The Art of Ruining a Rake Read Free Page A

claimed to have dwelt on her memory. She couldn’t help but feel proud. Perhaps he had. But not because she’d left her mark on his heart—she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that. Because Roman wore anguish as fashionably as a new cravat, and she’d used his mawkishness to her advantage. For in her years of watching him from afar, she’d come to the conclusion that while he pretended to care overly much about everything, in truth, he cared about nothing at all.
    “You like abject misery,” she said accusingly. “Your closest acquaintances are your blue devils.”
    His face darkened, an unexpected indication that there might be something real buried beneath his polished veneer. He cocked his head as if studying a fascinating specimen. Her. “That’s true. My poet’s heart is built for pining. That hardly means I haven’t felt every hour we’ve been apart. Every minute you’ve been,” he began his advance again, “hiding from me.”
    Oh, devil take the man. There was only so much nonsense she could withstand before it became trying. “Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”
    She craned her neck as he came close enough to tower over her. She wasn’t afraid. For six long months, she’d erected a solid wall around her heart, isolating memories of their one night together. Instead of thinking of him, she’d poured her passion into her school, into her work, into her future. Not into thoughts of his perfect mouth on hers. Not into recalling those vivid blue eyes, or the feel of his naked, muscled body against hers. A man this contemptible couldn’t possibly cause a rational young lady like her a moment’s weakness—
    He bent and seared her lips with his. The passion she’d smothered for six long months roared to life. She didn’t like him. She hadn’t missed him. But she’d never forgotten this . She tasted him and breathed in the smell of him. Through months of carefully crafted control, she managed not to reach for him. But her urge to touch him swelled to bursting.
    She dug her fingernails into her upper arms and resisted. She shouldn’t let him kiss her. She certainly shouldn’t be kissing him . But…
    As long as he was here, dressed in his London finery, as handsome as an archangel and drawing his tongue along hers in slow promise, what reason did she have to stophim? All she must do was remain one step ahead. Lead him to his destruction, not the other way around. By his own admission, wasn’t she winning?
    His hands cupped her shoulders through her dove gray gown. He used his height to coerce her one step backward, until her shoulders bumped against the door. She moaned against his lips. He wanted her. He desired her. He’d come all this way to kiss her again.
    It was a heady power.
    His hands slid along her upper arms. She tightened her forearms more firmly across her bodice. As though recognizing the wall between them, he encircled her wrists with his fingers. His knuckles brushed the bottom of her bosom as he gently pried her limbs from their shield.
    Nothing stood between them now but their clothes…and their past.
    His thumbs caressed her palms. Then his hands were on her, attempting to feel her shape through her stays. She tilted her head to one side and allowed him to trail hot kisses along her neck and against the ruffled fichu tucked into her bodice. One advantage of bringing London’s most notorious rake to heel was that he knew exactly how to make it worth her while.
    “Miss Lancester,” he said between ticklish nibbles, “tell me you missed me, too.”
    The blond stubble on his jaw glinted in the afternoon sun. His eyes were half-closed. He was so beautifully handsome, she could turn into a puddle of want at his feet.
    No. She wanted him at her feet. And then she wanted him gone.
    She angled her chin so he could kiss the delicate skin under her earlobe. “I would never say such a thing.”
    Without warning, he lifted her and swept her to the desk. Papers slid from the