Black Silk. Sharon Page

obeyed, and she closed the distance between them, and with each step, her heart tightened. Sweat trickled down her bodice, and her throat felt aflame. She felt exactly the way she did when reading erotic manuscripts.

      She stopped—a little more than a sword’s thrust away—and he grinned. “Who is the friend you came to find, sweetheart?”

      He was Marcus’s good friend—he had seen her perhaps a half dozen times. She was so close she feared he would know who she was. That he could see behind her simple white mask and guess the truth of her soul. That she was Maryanne Hamilton, ordinary virgin, here in Hades to find a courtesan.

      “Georgiana,” she admitted softly.

      His black brow lifted. “Do you belong to her, sweeting?”

      Mystified, she asked, “How do you mean that, my lord?”

      “Do you know who I am?”

      “A viscount. And you expect me to answer your questions, but you will not answer mine.” She smiled and dipped her head. Heavens, had she just said that? “You are Lord Swansborough.” Surely that was safe enough to admit. He would think her a jade who knew him from brothels and Cyprian balls.

      She still wasn’t certain what role she should play. Should she pretend to be experienced? Should she admit she was an innocent in trouble?

      “I hardly expected to find you in here alone in the dark, my lord.”

      “But I often drink alone, sweet. There’s no pleasure in drinking alone in the middle of a crowd.”

      He was foxed. Absolutely. “But why—?”

      “I encountered a man. He spoke of a tragic incident that happened a long time ago. It is something I like to forget. And I needed a way to help me do that.” His lordship lowered the decanter, let it drop the last inches to the table, where it rattled. “You are lovely, Verity. But then, the truth is always beautiful. Dangerous but beautiful.”

      “I’m hardly dangerous, my lord.”

      He reached out his hand—bare of gloves. A perfect, long-fingered gentleman’s hand. She had never touched the naked hand of a gentleman. He meant to kiss her fingers. Uncertain, she moved forward, for good breeding dictated it, and let him sweep her hand to his lips.

      Lovely lips. Firm and delectable and brushing her gloved knuckles. The champagne inside her bubbled up once more at his hot, seductive touch, at the caress of his full lower lip over satin.

      He drew her closer, his hand casually holding her fingers. She took one look into his dark eyes, at the sculpted curve of cheekbones, the autocratic nose, and lost her breath.

      Shadowed by dark stubble gracing his jaw, a dimple teased. She looked closer. Beneath his thick, black lashes, his eyes focused in two different directions.

      “In you, sweeting, would I find truth?”

      In her?

      Before she could even gasp, his mouth slanted down over hers, and his broad back blotted out the light. She fell into black shadow and reached out to him. She should not allow this, but she was here, and he expected it and—

      No. She was Verity. Truth. She wanted to kiss him.

      His lips pressed to hers, his tongue parted her lips and slid inside her mouth. She tasted him—delicious was too mild a word!

      She tasted brandy, too much brandy, and the warm flavor of him that was so erotically male. His hand cupped her breast. He must know her nipples were indecently erect.

      His large body surrounded her, his scent—brandy and shaving soap and witch hazel and the earthy hint of his sweat—washed over her, yet all she wanted was to kiss him deeper. Beneath her fingertips, his shoulders were solid lines of muscle and bone. Daringly, she trailed her fingers toward his neck. She left the almost propriety of his shirt and touched his bare flesh.

      And moaned wantonly into his mouth.

      His tongue teased hers, and he toyed with her, letting his tongue thrust lazily in a promise that made her heart hammer and her quim turn to liquid honey.

      She went rigid, suddenly uncertain.

      He eased back from the kiss, bending forward to bestow kisses to her nose, her right cheek, her chin. “Do you want to give me what I want?”

      Oh, yes, he was drunk. She tried to make sense of his words. “W—what is it you want?”

      He stepped back and yanked his shirt out of his trousers. Before the hem could settle around his hips, he pulled his shirt off, over his head.

      Oh, dear lord.

      His skin was the color of brandy, like a laborer’s, and she couldn’t imagine why. What could he possible do out of doors with his shirt off?

      “I want you to make me forget.”

      “Forget what?” she asked. A blush crept over her cheeks that she had been so bold as to ask the question. She normally listened. Tonight, with his kiss singing on her lips and champagne bubbling through her blood, she truly was Verity—someone else other than mousy Maryanne.

      Swansborough paced around her, arms folded over his massive chest. Soft black hairs curled over hard planes of muscle. The sight of his nipples left her hot and embarrassed. She felt the sweep of his gaze, the assessment of breasts, of hips, of bottom. She felt like a mare on display at Tattersalls.

      “You’re slender.”

      Reed thin, compared to the women here—the women with large bosoms, plump arses, and generous thighs.

      He paused long enough to kick off shoes—he had prepared to undress, he hadn’t worn boots. With lazy motions, he undid the buttons of his trousers.

      This time, with this man, she did not want to run.

      “Lovely.”

      Her heart soared at the word, heaven help her. She liked this. She liked to be stared at by lustful Lord Swansborough.

      He peeled down his trousers. She’d thought—she’d been certain—that men wore undergarments beneath their trousers.

      He didn’t.

      She was faced with his cock, and its thicket of black curls, and it, like the rest of him, stole her breath away. He gave her a smile, mischievous and boyish and utterly endearing. “Does it please you?”

      “I’ve no idea.” Truth again.

      He laughed at that, not the usual laugh of a man who was in his cups. Deep, erotic, his laugh was filled with naughty promise. “Most lightskirts ‘ooh and ah’ over the size, my dear.”

      “It is large.” Her first thought had indeed been astonishment, and now she knew one did mention that to a man. In all the erotic books she edited, men always possessed members that lasted for one carnal bout after another. Georgiana had laughed about that and had confided, with a wry smile, that such cocks were creatures of fantasy.

      “I think,” Maryanne hazarded, “it is a creature of fantasy.”

      He wrapped his hand around the shaft, and this time the sight of his large hand over his enormous staff had her hot and panting and giddy with desire.

      “What do you want to do to me, my sweet?” he asked with a strangely vulnerable air, the way a shy man asked a lady to step into his curricle for a jaunt around the park.

      She didn’t know. She couldn’t find words! Her thoughts were a tumble of nebulous fantasies. Of imagination and dreams. Of lust and foolish madness.

      “What do you think would please me? I like an inventive woman.”

      She had no idea, knew she could not hope to fool him, but the challenge heated her blood. “I would like to…kiss you. Again.”

      “Kiss me where?”

      “On your lips.”