Free Cheryl Holt by Too Hot to Handle Page A

bonded with her physically, he would gain a peace and solace for which he’d been searching without even realizing he was.
    With her, everything seemed attainable. Even happiness. Even contentment.
    He pulled away, and she gazed at him, disquieted by her response.
    “You always push me farther than I intend to go,” she chided. “Why do I let you?”
    “I told you: You’re so ready for the kind of pleasure I can bestow. It’s futile to fight your temptation.”
    “But you promised we wouldn’t dally.”
    “I guess I lied.”
    “Is fabrication a trait for which you’re notorious?”
    “Not usually.”
    “Except perhaps in your amorous conquests?”
    “Perhaps,” he allowed.
    “Why do I have the feeling that you’ll say anything to get what you want?”
    “Because I’m a cad?”
    “Precisely my worry.”
    “Has there ever been any doubt as to my having dastardly tendencies?”
    “No, but I’m an optimist,” she said. “I continue to hope for better behavior.”
    “Don’t grow too sanguine in your aspirations for my improvement,” he cautioned. “I’ll constantly disappoint you.”
    “Hardly. I have a much loftier opinion of you than you have of yourself.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes.”
    On hearing that she held him in elevated esteem, his heart raced like a silly lad’s. He was desperate to have her see him as the man he wished to be, rather than the man he was.
    “How can I foster this wave of confidence?” he asked.
    “We can begin by your not lying to me. I can tell when you are.”
    “Can you? How?”
    “You look so guilty,” she maintained.
    “I must be out of practice at hiding my thoughts.”
    “Actually, you’re quite adept, but where you’re concerned, I have a second sense. Why is that?”
    There were many plausible answers to her question. He could have talked about sexual magnetism, when there was no reason for any appeal, or how the universe worked mysteriously and some things were meant to be. But if he voiced any of the drivel, he’d sound like a foolish romantic, who believed in such folly as love at first sight, which he most categorically did not. Passion and unchecked ardor had destroyed his family, so he would disavow their power at every turn. He wouldn’t be so idiotic as to fancy himself in
love
with Emily Barnett, so he would never be so stupid as to suggest the possibility.
    He settled for a simpler clarification. “It occurs because you’re wild about me.”
    “You are so vain.”
    “Being vain and correct are not mutually exclusive.”
    “Are you so conceited that you presume every woman is bowled over by your pretty face?”
    “Of course,” he replied.
    “Then I expect you suppose that every woman in London is dying to snuggle on this cushy sofa and be kissed to high heaven by you.”
    “What could be more enticing?”
    “You can’t continue to accost me,” she scolded.
    “Why shouldn’t I?”
    “Because it’s . . . it’s . . . unbearable.”
    “Unbearable!”
    “It makes me yearn to have a different relationship with you, but I can’t ever forget that I am your employee.”
    “You’re more than that.”
    “No, I’m not.”
    He should have apprised her of what prominent position he felt her to occupy, but he couldn’t describe it. Yes, she was his governess, but she was becoming a friend and confidante, a guide and counselor, and eventually, he’d have her as a lover. No other conclusion seemed likely or acceptable.
    It wasn’t in his nature to deny himself, and he wanted her more than he’d wanted anything in such a long, long time, yet he was loathe to picture himself seducing her like some aging, dissipated reprobate. It was such a trite, pathetic story: the lord of the manor inflicting himself on an unsuspecting girl.
    Wasn’t he mulling a deed that inexcusable? When had his moral state been reduced to such a disgraceful level?
    “It’s just kissing, Emily,” he contended, though he was desirous of doing so much more.