Undercover Duke

take her lips once more. This time his kiss was savage, needy, a kiss that made her want him drinking forever from her mouth. She lifted her hand to fondle his glorious ash-brown curls, following them down to his neck, which she then gripped as he’d done hers.
He laid his other hand on her waist, but not for long. Giving her another hungry kiss, he slid his hand up to finger her ribs, as if counting them. Then, to her shock, he covered her breast.
She tore her mouth from his. “Sheridan! What are you about?”
“Showing you, my sweet minx, how difficult it is for me to be a gentleman around you when all I can think about is touching and teasing you, trying to tempt you as thoroughly as you tempt me.”
Good Lord, perhaps Sheridan was a poet himself. He certainly made her feel like swooning. Except that if she did, she would miss this, and she wanted to squeeze every carnal drop from his caresses. He rubbed one breast through her thin gown, making her skin feel as tight as a peach’s. Then he fingered her nipple with a shocking deftness. Oh, my. He certainly knew what he was about. She hadn’t expected that.
His breath quickened, and hers did, too, as if attempting to catch and share his rhythm. When she uttered a low moan and arched her back to push her breast more firmly into his hand, he lowered his mouth to suck her neck, hard enough that, when combined with his fondling, it sent a frisson of pleasure through her, making her lift up on tiptoe.
“You’re . . . you’re turning me . . . into a wanton,” she gasped.
He gave a dark chuckle. “Or perhaps just unveiling the wanton you’ve kept buried inside.” He pulled her shawl away to stare down at the swells of her breasts. “Not that I mind. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to taste these.” Then he buried his mouth between her breasts and began to kiss and lick them at the same time he was pushing them higher from beneath, plumping them up for his tongue.
Lord help her. She wanted to die. She wanted to fly. Mostly she wanted to throw herself into his arms and never let him go. Dared she hope that this time he was finally hers?

Chapter Eleven
Sheridan knew what he was doing was wrong, and he didn’t care. Seeing her in Juncker’s arms had unleashed an unholy hunger in him. He wanted to stamp out every trace of Juncker, to claim her for his own . . . even knowing such an attempt would be disastrous. Her mercurial nature, which kept him oddly entertained, would also make her a terrible duchess.
But damn, how she moved him. Her mouth, so tender and sweet. Her skin, soft as feather beds. And her bountiful breasts, which he wanted to suck so desperately that he considered somehow getting them out of her gown and corset and shift. Here. In the half light of dusk. In a public garden.
God save him. His cock felt as if it would burst the seams of his smallclothes, and his hands itched to lift her skirts. One had already begun doing so, inching them up slyly as if acting independently of his brain.
He wanted her so badly.
“Sheridan,” she whispered, “we can’t do such things here.”
“I know,” he said. “I just . . . can’t seem to get enough of you.”
He would do penance for saying that later, but for now he didn’t care about anything but licking her silky skin, stroking and caressing her under her skirts to see if she was as hot for him as he was for her. Because if she was, then perhaps she had lost interest in Juncker. Perhaps he could step in.
Not that it mattered. Not that he cared. For him, it was only desire, nothing more. He was helping her make Juncker jealous. That was all.
Liar.
He lifted his head to kiss her throat. He wished he could take down her hair, but that was definitely unwise. Instead, he settled for tonguing the pulse that beat in her neck, while his hands roamed her body, taking shameless liberties. He memorized a curve here, a sensitive patch of skin there, finding her wildly responsive to his every touch. Between her gasps and his moans, they were making an unwise amount of noise. Perhaps they should—
“She’s here, I tell you,” came Lady Eustace’s voice. “Look, I see them. That scoundrel!”
Sheridan straightened and released Vanessa in one fluid motion, but it was too late. The unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked disturbed the quiet of the garden square.
“Step away from my niece, sir. Or I swear you will not live beyond this moment.”
Vanessa’s uncle. Bloody hell. Nothing like the sound of a gun cocking to make one’s own cock stand down. Which was a small blessing, he supposed.
“Uncle Noah, you can’t—” Vanessa began.
“Be quiet now, my dear,” Sir Noah said in a deadly voice. “You and I will talk in a bit. Go with your mother.”
“Do as he says,” Sheridan ordered. “I will be along shortly.”
“If he doesn’t kill you first!” Vanessa cried.
Her concern for him was a balm to his wounded dignity. The dignity he had recklessly tossed aside for a taste of her.
Yet he did not regret it, fool that he was.
“Go on,” Sheridan ordered.
“Listen to Armitage,” Sir Noah said.
With a sigh, Sheridan faced Sir Noah.
Lady Eustace motioned to Vanessa. “Come with me, young lady. Your uncle will settle this.”
When Vanessa looked as if she might refuse to go, Sheridan said, “I promise I won’t be long. And there will be no dueling or any of that nonsense, if that’s what worries you.”
“Do you swear it?” Vanessa asked in an oddly panicked voice. As if she actually cared what happened to him.
Perhaps she did, at least a little. “I swear it.”
Reluctantly, Vanessa let her mother pull her away.
As soon as they were gone, Sir Noah