Meet Me at Midnight Read Free Page A

yet.” The marquis slid his hand beneath her elbow, keeping her close beside him, and guided her along the path winding around to the pond.
    Uncertain anticipation ran hot just beneath her skin. Light as Lord Althorpe’s touch was, she sensed the strength underneath, a hint enough to know that she couldn’t pull free from his grip if she wanted to. Far from frightening her, he aroused her in a way no other man had ever managed. She wondered what his lips would taste like, how they would feel pressed against hers.
    They stopped beneath the purple overhanging blossoms of a wisteria, the scent of the flowers drifting about and encircling them in heavy summer sweetness. “Now,” he murmured, facing her, his palm still cupping her elbow, “where were we? Ah, yes. I was rendering you…an explanation.”
    Victoria met his gaze, golden and catlike in the torchlight. She was very aware of the steel beneath the velvet of his grip; the isolated quiet broken only by the muted chatter of voices and violins and the rustle of the wind, and even the way he had positioned her between the heavy wisteria branches and his lean, hard body—two equally immovable objects.
    Whatever it was, he wanted something. Something from her. “I was wrong earlier,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. Sin was a powerful temptation, indeed.
    His gaze drifted down the length of her gown and returned to her face. “Wrong about what?”
    “When I first saw you, I thought you resembled your brother. You don’t.”
    With one long finger he reached out and brushed a straying lock of hair from her face. “How well did you know old wooden head?”
    A tremble ran down Victoria’s spine at the feather-light touch. Her involuntary response bothered her,since his callousness offended her. “The Marquis of Althorpe was well respected.”
    The finger traced her cheekbone. “And I’m not? That’s hardly a revelation.”
    Good God, he was making her shiver . “I don’t comprehend why you speak so poorly of your own brother,” she countered, trying to keep her voice steady, “particularly when everyone else admired him.”
    He studied her face in the flickering torchlight, and she had the sense that something besides flirtation had his interest. “Apparently not everyone admired him,” he countered. “Someone did put a ball through his head.”
    Victoria stiffened. “Don’t you care at all that he’s dead?”
    Althorpe shrugged. “Dead is dead.” His fingers traced the curve of her ear. “Did I hear Marley call you the Vixen?”
    Suddenly things made sense. “Was this entire conversation an attempt to get Vixen Fontaine into the garden, so you could brag about it to all your friends?”
    The marquis froze for a heartbeat, then softly caressed the corner of her mouth with his thumb. “What if it was?” His sensuous mouth curved into a slow smile that stopped her breath. “But I don’t have any friends. Only rivals.”
    “So you want to kiss me.”
    “Surely that doesn’t surprise you.” He tilted his head, his gaze lowering to her lips. “You’ve been kissed before, no doubt. By Marley, perhaps?”
    Her lips felt dry, and she resisted the impulse to lick them. “Innumerable times. And not just by Marley.”
    “But not by me.”
    Then his mouth closed over hers.
    Pulsing heat coursed through her. She was used to being in control—of both her emotions and her encounters with men. Yet as his lips molded to hers, teasing and pulling and consuming, she felt anything but in control. Her mind, her heart, all her senses were spinning—more wildly than they ever had in Marley’s arms.
    Althorpe’s hands cupped her face as he tasted her. With a breathless sigh that didn’t sound at all like her, Victoria slid her arms up around his shoulders, pulling herself closer against him.
    He slowly bent her back until she leaned against the gnarled trunk of the tree. Warm, sure fingers slid down her shoulders, pausing to caress her waist, then her