Free The Reluctant Duchess by Sharon Cullen

wide brown eyes, her lips partially open. He wasn’t sure what drove him, but he picked up her hand and she stood. They were toe to toe, his thighs crushing her skirts, and still she looked up at him. Her lips were wet, as if she had just licked them, and he discovered in the light of the fire that her eyes held the most beautiful golden flecks.
    He shouldn’t be doing this. He’d been drinking. She was Sara. They were inappropriately alone.
    He touched her cheek. It was warm and soft, heated by the fire and no doubt by the fact that they were standing indecently close. The hand he held was trembling, and he found that oddly appealing. “Sara,” he whispered. He was overcome with an unholy urge to kiss her, and so he did, ignoring the warning that his muddled mind was screaming.
    Her lips were just as warm and just as soft as he had imagined. And yes, he
had
imagined.
    At first she didn’t move to kiss him back. Was this her first kiss? Certainly not. She was years past her coming out. Some man must have kissed her at some point in her life.
    He opened his eyes to find that she had closed hers, her delicate lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Her skin was like buttermilk. He slid his finger down her jaw to tip it up so he could possess her lips more fully.
    Taking his lead, she pressed her lips against his, opening at his urging. His tongue swept in and he gathered her to him. She was so delicate, so slight, beneath the layers of silk and satin and crinoline. She trembled all over, and he found he wanted to hold her until the trembling stopped.
    But suddenly, she was no longer in his arms. She’d taken a step back. Her hand came up to cover her lips, and she looked at him in surprise and disbelief.
    “I…I must go.” She stumbled past him, pushing him out of the way. Instead of reaching for her like he wanted to, he moved out of her way and watched her run from the room.
    He turned back to the fire and fell into his chair. “Bloody hell.”

Chapter 9
    Sara didn’t sleep that night. How was she supposed to sleep when all she felt was the press of the duke’s lips upon hers? She spent half the night with her hand covering her lips, as if she could hold that feeling to her.
    She’d never been kissed before.
    Not once.
    Well, with the exception of a young buck who had lured her onto a terrace during her first ball, brushed his lips across her cheek, then hurried away. That was nothing compared to what she and Rossmoyne had shared.
    She lay in bed the rest of the night and tried to sort through exactly what had happened. They’d been talking about Meredith, and suddenly they were kissing.
    Surely she’d committed a horrible sin.
    She tried to chastise herself for her wicked ways, but every time she did, her mind wandered to the kiss.
    His lips had brushed across hers, demanding and controlling. He’d touched her cheek and her jaw. His fingers had been hard and callused yet tender. For hours her skin tingled where he’d touched her, and her lips felt swollen.
    Oh, she was wicked, wicked, wicked.
    Her legs had turned numb and trembled, and she’d wanted nothing more than to lean into the long, hard strength of him, to feel his arms around her. He’d drawn her closer until she could feel his strong thighs through her many layers of skirts.
    Stop this, Sara. What you did was wrong.
    Yet when dawn crested, she was eager to get down to breakfast to see Rossmoyne again. At the same time, she was immeasurably embarrassed and wanted to hide in her room but that was playing the coward and Sara hated to think that Rossmoyne would think her a coward. So she dressed with care and went down to the dining room.
    The empty dining room.
    He wasn’t there. She’d never thought that he wouldn’t be there.
    “Is there something I can get you, my lady?” A footman stood uncertainly in the doorway of the dining room.
    “No. No, I’m fine.”
    “Very well, my lady.”
    “His Grace? Has he dined already?”
    “He left