The Dangerous Love of a Rogue. Jane Lark

had spent seven years abroad. She’d written to him, but he’d rarely replied and she’d been too young to hear much of how he’d lived. He’d married Kate soon after his return.

      “If you do not believe me, ask him. I doubt he’d lie. A young man’s recklessness is part of life – a part your brother now claims to be above. But he has no cause to judge me ill beyond my lack of wealth.”

      “But you have a reputation.”

      “Yes. Ignore it, it is irrelevant to us; your brother had a reputation. Now he has a wife. This is about the two of us, no one else. You and I shall be all that counts.”

      Her heart ached. But her common-sense whispered. “Only because you need my money.”

      “What I need right now, Mary, darling, is not your money. I need you.”

      A muddle of turbulent emotion writhed inside her but longing overrode them all, as his lips pressed down on hers.

      She forgot doubt and responded as his tongue slipped past her parted lips. Her fingers gripped his shoulders and when she slid her tongue into his mouth, he caught it lightly in his teeth, for an instant, before sucking it deeper.

      It was so intimate.

      Her fingers slid up into his soft, thick hair.

      I love you, the words whispered through her thoughts unbidden. She did, she loved him, no matter what John said, no matter the risk. She loved him.

      His hands held her, resting against her back.

      She remembered everything he’d done the other night. His lips left hers and began travelling a path of kisses along her jaw then down her neck.

      “You’re beautiful,” he said, against her skin.

      She shivered. “And rich,” she whispered to the air above her, forcing her mind to return to reality.

      His head lifted and a soft laugh left his lips as his finger tapped beneath her chin. “Yes you are rich but there is far more to you than money.”

      His fingers fell to either shoulder and slipped beneath the short sleeves of her gown then slid them down. They hung loose on her arms and her bodice sagged

      His gaze dropped to her breasts, and his heated palms cupped them.

      Mary’s mouth dried and she looked up at the glass roof above. It reflected her image, against the jet black wash of night.

      She saw his dark hair against her pale skin as his lips touched the hollow at the base of her neck where her pulse flickered.

      When his fingers slid into the fabric and gripped her breasts, she shivered again.

      Oh dear Lord. A sweeping sensation plunged down to the place between her legs. She ached for him there.

      He eased one breast free, then his lips brushed her nipple before covering it and then sucking it; cradling her nipple on his tongue.

      Her bones dissolved and her fingers clasped in his hair, as she watched the mirror image above them.

      This was wicked, but delicious; the sensations intoxicating.

      Her breath came in pants. He made her body ignite.

      Still sucking her breast, his hands slid to her hips, and began lifting her dress.

      Cold realisation drenched her, he was not going to stop. He did not simply expect kisses. “No.”

      Her fingers, slid from his hair, gripped his shoulders and pushed him away. “No.” She had not completely lost all sanity.

      His gaze cut through the darkness, meeting hers, his heavy breaths echoing against the glass. “Mary.” His fingers unclenched, letting her dress fall.

      But when she would have stepped back his hands slipped to cup her buttocks, and pulled her closer still.

      A column within his trousers pressed against her stomach through their layers of clothing. “See what you do to me.”

      Her grip on his shoulders urged him away. “Let me go.”

      “You have no need to be afraid of me.” His hands slid back to her waist then fell as he stepped back.

      Her fingers shaking, Mary righted her bodice and lifted her short sleeves, unable to look at him.

      “I would not hurt you.” His voice hit a hard tone.

      Fear and wariness slashing at her foolish soul she met his gaze. What if her instinct had been wrong? She had good cause not to trust him. It was not only John who thought ill of him, he was an outcast, ignored by most.

      “For God sake, Mary.” His pitch lifted to anger.

      Her chin titled defiantly. She had to stop this before it became too late to turn back. “I will not meet you again.”

      “I did not hurt you.” Irritation brimmed in his voice.

      “I know you did not.” She stepped back – away. This was the end. “I did not say you did, but I cannot… I will not meet you again. I won’t hurt my family. I cannot keep betraying their trust.”

      “Then what are you doing here?”

      “I came to tell you… I would not—”

      “You took your time saying no. If that was your intent. You came to be made love to…” he growled.

      Mary held up a hand, to ward him off. “Love is not involved in this. I may be innocent, but I am no fool either, Lord Framlington. You may convince me you are attracted to me but you will not persuade me this has anything to do with love.” At least not on your part.

      That was her downfall. She’d let him take liberties because she did love him.

      * * *

      Silver moonlight caught in Mary’s eyes.

      Pain shone there.

      He’d said he would not hurt her, but he had. That cut at him. He thought of Caro… and himself as a child…The only time when perhaps he could compare his feelings to understand Mary’s. He never wished to hurt Mary.

      Damn, he was unused to women with a heart – a woman who knew love. A woman who’d been surrounded by it her entire life.

      His error glared him in the face. He should not have wooed her with passion. It was not her body he had to persuade – it was her heart. She wanted to be loved. Of course she did.

      “Andrew,” he stated bluntly.

      Why had he given her his full name?

      Her chin tilted higher, reminding him of her brother’s stubborn countenance.

       How the hell do I make her love me?

      “What?” Her tone rang sharp and challenging.

      She did not even know his name. He’d wooed her physically and not even let her in so far as to tell her his name.

      His voice dipped to a calmer conciliatory pitch. “My name is Andrew, although most people call me Drew.”

      “Oh.” She looked confused. Perhaps she also realised how many favours she’d allowed him without even knowing his name.

      “Say it.” His voice held the undercurrent of the desperation humming in his blood. He could not let her walk away. Everything hung on him winning her. The idea had fermented in his head for so long, he could not choose to change his path, not now. He could not bear to be with anyone but her.

      She took a breath. “Andrew.”

      A fist gripped hard and firm in his gut.

      “Or Drew… That suits you more, it is more dangerous.”

      “You deem me dangerous… I’m not the devil, Mary, just a man. A man looking