They call him the Devil Earl-a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Hero Fiennes Tiffin , but Lady Josephine Langford...
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If Josephine hadn't been standing so extremely close to Claybourne that their hearts fairly beat in the same erratic rhythm, she'd have thought he'd received a brutal blow. Although he seemed to recover quickly enough as he released his hold on her and stepped back, his face once more an unreadable mask.
His expression had been just as inscrutable when he'd first walked into the room. While she was certain his butler had told him that a lady had come to call, Claybourne had not even looked surprised to discover she was the one waiting for him. It was only when he'd drawn back from the kiss that she'd seen any emotion at all, and she could have sworn it was desire. Desire for her specifically? Hardly likely. It was no doubt nothing more than lust unleashed and the particular woman standing before him of no consequence.
He was known for flirting at the edge of respectability, and he was no doubt accustomed to dragging others over the precipice with him. But to her immense shame, she couldn't help but think it would be a lovely way to go. In the secret recesses of her mind where wickedness lurked, she'd dreamed of him kissing her, but never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined that his lips would be so soft, his mouth so hot, his tongue so determined to have its way. What their mouths had been doing was quite uncivilized, and even though she knew she should have stepped away, she should have objected, she should have slapped him, all she'd wanted was to deepen the intimacy. He tasted of a flavor she'd never before experienced. He was bold with his explorations, enticing her to forget all she'd learned of decorum.
With his mouth playing over hers, he'd succeeded in making her body thrum madly and burn with desire as it never had. She'd been halfway tempted to follow where he was leading, but more was at stake than satisfying her own yearnings. His earlier words had convinced her that he'd hold no respect for her if she succumbed to his charms, as no doubt many a woman had before her, and at this stage of the game she needed to have the upper hand.
Giving her his back, he walked to a small table where an assortment of crystal decanters rested. He took the top off one and poured amber liquid into one glass, and then another.
"Dispensed with? Such gentle words. I assume you mean you want someone killed," he stated
flatly.
"Yes." Reaching down, she gathered up her pelisse, holding it close as though it had the power to stop her trembling. Dear God, but she wanted to reach out to him, run her hands over his back, his shoulders. She wanted to comb her fingers through his thick, black hair. She wanted to press her body against his. Waltz with the devil, indeed. Lord save her, she wanted to lie with him.
Turning from the table, he held a glass toward her. Swallowing hard, forcing her body not to reveal its inner quivering, she reached for the glass, pausing as her gaze fell on the inside of his right thumb, scarred with a series of raised welts as though someone had repeatedly slashed at him. Upon further inspection, she realized more than a knife had been used. He'd been burned as well.
