Free Cheryl Holt by Deeper than Desire

excessive amount do to Phillip’s temperament? Would he be more aggressive? More hostile? More imperious? More amorous? Or would it have no effect?
    Insolently, he perused her, his torrid attention lingering—on her lips, her bosom, her legs—and the strength of his inspection was so extreme that she felt as if he could peer through her clothes to the naked skin beneath the fabric.
    She was tempted to squirm and fidget, to shudder in maidenly affront and clasp her arms across her torso, but she didn’t. While she blushed, her cheeks glowing crimson, she showed no other reaction. Although she couldn’t decide why, it was obvious that he was hoping to rattle her, or chase her away. But that confused her. If he wanted her gone, why had he invited her in the first place?
    She was no shrinking violet, and never had been, and she wasn’t about to slink away. Surprising him, she sidled nearer, just when he’d assumed he’d offended her to the extent that she would stomp out in a huff.
    “If you’re trying to frighten me,” she said, “it won’t work.”
    He raised a brow, neither denying nor admitting that he’d been endeavoring to alarm her. “Would you like to draw some erotica?”
    The leather-bound volume
A Feast for the Senses
lay on the table, filled with romping pixies, fairies, and the Arabian sheik who could be his twin.
    “Not tonight.”
    “Then why are you here?”
    A more sophisticated female might have flirted around the answer, might have teased or vamped, but she’d never been one to circumvent an issue. “To see you. I couldn’t stay away.”
    “If you’re caught with me, you’ll never be able to marry your precious Edward.”
    “Suddenly, it’s a chance I’m willing to take.”
    “Why?”
    Would he think she was mad if she confessed what she’d been contemplating all day? Or if she alluded to the perceptions that had swept over her when she’d entered the library? She couldn’t account for them to herself, so she couldn’t explain them to him.
    “I had to come.”
    It was the best she could do, the lone justification she could provide without sounding like a lunatic.
    “Sit with me.”
    He held out his hand, and she took it, lacing her fingers with his, but he applied no pressure to pull her down. If she was to join him, it would have to be of her own accord.
    Almost as if it were actually there, she could envision a line painted between them. It was the line between right and wrong, morality and vice, virtue and wantonness. If she crawled onto the cushion next to him, she’d be stepping over the line to the side of iniquity, and she could never get back.
    Appallingly, she didn’t care. Not about Edward, or Margaret, or Helen, or the family, or the vow she’d made to rescue them. Only Phillip mattered.
    Despite all, she
had
to be with him. There was no other choice, and she was prepared to commit any imprudent act, so long as they could be together.
    It occurred to her that this was the reason girls were chaperoned, that they were protected and sheltered. Others understood, as she had not, that for every woman, there was a man like Phillip who could rout all discretion.
    In the stark light of morning, she would locate plenty of excuses to chastise herself, to rue and lament, but not now. Not when they were isolated, and he was watching her as if he could set her afire with the intensity of his gaze. She’d never felt so magnificent.
    “You’re upset,” she mentioned.
    “What makes you say so?”
    “I can tell.”
    He shrugged. “I was fighting with my father. It was nothing.”
    The frank admission had him visibly disconcerted, and a thousand questions flitted by: Who was he? Who were his people? Had he always resided at the estate? What was his position in the stables? How had he earned it?
    She was eager to discern his favorite color, his favorite food. Did he love to read? Could he strum the lute or dabble at the pianoforte? Did he like to dance? To sing? What garnered