Regency Vows. Kasey Michaels

of her pulse beneath his lips. “I plow only fields of pure spun gold,” he muttered, and put his mouth against her neck, sucking lightly, his tongue on her skin as he ran his hand up her side to her breast, filling his palm with it, kneading it.

      “No self-respecting gentleman would put his hand on a woman,” Miss Cabot said breathlessly, her eyes fluttering shut as she bent her neck to give him better access.

      He almost laughed as he moved to her ear, nibbling at her lobe. “No. But you did not come to me because I am a self-respecting gentleman, Miss Cabot. Now hush,” he said, and slid his hand around to her hands, which she held clasped tightly at her back, and pulled one free of its grip of the other. He lifted that hand to his mouth. Miss Cabot’s lips parted slightly; her eyes fixed on his face. George turned her hand over and licked the inside of her wrist before kissing it. Her skin was warm and fragrant, and smooth as butter against his tongue. It was dangerously provocative, and he could feel his own heart beginning to race with want. He slipped one hand beneath her chin, tilting her head back. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, her lips slightly parted. He was out of his mind to go any further, but George couldn’t help himself; he lowered his head, touched his mouth softly to hers, lingering there, his tongue teasing her lips, one hand boldly caressing her breast, squeezing it, then sliding down to her hip, squeezing it, too. When he felt her begin to soften, felt the familiar curve of a woman’s body into his, felt himself grow harder, he lifted his head and said, “Perhaps you will do me the honor of saving me a dance, Miss Hargrove?”

      Miss Cabot nodded. “Yes.” Her voice was a bit shaky, and she quickly cleared her throat. She said again, more firmly, “Yes. Thank you.”

      Satisfied with the knowledge that he’d succeeded in showing her a small step in the dance of seduction, he stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them.

      Miss Cabot did not move. She stared at him, her gaze sliding down to the protrusion of his desire in his trousers.

      Unabashed, George cocked a brow. His response was as natural as breathing, and if she had not seen a man’s desire, more was the pity. “Well, then?” he asked her.

      “I think,” she said, nervously touching the strand of pearls at her throat, “I think that will do.” She continued to stare at him, her eyes locked on his mouth, and it stirred dangerously deep and devilish in him. He needed to leave. Now. Before he did something that he regretted. “Then we are agreed, Miss Cabot. Now then. When is this assembly?”

      “Friday,” she said. “Half past eight.”

      He nodded, picked up his hat and fit it on his head. “Then I shall make a point of attending.”

      “Thank you again, Mr. Easton. You can’t know how much I appreciate your help.” Her smile was tremulous, but there was no mistaking the glow in her cheeks.

      That was it, then. George had made his deal with the devil, all for the sake of a bloody smile. He’d come very near to undoing her gown, too, and lest there be any more thoughts along those lines, he would remove himself from Beckington House. God help him, but this irresponsible and devious woman captivated him in a way he did not care to be captivated. “Good day, Miss Cabot.”

      “Good day, Mr. Easton,” she said, still absently fingering the strand of pearls as she eyed him curiously as he strode through the door.