She felt alive.
She arched, pushing her breasts into his hands, sucking on his tongue, and feeling an unstoppable rush of pure, white pleasure through her body. And at the same time, as if in sympathy, the male flesh in her palm jerked and gushed hot liquid between her fingers. She pulsed as he pulsed, shuddered as he shuddered, and she didn’t want it to end.
When she finally opened her eyes, she was appalled and amazed at the same time.
Green eyes watched her face, lazy and satisfied, and very, very male. For a moment all was peaceful with the world.
And then she remembered. “Dear God. Thomas is to meet me at my house for luncheon.”
* * *
GRIFFIN’S BODY WAS filled with a warm lethargy, but Lady Hero’s words were a douse of icy water. He straightened and glanced out the window. Her house was in sight. He turned to her and for a moment was stunned anew. She lay across his lap, her breasts bared just past the tips of her delicious nipples, her pale cheeks flushed, her diamond eyes dazed by what they had just shared.
Dear God, indeed.
Hastily, he searched his coat pockets and found a handkerchief. He took her hand from beneath her skirts and began wiping his spill off of her fingers.
She snatched her hand away. “I… I can do that.”
He raised his eyebrows but let her take the handkerchief. He put himself to rights and watched as she finished scrubbing her fingers and then wrinkled her nose at the handkerchief.
“I’ll take that,” he said.
She nodded and fumbled with her bodice. “Please turn away.”
A sardonic reply was on his lips, but he thought better of it. He turned to view the closed curtains over the window. She’d moved off his lap, but he felt the small movements beside him as she adjusted herself. She was ashamed, he could see that clearly, and for the life of him he didn’t know how to make this right.
He felt her rise and take her seat on the opposite side of the carriage. He looked up.
She was patting at her hair, refusing to meet his gaze. “I… I hope you will not speak of this to anyone?”
He cursed, low and foully.
Her head jerked up and she stared at him with eyes that made him want to weep and bellow at the same time.
Griffin passed a hand across his forehead. “Of course I’ll not talk.”
She bit her lip, then nodded jerkily. “You need to put on your wig.”
“Do I?” He looked about the carriage seat, finally finding it smashed into a corner. The carriage rolled to a stop as he tugged the wig on. “Better?”
“Yes.”
They sat there in silence as they waited for the footman to set the step and open the door. Griffin tried to think of something to say. He’d stolen her innocence—in intent if not in fact. There was no going back from that.
Finally, after eons of waiting, the door was opened and she stepped down, her face averted from his. No doubt she loathed the very sight of him now, he thought grimly as he followed her.
“Hero, darling, there you are!” Lady Phoebe called from the top of the town house steps. “Cousin Bathilda is pacing holes in the sitting room carpet, and Cook has burned the soup.” Her bright eyes swiveled to him, and she squinted a bit behind her glasses. “And you’ve brought Lord Griffin for luncheon as well. How clever of you.”
Griffin felt Lady Hero go stiff beside him. “I do not wish to intrude on your luncheon, Lady Phoebe. Your sister kindly offered me a ride in her carriage, no more.”
“Oh, no, you must stay,” Lady Phoebe protested. “Cook will fix the soup, she always does, and it’s so much nicer with two gentlemen instead of a lonely one, badgered by females all about. Hero, do make him stay.”
Lady Hero turned to him and smiled with trembling lips, her eyes tragic. “Please.”
He ought to go, he knew that. Knew, too, that she didn’t really want him here. But her very fragility at that moment made it impossible for him to turn away.
Griffin bowed and held out his arm for her. “As you wish, my lady.”
She laid her hand on his sleeve, and he remembered with something of a jolt that those same fingers had wrapped around his cock not five minutes ago. Dear God, his brother’s fiancée. What a mess he’d made.
They mounted the steps and went inside, her sister all the while chattering and thankfully oblivious to their silence. Lady Hero was so wooden beside him she might have been a walking statue. He had an urge to cover the fingers on his sleeve, to see if they were warm with life.
Did she hate him now? Wish that they’d never done what they’d done in the carriage? He knew he should be regretting those moments, but he simply couldn’t. Her delicate breasts had been too sweet, the sound she had made when he’d taken her ripe nipple between his lips too beautiful. Her gray eyes had narrowed in bliss as he’d made love to her. And by God, he’d take that memory to his grave and be thankful of it, no matter the cost.
A footman took her wrap, and Lady Hero glanced at Griffin, then away again swiftly. “I… I just need to freshen up. Phoebe will show you to the luncheon room.”
Griffin bowed, watching moodily as she retreated up the stairs.
He turned to Lady Phoebe, offering his elbow. “I’m at your mercy.”
She grinned, taking his arm. “It’s just us for luncheon—myself, Hero, your brother, and Cousin Bathilda. Have you met my cousin Bathilda yet?”
“I haven’t had the honor.”
She nodded. “Don’t let Mignon bother you. She growls at everyone.”
And with those cryptic words, she led him up the stairs and into a light, feminine room, all yellows and whites with dauntingly fragile furniture. Thomas was standing at the far end with a rather stout matron. He looked up at their entrance, seeming less than pleased to see his brother.
“Look who Hero brought home,” Lady Phoebe said as they neared.
“Griffin,” Thomas murmured in greeting.
“Thomas.” Griffin turned to the older lady and eyed the small black, white, and brown spaniel she held in her arms. It was growling at him, low and continually, rather like a bumblebee.
“This is Lord Griffin Reading, Cousin Bathilda,” Lady Phoebe murmured. “My lord, this is my cousin, Miss Bathilda Picklewood.”
Miss Picklewood dipped into a creaking curtsy as he bowed. “We shall have to tell Panders that there is one more for luncheon.”
“I’ll try not to eat too much,” Griffin said lightly. “What a pretty little spaniel.”