.
    W ell, Izzy thought, her first kiss wasn’t everything she’d hoped and dreamed it might be.
    It was a thousand times more.
    Now this was a proper kiss.
    Not just a harsh press of bruising lips, but a real, true kiss, by a man who knew what he was doing. He was kissing her with not only skill but with passion . And ardor.
    And tongue.
    Best of all, she was somehow managing to acquit herself in a manner that had him growling against her lips. Pure luck there, she had to imagine. Or maybe he was the kissing equivalent of those London dancing masters—the ones who made a girl look graceful and competent when she was just following his lead.
    It didn’t matter. She was being kissed, and she was kissing in return, and thus far, it wasn’t a humiliating disaster.
    This . . . was . . . glorious.
    For the second time in a single day, he made her knees go weak.
    She threw her arms around his neck for balance. And then she kept them there for the sheer pleasure of lacing her fingers at the nape of his neck and sifting through the heavy locks of his hair.
    He smelled so good. So simply, and so masculinely, good. It made no sense to her, how the most humble, unlikely scents could add up to an exotic cologne. If one gathered a flask of whisky, a strop of old leather, and a cake of plain soap, then tied it all together with a few wisps of dog hair—no one would expect the resulting “bouquet” to smell more enticing than an armful of roses. But somehow it did.
    And then there was his heat. He seemed made of it. The man was a coal-fired furnace. He radiated warmth through his grasping hands, his hard chest, his lips.
    Oh, his lips. The whiskers dotting his chin and jaw were abrasive, but his lips were . . . not soft, exactly. Soft meant pillows or petals, but his lips were the perfect blend of resilience and gentleness. Give and take .
    When at last he reached her mouth again, his taste was easy to name. Whisky and tea. And when he thrust his tongue deep, whisky and need.
    So much need.
    That was the most stirring, intoxicating part. Everything about his embrace told her that he needed, and what was truly astonishing—that he sought something he needed in her. He twisted his hand in the back of her nightrail and kissed her more deeply, relentless, as if chasing that something. Searching for it.
    And part of her wanted nothing more than to surrender. To offer whatever he needed of her, and gladly.
    Be careful, Izzy.
    “Enough.” With that gruff pronouncement, he released her. So quickly, she almost stumbled.
    The sounds of labored breathing filled the turret.
    At length, he cursed. “That was a disaster.”
    Izzy put her hand to her temple. She was alone in the dark again, and her head was spinning. This was the moment for a witty, sophisticated retort.
    What came out of her mouth instead was, “You kissed me first.”
    “You kissed me back.”
    “And then you kissed me more.” She sighed. So much for sophisticated banter. “I won’t make too much of it if that’s your concern. I know you only kissed me to intimidate me. But you should know this. It didn’t work.”
    “I think it did work.” He pulled her close again. “I felt your heart pounding.”
    Well, if a pounding heart was a sign of fear . . .
    She flattened one hand against his chest, covering the thumping beat there. The man must be terrified.
    Izzy felt a strange pang of sympathy for him. Growing up as Sir Henry Goodnight’s daughter had taught her all about male pride. Her father had labored for years in obscurity as a poorly paid, frustrated scholar. Once the stories found success, the adulation of readers was the food that sustained him. He couldn’t last a week or more without another meal of fawning praise.
    And if pride was that important to a middle-aged scholar, Izzy could only imagine how vital it must be to man like the Duke of Rothbury. How difficult adjusting to blindness must be for a man like him, young and