“How thoughtful of him.” Damien’s voice was flat with suppressed anger. “Testing the waters, no doubt. Seeing how much we know and whether I’m amenable to negotiation.”
“Precisely why I believe we should accept.” Eleanor moved closer, acutely aware of his masculine presence, the way his broad chest expanded with each breath. “If he’s planning to leverage Lady Laura’s situation for political gain, we need to understand his strategy. This dinner may be our only opportunity to determine what’s happened to her and gather intelligence about what he truly wants from you.”
“Eleanor, it’s too dangerous. If he’s taken Laura hostage—”
“Then he’s already shown his hand,” she interrupted. “He thinks he holds all the advantages, believes he’s caused a rift between us. Let him continue believing that while we gather the information we need to turn his own trap against him.”
Damien’s eyes darkened as he studied her face. “And you think you can manage such a performance? Pretending indifference toward me?”
The question hung between them, loaded with dangerous undercurrents. Eleanor felt her heartbeat stutter beneath his burning gaze, her traitorous body awakening to his nearness.
“I think,” she said carefully, “that it will require very little pretense on my part.”
“Will it?” Damien stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the familiar scent of sandalwood and bergamot, could see the way his pupils dilated as his gaze dropped briefly to her lips. “You truly believe you’re unaffected by me?”
Eleanor’s breath caught as heat bloomed in her chest, spreading outward until her entire body hummed with awareness. “I believe you overestimate your charms, Your Grace.”
“Do I?” His voice had dropped to that rough register that never failed to send shivers down her spine. “I must be out of practice because I could swear I detected a certain… responsiveness in your bearing.”
“You’re delusional,” she whispered, even as her body swayed slightly toward his, drawn by some invisible force she couldn’t resist.
“Perhaps I am…” Damien reached up, his fingers trailing along her jaw with devastating gentleness. “Fascinating, for someone who sees me as merely a fortune hunter—your pulse is racing, Eleanor. Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing has become quite shallow.”
She should step away. Should maintain the distance necessary to maintain her upper hand. Instead, she found herself leaning into his touch, her lips parting slightly as his thumb traced their contours.
“This proves nothing,” she managed, though her voice lacked conviction.
“No… it does not…” His other hand settled at her waist, drawing her closer until mere inches separated them. “If you’re truly unaffected, then this shouldn’t disturb you at all.”
Before she could form a response, Damien’s mouth claimed hers with hungry urgency. This kiss was raw need given form, desperate and demanding. His lips moved against hers with skillful precision, coaxing a response she was powerless to deny.
Eleanor’s hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer as rational thought dissolved beneath the onslaught of sensation. He tasted of mint and something darker, more dangerous. His tongue traced the seam of her lips until she opened for him with a soft moan that seemed to inflame him further.
The kiss deepened, grew more urgent. Damien’s hand tangled in her hair, destroying her careful arrangement as he angled her head to take the kiss deeper still. His other hand cupped her bottom, molding her against his hard length until she could feel his arousal burning against her hip.
Heat pooled low in Eleanor’s belly, liquid fire racing through her veins as Damien’s mouth moved with devastating skill against hers. She could feel herself melting, her barriers collapsing beneath his assault on her senses.
When they finally broke apart, both were breathing heavily. Eleanor’s hair had come partially undone, copper tendrils framing her flushed face. Damien’s shirt was wrinkled where her fingers had gripped it, his own breathing ragged.
“Well,” he said, his voice rough but smug, “I believe that answers my question about your responsiveness.”
Heat flooded her cheeks as doubt crept in. Had he kissed her only to prove a point?
“You are insufferable,” she said, attempting to gather the remnants of her dignity as she smoothed her disheveled hair.
“And you,” he replied with a grin that was pure masculine satisfaction, “are a terrible liar.”
Eleanor’s blush deepened. Without another word, she turned and fled toward the house, his low chuckle following her retreat.
As she reached the safety of her study, Eleanor pressed her fingers to her still-tingling lips. Friday’s dinner party would test her resolve in ways she hadn’t anticipated. Because despite her protests, despite her determination to remain detached, Damien Westmore was systematically dismantling every defense she possessed.
Dirt
Damien stepped intoAbram’s opulent Chancery Lane office and surveyed the expensive mahogany furniture, Persian carpets, and crystal decanters that spoke of the solicitor’s affluent clients.
Abram looked up from his leather-topped desk, his pale eyes widening with alarm. Despite his expensive clothing, the man’s face bore the haggard look of someone who hadn’t slept well in months.
“Your Grace,” Abram stammered, rising unsteadily. “What an unexpected honor.”