“Are you suffering now?”

“Not yet.”

“But you will.”

“Most likely.”

She gazed out the window as well, finding it much easier to speak looking outside rather than directly at him. “I suspect I’ll never marry,” she said quietly.

“Indeed?”

“I know I’m strong willed, outspoken, and that men prefer a biddable woman when it comes to a wife. I’m not very skilled at being biddable.”

“Indeed?”

She heard humor laced through his voice.

“If you’re not going to converse don’t be patronizing.”

“My apologies. There is little I can expound on when the truth is spoken.”

He was going to make this difficult or perhaps he was simply too dense to follow where she was leading with this. She twisted her head to look at him and discovered he was watching her, his eyes smoldering as they had that night at the first ball he’d ever attended. He wanted her. She knew it as surely as she knew that she wanted him.

He had the appearance of a gentleman but he was a scoundrel at heart, and she was depending on that aspect of his character now, hoping beyond hope that it’d not let her down.

“I don’t wish to die without knowing what it is to lie with a man—”

“You’re not going to die,” he ground out, his voice fairly seething, and she realized that he thought she was referring to her imminent demise when they faced Avendale.

Although she realized it was a very real possibility and made her decision to come to his room seem all the more right. “I’m not expecting an early death,” she assured him. “I know you’ll see to Avendale. I’m talking years from now, and I’m talking tonight. I want my first time to be with a man of passion. I know you love Frannie, but you are not, as yet, officially betrothed, so I thought perhaps you would…” She lowered her gaze. “I care for you. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

He placed his knuckles beneath her chin and tilted her head back until he could hold her gaze. “I can’t have you in my bed without having you, Catherine. I’m not a saint.”

“I don’t want a saint. I’ve always been of the opinion that if a woman were going to stray from the righteous path and seek out wickedness, she would be far more satisfied lying in bed with the devil.”

His fingers unfurled and he cradled her face. “Be certain, Catherine, because once this is done, it can’t be undone.”

Very slowly, very deliberately, she unbuttoned her dressing gown and slid it off her shoulders, very much aware of it slithering along her bare body and pooling on the floor, very much aware of his breathing turning ragged, his eyes darkening with desire.

Reaching out, he cradled her face between his large hands. She knew the strength they held, knew the comfort they could deliver. His thumbs circled her cheeks, stroked the corners of her mouth, while his gaze never left hers, as though he were measuring her readiness, as though her standing there bare-assed was not proof enough.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever known a woman as beautiful as you, Lady Catherine Mabry.

You humble me by coming to me tonight.”

“Do you have to talk so much?”

He grinned at her, a warm grin, filled with understanding. “I don’t have to speak at all.”

Then he lowered his mouth to hers, and any semblance of civility between them was washed away as his tongue plundered. There was a rumble deep in his chest, a growl that required from her an answering moan. He moved his hands to the back of her head, scraped his fingers along her scalp, threaded them through her unbound hair, angling her head so he could kiss her more deeply, as though he would devour her, as though he could never have enough her.

Lord knew she’d never have enough of him. She closed the small gap that separated his body from hers, her hands seeking and finding the knotted sash of his robe, her fingers frantically working it loose until the sash fell away and the robe parted. Without thought, without shame, she pressed her bare breasts against his bared chest. The warmth of him, the velvetiness of his skin felt so marvelous. Her nipples hardened into tight little buds that pulled at the core of her womanhood. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him close, running her hands up and down his broad back.

All the while, his mouth clung to hers.

His muscles rippled beneath her fingers as he shrugged out of the robe. Now nothing separated them. She was aware of his heat burning against her belly. Hard. Hot. Growing damp.

He tore his mouth from hers. “I shall spill my seed all over you before I ever get you to bed.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“It will be,” he rasped. “I have no doubt it will be.”

He lifted her into his arms and began carrying her to the bed. She ran her hands over his shoulders, his chest. She wanted to know how he came to have every scar that she pressed her lips to, ran her tongue over. He had only the lightest smattering of hair in the center of his chest, and she wove her fingers through it. She kissed his neck, damp with sweat, nibbled on his earlobe, heard him growl, and bit lightly. His growl deepened.

He laid her on the bed. The covers had already been turned down. The sheet was cool against her back. She was hot, so very hot. The rain continued to patter against the pane, so they couldn’t open the window. There was no hope for it. Tonight she’d burn in hell, and she’d never wanted anything more.

She scooted over so he could join her, but instead he sat on the foot of the bed where he ran his hands over her ankles, her calves. He kissed her toes, her knees, the inside of her thighs, her stomach, stretching his body over her before rising up above her and gazing down on her. She thought she should feel shame at the way he looked at her so blatantly, but all she felt was joy because she could see that he found her pleasing.