“You’re very wet. We should get you out of these things.”
Siren-like, Lucinda raised her brows, then obediently turned so he could undo her laces. He eased her from her gown, dropping it to the floor where it landed with a soft splat.
Her chemise, drenched and all but transparent, clung like a second skin. A soft blush rose beneath it; Lucinda let her lids veil her eyes, watching Harry’s hands from beneath her lashes as, gently yet deliberately, he peeled the delicate material from her.
Harry sensed the heat rising within her, heard the sudden shallow intake of her breath as he drew the last shred of concealment from her. She shivered—but he didn’t think it was due to being cold. Drawing in a deep breath, she raised her eyes to his.
Lucinda looked into eyes brilliantly green, screened by heavy lids; nothing could hide the desire that burned in their peridot depths.
She sat naked on his lap. His hands moved gently over her, over her back, over her arms, languidly stroking, caressing. He leaned forward and pressed kisses to the bruises Scrugthorpe had left on her shoulders. Lucinda shuddered. Unbidden, entirely unexpected, a long-for-gotten conversation drifted through her mind. Eyes agleam, she chuckled softly.
Harry stared at her hungrily, the siren who had lured him to his doom. Clinging to sanity, he raised a brow in the nearest he could get to languid enquiry.
Lucinda laughed. She caught his eyes with hers, then, leaning closer, let her lids screen her eyes. “Em once said,” she murmured, “that I should aim to get you on your knees.” Fleetingly, she lifted her eyes to his, her lips gently curved. “I don’t think she meant it in quite this way.”
The body beneath her was hard, rigid, powerful but harnessed.
“Ah, yes. An eminently wise old lady, my aunt.” Gently, Harry lifted Lucinda, settling her so she was straddling his knees, her knees on the seat on either side of his hips. “But she tends to forget that—sometimes—it’s very hard for a rake to—er—change his spots.”
Lucinda wasn’t at all sure about her change in position. “Ah, Harry?”
“Hmm?” Harry wasn’t interested in further conversation.
Lucinda realised as much when he urged her towards him and his lips closed gently about one tightly furled nipple. Her breath caught. “Harry—we’re in a carriage.”
Her protest was breathless. His lips left her; he put out his tongue and rasped her sensitised flesh. Lucinda shuddered and closed her eyes; his hands on her hips held her steady—every time she caught her breath, he stole it away. “You can’t be serious,” she eventually managed to gasp. She paused—then sucked in a quick breath. “Not here? In a moving carriage?” His answering chuckle sounded devilish. “Perfectly possible, I assure you.” His hands shifted. “The rocking’s part of the fun—you’ll see.”
Lucinda struggled to draw her mind from the sensual web he had so skilfully woven. “Yes, but—” Abruptly, her eyes flew open. “Dear heaven!” After a stunned moment, her lids fell. She whispered, a soft catch in her voice, “Harry?”
A long moment of breathy silence ensued, then Lucinda sighed—deeply. “Oh, Harry!”
AN HOUR LATER, as the carriage slowly rolled into the leafy streets of Mayfair, Harry looked down at the woman in his lap. She was curled snugly in his greatcoat, dry and warm—he was prepared to swear no chill could have survived the fire that had recently claimed them. Her clothes lay in a sodden heap on the floor; his coat and breeches would keep Dawlish occupied for hours. Harry didn’t care—he had all he most wanted of life.
He glanced down—and dropped a kiss on her curls.
He’d been a most unwilling conquest but he was ready to admit he was well and truly conquered.
Tipping his head, he looked into his siren’s face, blissful in repose.
She stirred, then snuggled closer against him, one hand on his chest, over his heart.
Harry smiled, closed his eyes—and closed his arms about her.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3364-9
AN UNWILLING CONQUEST
Copyright © 1996 by Stephanie Laurens.
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