She reached for his hand. “Mr. Yale,” she managed to whisper, “you must not—”

His thumb slipped beneath her bodice. She moaned. He caught her mouth with his and his fingers stroked, and she did not protest. She trembled and told herself that this was all right because she could not stop him. He was too strong and she hadn’t the will for it.

He pressed her body against the door with his own, trapping his hand within her garments, against her skin. She felt weak in his arms, the sheer size of him and his touch more than pleasure. She slid her hands to his shoulders, slipping them about his neck, feeling fine linen then skin—his skin, hot and wonderfully male—and into his hair. His mouth left hers to sink to her neck and she twined her fingers through his short, satiny locks.

“Ohh.” There was nothing like this. Nothing had prepared her for touching a man so, or being touched by him. There could be nothing better than this, nothing more wonderful.

His fingers snagged in her garments, dragged the fabric down, and exposed her breasts, and swiftly Diantha discovered that there could in fact be something better.

She had always hated her breasts, too big and soft drooping over her big belly. But now even without that belly they were still ungainly, and there were the ugly stretch marks along the sides. She’d taken comfort in the notion that no one would ever see any of it.

Now Mr. Yale could see, but he seemed entirely disinterested in looking.

Touching was another matter altogether. He touched, his hips pinning hers to the door, his mouth caressing her neck deliciously, and he stroked her breasts and did remarkable things with the nipples that made Diantha feel she might simply perish of pleasure. She heard herself make little whimpering sounds and could not seem to withhold them. She gripped the back of his neck and struggled to keep his mouth upon her throat where it made her feel insanely good. But she also wanted him kissing her again.

Then he did kiss her, but not on her mouth.

He grabbed her hands from about his shoulders in a firm grip, then he dipped to her breast and licked it.

“Mr. Yale.” She could barely muster sound, her breaths broken. His jaw was rough against her tender skin.

“This is what men do to girls who beg for kisses, Miss Lucas.” His hands trapped her wrists to her sides with such little effort. “These are the kisses they receive.” He licked her again, passing across a tight nipple then circling around it, then circling again barely skimming the peak. Then again, still avoiding the center. She squirmed, sunk in the pleasure he was giving her with this scandalous intimacy. Finally he kissed the nipple again. Her knees went to water. How could such a thing feel this good? And how could she be allowing it?

His grip on her hands was like iron. His teeth slid across the tight peak.

“Oh, please,” she gasped, not certain whether she pleaded to be released or for more.

He pulled her mouth beneath his again. His hand tangled in her skirts, drawing them up swiftly, so swiftly the heat of his palm slipped along her thigh before she could gather breath to object.

Finally, she panicked.

“Please, no.” She pushed her skirts down, against his hand pressing up. “Mr. Yale, you mustn’t— Uh!”

He touched her, where she was most hot and wet and private, and she ceased struggling. She ceased breathing. She ceased existing except to be touched by him like this.

“But I must.” His voice seemed so deep. His fingers stroked across her flesh, certain, meeting the needy ache. He touched her on the surface but she felt it inside and everywhere, her breasts throbbing with hunger, her thighs wanting to close around his wrist.

“Yes,” she whispered, quivering, then “Yes” again when his fingertips skirted her entrance. Then she felt him enter her.

“Oh-h, Go-od.” She closed her eyes, his lips brushing hers, his hand around her neck. “You should not do this.” Her words were a mere breath, entirely unconvinced, her body ecstatic in his hands.

“This is more than you wanted?” He pushed his finger in again, fully this time. She gasped into his mouth. She felt him completely, so deeply pleasurable inside her it made her want to scream.

“Yes. No. I didn’t know— Ohh.” Now she did not impede his efforts; she aided them. She pressed onto him, the feeling of him inside her making her wild. She wrapped her hands around his shoulders and welcomed him into her mouth and she knew he would have her now as a man had a woman. His kiss was hard, his hand ungentle, driving the need within her higher, tighter, deeper. She felt his desperation. She wanted his desperation. He bit at her lips, a groan rumbling in his chest she felt against her breasts, his fingers commanding her.

“Diantha.” It was a sound of protest, and anger.

He dragged his hand from beneath her skirts, gripped her head and kissed her over and over, crushing her against the wall, harder, and then brutally. She could not breathe. She ached. Her body burned. Her lungs screamed. She pushed at his shoulders, then shoved, then struggled.

He released her, falling back a step. She gulped in air. His gaze swept over her, black in the moonlit chamber, and perfectly, horribly empty.

She clutched her arms across her chest, trembling.

He reached forward, and she flinched. He blinked, then again, his breaths uneven. He grabbed the door handle and pulled the panel wide. Then he was out in the corridor and gone.

Diantha stood there—she did not know for how long—growing cold and shaking in the dark. He did not return.

After some time, when her heart had nearly regained its regular rhythm and her breathing slowed, she rearranged her garments, smoothed her hair back from her face, and went to her bedchamber, to the snores of Mrs. Polley, to her traveling trunk full of her belongings, to everything that seemed common and simple and safe. Unlike the rawness of her swollen lips, the thrumming readiness in her body, the frustrated coil that promised something much greater, she suspected, than he had allowed her. Unlike the man who had made her feel wanted because he was drunk.

Chapter 12

During the night the rain returned. The ostler muttered about moldy straw and hoof rot while Wyn harnessed Sir Henry’s horses to the carriage. With unsteady hands he affixed the tether to Lady Priscilla’s halter then to Galahad’s saddle and drew them into the alley.

A pair of boys tossed a ball against a wall, Ramses scrambling after it, a cock and his harem scuffled about puddles for seed and corn, and despite the drizzle the town was awake with morning business. Across the street a bakery bustled with early patrons, a farmer’s cart laden with bales of grain trundled in the direction of the mill, and laborers and townsmen passed in and out of the inn’s taproom for their morning pint. Wyn tied Galahad to the tethering post and tossed a coin to a lad sitting idle beneath the archway.

“Watch the horses,” he said in the language of his countrymen, the language he had not employed in years until the previous day. The lad tugged his cap and leaped up.

Wyn drew in a long breath and moved toward the doorway to the inn. She appeared there, dressed in cloak and bonnet, bandbox in hand, shoulders square. She did not disappoint his expectations; she came straight to him.

“Good morning, sir. Mrs. Polley is finishing her tea and will be out directly. But I suspected it would be best for us to address this swiftly rather than await an opportunity for private conversation later, so I am here.” She held her chin high, no missishness or shame about her. But her gaze was not without wariness, and a soft flush of pink colored her cheeks.

“Miss Lucas, I am profoundly grieved over the offense I offered you last night.” The words he had been practicing to himself silently since he rose were, nevertheless, not easy to speak aloud. “If you wish it, I will give you my name.”

She stared, lashes fanned out from eyes as wide as astonishment could fashion, her perfect berry lips a perfect O. Then a small, choked sound came forth: “Oh.”

She did not elaborate.

“It is a modest name as carried by my branch of the family, but respectable,” he continued. “I must leave it to you to decide whether you require the protection of it now.”

Her thick lashes flickered, the swift beat of a hummingbird’s wings suspended in the moment above the gaping violation of what he had done to her.

Finally she blinked once and said, “Thank you. That will not be necessary.”

He swallowed over the sickening sensation of his deliverance. And hers. “Are you quite certain?”

“Yes. My future lies with Mr. H. It has long been anticipated. And, of course, he did not offer for me at gunpoint.”

“No one is pointing a gun at me.”

“Only your conscience, I suspect, which is probably more noxious to you than any weapon. Anyway, the relevant fact is that I am already spoken for.”

They stood for a moment like that, silent, while it seemed she might speak again. But she did not.

“Then, pray allow me to apologize.”

“Apologize?” Her mouth popped open, providing him a glimpse of the temptation within. “But weren’t you trying to teach me a lesson?”

Good God. “No.”

“No? Then . . . ?”

He could say nothing. She did this to him, robbed him of words, and at the moment he was grateful for it.

“You needn’t apologize.” Her gaze darted away now, twisting the burning in Wyn’s belly. “You know, I think it would be better sometimes to be French. French people seem to toss off uncomfortable incidents without the slightest tickle of conscience.”

“Miss Lucas, I beg you will forgive—”

“Truly, it isn’t necessary.” Her fingers gripped the cord of her bandbox, stretching the leather over her knuckles.

“Please, allow me to—”

“I do not require—”

“Woman, let me apologize.”

Her gaze returned to him. “But you needn’t apologize. You did not intend—” She halted, then: “You were not at fault.”

He stared. “Forgive me for disagreeing, but you have a peculiar notion of suitable behavior for a gentleman.”

“I don’t, really. But while I do not understand the particulars of your acquaintance with Mr. Eads, it is clear to me that your encounter with him was not a simple matter, and I cannot blame you for drinking to excess last night.”

“You are too generous. Also misguided not to blame me for a great deal more than that.”

Her lips twisted up. “Well, then claim the blame if you must, but allow me a share of it too. I should not have encouraged you. But I have learned my lesson and I shan’t do that again.”

“You needn’t have concern. I will not harass you further.”

Her eyes seemed to retreat again. “You will not?”

“I will not.” He wanted to now. Even with his head aching and regret fierce, he wanted to take her body in his hands and enjoy what he hadn’t been clear-headed enough to enjoy when he’d had the opportunity. “I will not touch you again. Upon my honor.”

The graceful column of her throat constricted in a jerky swallow. “You said if I asked you again to kiss me that you would take me home. Do you intend to take me home now?”

He should. He must. “I recall no such request last night.”

The wide blue eyes lit again with hope. “You don’t?”

He shook his head. In fact he remembered only one thing with piercing clarity, the reason he had released her finally. And it had not been her halfhearted protests.

“I suppose that is for the best,” she said with a wrinkle of her brow. “If you tried to take me home, I would be obliged to escape you again.”

“You would not succeed.”

She took a decisive breath. “We have had this debate before. I think we must agree to disagree. In any case, the point is moot.” A twinkle lit her eyes. “Presently.” Her spirit was irrepressible.

“Miss Lucas.”

“Yes?”

His chest felt tight, his heartbeats fast. “Forgive me.”

“If you can forgive yourself, we shall call it even.” The corner of her lips twitched. “Again.”

Mrs. Polley emerged from the inn. “Rain and more rain. We’ll be soaked through.” She bustled forth, traveling bag clutched in round fingers.

“Oh, not at all.” Miss Lucas flashed her an encouraging smile. “The carriage has a—” Her gaze shifted and her face brightened. “Isn’t this a coincidence? We know that boy.” She moved toward the lad holding Galahad’s lead. “Hello. Do you remember me? We shared a coach a few days ago, the Mail from Manchester. This gentleman was sitting beside you that afternoon. Was this your destination?”