Page 112 of The Runaway Duchess

She was staring at him, memorizing the craggy planes of his face.

“You’ve been released from your contract.” He stroked his hand down her throat. His calloused fingers lay on her pulse. She closed her eyes.

“Legally.” She inhaled a shuddering breath. “Not socially.”

The black behind her eyes was the black of mourning veils and hearses.

“What does Miss Laliberté care for social mores?”

Her eyes flew open. He’d arched a humorous brow.

“It remains to be seen,” she said, a trifle stiffly. Bad enough that he’d discussed her with Lucy. What had Mr. De’Ath reported?

She sighed. “Many things remain to be seen.”

“We know you can keep all your fingers.” He teased her. That playful tone, its presumption of a bond of affection, of mutual understanding—it set off tiny bursts of delight inside her.

He stooped low, suddenly, and rose with a new expression.

“Would you keep this?” With quick, precise motions, he twisted the thin stem of a daisy around her ring finger, the bloom resting just below her first knuckle.

Her eyes felt too big for her face, too hot, too full.

He cleared his throat. This rough-hewn, forthright, confident man—for a split second, he looked almost shy. “Just until I replace it with a gold one.”

“It is gold.” Her voice was hoarse. She lifted her hand, put her nose to the brilliant disc, haloed by white florets.

And sneezed.

Oh Lord.

She blinked at him. “Was that a bad sign?”

“No worse than any other sign we’ve gotten. Better than most.” He was grinning, such a gorgeous, giddy-making grin. “You and I will have to make our own luck.”

Fine with her. Fate hadn’t been her friend.

Until now. Come to think of it, she’d made a few new friends.

Words failed and so she hitched up her skirt and hopped, kicking her feet. Neal clapped his hands and laughed, but his gaze held more than gaiety. It had sharpened.

He devoured her with his eyes.

She felt a hot thrill. She commanded this look, this desire. She smiled and let her skirt swish back around her ankles.

“I practiced,” she confessed. She had, on nights anxieties drove her from her bed in Weston Hall. She’d jigged, to exhaust herself, and to remember how it felt, to dance with him.

“No barrel.” He tipped his head. “Pity. Formal gardens do have their drawbacks. Certain activities prove impossible.”

She watched his chest move with his quickened breath. Her chest moved just as quickly.

“But others suggest themselves.” The curve of his mouth beckoned.

She stepped into him before she was aware of what she did. She fit like magic into the lee of his chest. His heavy arms wrapped her. She was surrounded. Everywhere, his solidity, a strength that, even if it hurt, would never harm. When he kissed her—hard—bending her back, the force of it was just what she craved. With a jerk, he lifted her up, swept an arm beneath her knees, and began to walk. She strained upward to kiss the softness beneath his chin. So much of his flesh was dense, unyieldingly hard. She felt a weird frisson of power when she touched this vulnerable spot.

Here was a form of trust, his exposure of his most tender points. Her exposure of hers.

She kissed down his neck, twisting in his arms.