Regency Vows. Kasey Michaels

God, he’d bloody well take her to Scotland if he had to.

      * * *

      BY ALL THAT was holy, James was going to bed her. Just once—just enough to put an end to this fascination that led him around by the balls. Enough was enough. He was finished with wanting. It was time for having.

      James tore off his coat without waiting for his valet and threw it on the bed. Five days. Five hellish days of thinking of practically nothing but Katherine, and thank God—thank God—the committee would meet tomorrow, because he couldn’t take much more of this. Laughing, talking, dancing... If he had to feel her hand on his arm one more time, instead of on his cock where he wanted it, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

      He wasn’t growing more rational, finding a new sense of purpose, finding a cure for what ailed him. He was burning up with lust. It could not continue. One good tumble with her—that was what he needed. After that, he could find a suitable bride and live in peace.

      A thought of Anne snuck in, and he kicked it aside. He didn’t want to think of Anne, or what Katherine might ultimately have to do to keep Dunscore. The only thing he wanted to think about was Katherine’s legs wrapped around his hips.

      This entire business was nothing less than a debacle. Men he’d once considered friends slathered over her as though she were a succulent roast they couldn’t wait to devour. An evening at Lord DeBarre’s, a card party at Lord Kilbourne’s, another night at the theater after he’d sworn he wouldn’t go again and more strolls in the park than he’d ever hoped to take in his life. Each event felt specially calculated for his particular torment.

      Tonight they’d dined with Lord and Lady Pelsworth. The only—only—redeeming value in the evening had been his introduction to a Miss Lydia Ridgeway. Miss Ridgeway was a perfect marriage candidate—on the shelf, he’d been told, well mannered and passably attractive. Not that he could find out anything else about her with Katherine constantly at his side.

      Katherine—ill-mannered, insanely beautiful and far too convincingly amused by the damnable Earl of Tungsley—was the devil in silk. And he was no closer to finding her a husband now than he’d been the day she’d dragged his sorry arse from the water.

      Because you don’t want to find her a husband.

      He did. He did want to find her a husband. Just not before subduing this madness inside him, because he was halfway to losing his mind. More than halfway.

      Well, he had a solution for that. James braced his hands on the edge of his dressing table and stared at the preservative he’d just pulled from the top drawer. It would let him do all he wanted to Katherine without fear of consequences, and then he could remove himself to Croston with the likes of Miss Ridgeway or Lady Maude or Miss Underbridge.

      With any luck, tomorrow the committee would put an end to all this. The only event left to endure was tonight’s ball at the Rogersfields’. And there was a good chance he could turn that situation to his advantage. He would simply watch for the right moment, get her to the right part of the house and then he would seduce her. It wouldn’t be difficult. He could have had her on board the Possession if William hadn’t interrupted them, and it would have saved him the torment now. He could still feel her breasts as though he held them in his hands this moment. If William hadn’t burst in, he would have pushed those damned trousers over her hips and—

      He inhaled sharply and pushed away from the dressing table, gripping the back of his neck. He stared at the preservative. Finally snatching it off the table, he stalked to the armoire and slipped it inside his jacket with a mercenary sort of relish.

      Oh, yes. He would have every last inch of her open and quivering beneath him, hot and ready for him. He would have her at his mercy, to do with as he pleased, and by God there would be no bloody cutlass to get in the way. He would taste her and touch her until she screamed his name.

      Not Captain. Not Lord Croston.

      James.

      His beautiful, piratical emasculator would beg for him, and he would satisfy her. He would satisfy them both, and their “acquaintance by necessity”—as she so coldly put it—could go to the devil.

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

      IF ONE MORE Lord So-and-so put his hand where it didn’t belong, by God, she would lop it off and laugh while blood pooled on the ballroom floor.

      Katherine faced her partner and applauded the orchestra, imagining the satisfaction of drawing her cutlass from its new hiding place in her skirts and showing the lecherous rat how much she appreciated his groping.

      The stifling ballroom air cloyed her lungs as desperation began to set in. All her flirtations and imprisoning dresses were going to be for naught. There were bodies everywhere—tall ones, short ones, slender ones, plump ones. Male ones. If opinions could be swayed by “accidentally” touching her breasts, she would have little to worry about tomorrow. But the truth of the matter sat cold and indigestible in her stomach.

      “You’re a splendid dancer,” the latest Lord Whatsit told her, steering her through the crowd by her elbow as the orchestra struck up another tune. “Splendid!” For all she knew, he didn’t have any influence at all. But he did have a fascination for her cleavage.

      What would he think if he knew that a foot below, her cutlass hung inside a secret opening in her skirts? How gratifying it would be to introduce the two of them and rid him of that sickly smile.

      “Allow me to bring you some punch,” he suggested eagerly.

      “I’m not thirsty.” She could find the punch herself—just as soon as she located Phil and Honoria and asked whether committing murder would be a strike against her with the committee. Judging from this crowd, she would find them sometime tomorrow.

      Suddenly a hand wrapped around her arm, and Captain Warre materialized at her side. “Excuse us, Denby,” he said. Excellent—perhaps he would challenge this imbecile to a duel.

      Lord Whatsit backed away with a startled bow. “Of course. A pleasure, Lady Dunscore.” His eyes weren’t on her breasts now. She nearly smiled.

      “You look pale,” Captain Warre told her.

      She was more glad to see him than she would have wanted to admit. “One can scarcely breathe in here, and I’m dying of thirst.”

      “We can’t have that.” He shoved a mostly full glass of red wine into her hand. Hardly a thirst-quencher, but she drank deeply anyhow. A drop of liquid clung to the glass where his lips had touched it, and a tingle awakened low in her belly as she drank. “I know where we can escape the crowds,” he said, and navigated her through the milling hordes.

      “Have you found out anything?” she asked.

      “A little.” He guided her out of the main ballroom and into a second, equally crowded, side room off which branched a large connecting hall, from which stemmed several smaller passageways. By the time they started down one of these, they were alone. “We can find privacy here,” he said. His hand stayed on the small of her back even though the crowd was gone. Several doorways opened on either side of the passageway; as they passed one, she caught a glimpse of a couple intertwined on a couch. Quickly she looked away.

      “Here,” he said, and let her walk ahead of him into a small, empty salon. Behind her, the door shut with a solid click.

      Across the room a pair of French doors leading outside stood ajar, and a waft of night air reached her. She inhaled deeply for the first time all evening. “Finally,” she said, “I can breathe.”

      He took the glass from her hand, drained the wine she hadn’t finished and reached to set it down on a tiny marble-topped table.

      “These disgusting imbeciles,” she fumed. “Tonight is nothing if not a waste, and a detriment to my feet—never mind my dignity. I don’t even know who half