“What has pride to do with it?”
“If you don’t want me—”
He muttered a blistering oath. “You think I don’t want you?”
Before Evelyn could formulate a reply, he was upon her, his legs crushing her skirts between them. His large hands came to frame her face.
And she couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. She could only stare up at him, transfixed, her heart pounding like Hephaestus’s hooves, thundering down the hard-packed surface of Rotten Row.
He bent his head to hers, his voice rough with barely suppressed emotion. “What I feel for you is so powerful, it would destroy us both, given the chance.”
She thought he might kiss her then. She wanted him to. But in that fraught moment, it seemed more likely that he would let her go.
And she couldn’t let him. Not yet.
Her fingers closed around his wrists. “How?”
* * *
How?
Ahmad would have thought it obvious. “There could be talk. Just being seen with me. The mere hint of a scandal would ruin your chances on the marriage mart.”
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that. The whole reason you’re here.” His thumbs moved over the curves of her cheeks. He couldn’t seem to stop himself from touching her. She was so silken soft. So warm and sweet and pretty.
And she was his.
Every nerve in his body proclaimed it with unmistakable conviction.
Evelyn Maltravers was his.
He’d known it for weeks. Had been fighting against it with all of his might. But no more. She was here now. Had walked willingly into his lair. He hadn’t the strength to deny himself any longer.
“I’m not concerned about that anymore,” she said.
“Your suitors—”
“I haven’t any suitors. I shouldn’t have said that I did.”
His heart clutched. No suitors? It didn’t seem possible. Not when he’d spent the last two weeks envisioning them paying court to her.
“There are older gentlemen who flirt with me at dinners and dances,” she said, “and who have come to call on me at my uncle’s house, but it’s nothing serious. Nothing you could call a courtship. The fact is, there aren’t very many eligible young men in town, and among those that are, none of them are very impressive.”
“Just because you haven’t met someone yet doesn’t mean—”
“I have met someone,” she said. “I’ve met you.”
Her words were a caress. As soothing to his soul as the touch of her fingertips resting on the throbbing pulse points of his wrists.
He swallowed hard.
“I’ve only continued going out in society so people might see me wearing your dresses. And because my uncle commands it.” Her mouth softened in a slight smile. “He’s made me attend a spiritualist card party and a spiritualist tea this week. Which isn’t very different from a regular card party or tea, now I think of it, except that everyone was talking the entire time about this boy medium in Birmingham.”
“Evie—”
“There will be a séance in the coming weeks. Lady Arundell hasn’t yet confirmed where it will take place, but I’m certain to attend. Anne tells me that I’ll need a black afternoon dress. So, you see, I will have to come back to you, if only for that.”
“Evie, I can’t—”
Her lips trembled. “Please don’t reject me again.”
He pressed closer to her. Drawn to her almost against his will. In that moment, she seemed very much a siren, and he no better than some poor mad sailor dashing himself upon the rocks. “Reject you? Good God. All I want—”
“It’s what I want, too,” she said.
The scent of her clouded his senses. Orange blossoms and starched linen, mixed with a fragrance that was unmistakably her. It was as potent as any aphrodisiac. He wanted to bury his face in her neck. To kiss her. To have her.
His voice thickened. “You have no idea what you’re asking. You’re an innocent.”
Her hands fell from his wrists. Her chin ticked up. “I’m a woman. And I still care for you. If your feelings have changed—”
“My feelings are the same. But if we start something . . . I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”
“Then don’t stop,” she whispered.
* * *
Warmth was already coursing through Evelyn’s veins, just to look at him. To feel him cradling her face with such infinite care. It was utterly disarming that a man his size should be so gentle. But Ahmad was no run-of-the-mill gentleman to fumble roughly about with a lady. He was used to handling fine things. And in his hands, she felt like the very finest.
It was a heady sensation, to be the object of his undivided attention. And not for her clothing this time, but for herself.
Dropping one hand from her cheek, he bent his head closer to hers. He placed a kiss on her lips, as gentle as the last kiss they’d shared.
“I told you that you don’t have to be careful with me,” she murmured against his mouth.
“Impatient,” he murmured back. “I’m just getting started.”
“Forgive me. Do go on.” She felt him smile. Was he laughing at her? But he didn’t seem to be amused. He kissed her again. A sweet, clinging caress that stole her breath.
She sighed into it.
And this time there was no holding back. His arm came about her waist, and his mouth covered hers in a kiss so deep and passionate that the warmth in her veins ignited into a blazing conflagration.
Her eyes closed and she melted against him. A strange sensation—part victory, part surrender. She gave herself over to it for a moment.
And then she returned his kiss.
She had little enough experience. Only the kisses they’d shared in the fitting room and the brougham. But she prided herself on her ability to discern physical subtleties. She felt the pressure of his kiss change, his mouth seeking . . . something. Her lips parted in answer. Their breath mingled. And—
“Oh,” she said. “Like that?”
“Just like that,” he said huskily, drawing her closer.
“I never knew.” No one had ever told her that a kiss could be so warm and intimate. That it could make one’s limbs weaken into blancmange, even as it was inspiring a peculiar, tightening ache at one’s center. She felt strange all over. Stranger still when he pressed hot, drugging kisses to her jaw, and to the secret, sensitive spot behind her ear.