Tempting Mr. Townsend (Dashing Widows #2)

Chapter Eight

F enella's resistance dissolved in an ocean of wildfire. Everything was heat, strength, dominance.

Mr. Townsend crushed her against him while his mouth plundered hers. For too long, shock held her rigid. Then she made a muffled protest and struggled to push him away. He only growled deep in his throat and folded her closer into that big body.

She felt seized, conquered, compelled. And wickedly, unforgivably excited.

Her hands closed into fists and she beat on those wide, straight shoulders. When that didn't work, she pulled sharply at his thick, black hair and struggled to ignore its silky texture against her fingers.

He wrenched free and stared down at her with an appalled expression. His arms fell away from her. She sucked air into her lungs and prayed that her knees supported her. Her heart banged crazily against her ribs.

“Oh, hell, Fenella, I'm sorry.”

She slumped breathlessly against the door, the oak hard against her back. As hard as Mr. Townsend's body. His rich male scent, brandy and sandalwood and clean healthy skin, teased her overstimulated senses.

“You…you shouldn't have done that,” she said unsteadily.

She raised a shaking hand to lips that still burned. The kiss had lasted a mere sizzling second—although it had seemed an eternity. She'd forgotten the way huge, potent maleness could wrap around her and exclude the rest of the world. Although when it came to size and potency, Mr. Townsend completely eclipsed dear, loving Henry, the only other man she'd ever kissed.

The thought, however accurate, struck her as disloyal. Self-disgust straightened her backbone in a way nothing else could. “You didn't act like a gentleman.”

“But then I'm not a gentleman.”

She should be furious that he'd manhandled her, yet strangely, she wasn't. Perhaps because while he'd been masterful, he hadn't been rough. Which should be no excuse.

“I must go.”

Except that her feet remained stubbornly glued to the floor. And Mr. Townsend remained far too close. Close enough for his warmth to entice her.

When Henry died, a great and eternal coldness had descended that not even her love for Brandon could vanquish.

Apparently the chill wasn't eternal after all. Cold was the last word to describe her reaction to that impetuous kiss. She'd never imagined she could feel like this again. She'd never wanted to feel like this again.

“Damn you, Fenella,” he rasped. His body vibrated with tension, and he looked ready to fight an army single-handed. “If you're going, go. Or take the consequences.”

Staring up at him, she flattened her palms against the door behind her. She should be terrified. But fear, like anger, proved elusive. Instead she was curious to discover if that immense strength could cherish as well as insist.

How brazen.

And dangerous. Mr. Townsend blazed with desire. She shouldn't encourage him. But dear heaven, that warmth drew her, reminded her that through nearly six empty years, no man had placed his hands on her in passion.

She shivered. His ferocious need was shamefully thrilling. Henry, for all his bravery as a soldier, had been the gentlest of men off the battlefield. Mr. Townsend looked ready to gobble her up with one snap of those strong white teeth.

He misunderstood her trembling silence. “After that gaucherie, you have no reason to believe me, but you're safe.”

“I know I am.” She hardly recognized the reedy voice as hers.

His face, all harsh angles and hard male determination, filled with a tenderness that reminded her how careful he'd been with Carey. Even now, when he burned for her, he kept his hands off her.

Which suddenly struck her as a pity.

Misgivings receded under a wave of need. With breathtaking daring, she lifted one hand and laid it on his fine black coat above his thundering heart.

“Fenella? You're playing with fire.”

“Oh, I do hope so,” she murmured, stretching up on her tiptoes to brush her lips across his.

He didn't immediately react, so she did it again. Another disappointing lack of response, although a hum emerged from his throat.

Her skills must be rusty. She battled to recall what had once been so spontaneous. It had taken her so long to want to kiss a man again. She had no intention of retiring defeated.

Seeking a clue to how to approach him, she studied Mr. Townsend. He looked disgruntled and bewildered—as well he might, given the way she'd pushed him away after that first tempestuous kiss.

She sucked in a shuddering breath, told herself to be brave, and slid her hand up his chest and around that powerful neck. Tension turned the muscles under her fingers to rock.

Fenella stroked her other hand down his face, tracing the strong, austere bones. She'd forgotten, too, how fascinatingly different a man's body was from hers. And Anthony Townsend had struck her from the first as an uncompromisingly masculine man. She drew his head down and ran her lips over that obstinate jaw.

A muscle flickered in his cheek, and his breath emerged on a hiss. “Blast you, lass, you test me too far.”

Implacable hands caught her waist. For a fraught instant, she wasn't sure if he meant to push her away or drag her closer. That strained, striking face told her he wasn't sure either.

He hauled her against him. She braced for another demonstration of male power.

But this kiss was different. His lips wooed and sipped and tasted. They requested her cooperation instead of demanding it. How could she say no? With a sigh, she gave herself up to him.

* * *

Fenella Deerham was as luscious as a ripe peach, as fragrant as a rose, as soft as new fallen snow. Anthony hungered to seize her and use her for his relentless enjoyment until they sprawled, wrung out and sated.

But even now, when she melted in wordless consent, he wasn't a complete fool. Although he'd been close to completely witless since, instead of slapping his face, she'd launched a seduction of her own.

This was a woman to treasure, not commandeer.

So he eased his death grip on her waist—despite the urge to clutch her tight and never let go—and rather than ravishing her mouth, he played lazily with her lips. Little kisses. A stroke of the tongue too brief to threaten invasion. A nibble here. A nip there.

The storm inside him eased, and languorous pleasure became its own reward. The night and the rambling old house closed around them in soft embrace.

Anthony caught her head between his hands as he pursued his sensual discovery. The full lower lip. The precise cut of her upper lip. The indented corners. He dared a sweep of his tongue along the closed seam, provoking a quick gasp of breath, but didn't press his advantage. He felt like he had all the time in the world to gain a fuller surrender.

The kiss continued in sweet innocence. Although he'd had no claim to innocence since boyhood, and Fenella had known a husband's love. But still her kiss held a delicately untried quality. He recalled with a stab of indefinable emotion that this beautiful woman hadn't had a lover in over five years.

So his touch remained exploratory, rather than insistent, tender rather than passionate. However powerfully passion strained to break free.

“For pity's sake, Anthony, kiss me like you mean it,” she gasped.

He gave a brief laugh and ran his lips down her throat, making her shiver. At last she'd called him Anthony—and without him asking. “Don't you like this?”

She made a wordless protest. “You know I do.”

He commanded his hands to hold her lightly, despite driving need, as he scraped his teeth along the graceful curve where neck met shoulder. She smelled delicious there. Warm. Womanly. Needy. “So?”

She tugged sharply at his hair. His rose had thorns—he relished that hint of spice under all the sugar. “I'd like it more if you stopped treating me like I might shatter.”

“Very well,” he said and wrapped his arms around her. A step or two, and she lay flat under him on the chaise longue.

Blue eyes widened with shock. Now she knew exactly how much he wanted her. “Mr. Townsend?”

A wry smile twisted his lips. “I was Anthony last time.”

“Perhaps…perhaps we should stand up.”

He rose on his elbows. She was so delightfully ruffled and flushed, he couldn't resist another kiss. She spread beneath him like every dream come true. “I won't do anything you don't want me to.”

She was clever enough to see the flaw in his offer. “That's no protection.”

He frowned faintly. “Fenella, I swear I won't trespass beyond a few kisses. Despite wanting more.”

“I knew this was a bad idea,” she said shakily, fingers lacing through his hair.

“It doesn't feel like a bad idea.”

Except, damn him, it did. If he had any claim to honor, he'd roll off her and exile her to her chaste widow's bed.

But he wasn't averse to taking risks—otherwise he'd still be running an obscure, not particularly profitable shipping firm. And while he was neither lunatic nor hopeful enough to imagine she'd surrender all at the first invitation, he wasn't ready to stop. Even if kissing her was an agonizing combination of delight and frustration.

* * *

This kiss was no longer teasing. It demanded that she counter Anthony's heat with her own. When his tongue traced her lips, Fenella opened in helpless pleasure. He tasted delicious, brandy and desire.

Sensations repressed too long overwhelmed her. Banishing the proper widow, and reviving the young girl, in love with her handsome husband. She'd forgotten what this sweet itch for a man's touch was like.

She remembered now. Dear Lord, how she remembered.

Except this was different. Perhaps five years of denying that ardent girl built this wild release. Or thirty-year-old Fenella was a more complex woman than the innocent who had pledged herself to Henry Deerham.

Whatever the reason, Anthony's kisses stirred a dark tide of response she'd never known. When she plunged eager hands into his thick hair to bring that seeking mouth closer, he released a grunt of surprise. But she was past false modesty or pretend reluctance. For the first time in five years, she had blood in her veins, instead of rivers of cold salt tears.

She tugged at Anthony's neck cloth until his shirt fell open. When her hand found hot, smooth skin, she made a sound of satisfaction. She nipped at his lips, then sucked his tongue into her mouth.

This was like magic. This was like flying. This was like…

Betrayal.

A stifled protest escaped her, and the embrace turned alien and unwelcome. This time, when she caught his shoulders, she didn't mean to caress but to deny. Although surely no man would heed her when only seconds ago, she'd lain in his arms, delirious with rising passion.

To her relief, Anthony shifted away. He stared down at her, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. Pleasure softened his rough-hewn features, giving him the look of a sleepy lion. “Fenella”

Until Anthony—Mr. Townsend—had kissed her, she'd had no idea how desperate she was for a man's touch. Since losing Henry, she'd lived frozen but safe. Now the ice melted forever. She hated to be so weak. So demanding. So pathetic.

Her hands clenched against those broad shoulders and sick with shame, she closed her eyes. His legs remained tangled in her filmy pink skirts, and on the narrow chaise longue, she couldn't avoid the massive weight of his arousal.

“Please…let me go.”

With a powerful surge, he rose to his feet. “Forgive me.”

Shakily she pushed up against the back of the chair. Sliding her feet to the floor didn't help her feel any more grounded. Her heart still raced, her blood simmered, and her lips throbbed from his kisses.

Much as she'd like to blame him for her loss of control, honesty prevailed. “No. I should have stopped you at the door. I've behaved disgracefully. What must you think of me?”

Unexpected humor twisted his lips. “It's not as bad as all that, surely. You haven't murdered anyone, lass.”

“I beg your pardon” she stammered. Part of her wanted to bewail her lapse. Another part wanted to slap him. And one tiny element wanted to cling to that superb form and let his kisses find their natural end.

“No need.” His cheerful smile made the urge to clout him paramount. “I had a thoroughly nice time.”

She spluttered like an outraged dowager hearing an off-color joke. “I meant I must have misheard what you said.”

He laughed and extended his hand. “I know what you meant. But there's no need for all this breast beating.”

“I let you touch me.”

“And you enjoyed it.”

“I know,” she said desolately, and without thinking curled her fingers around that capable, callused hand. It was a working man's hand, reminding her again how different he was from her London beaux. But those large, blunt fingers had their own grace—and breathtaking skill on a woman's skin.

“Be a mite kinder to yourself, Fenella. Succumbing to a moment's temptation doesn't consign you to the lowest circle of hell”

She stood on rubbery legs. It took a worrying effort of will to release Anthony's hand. Everything about him was so big and warm. Her deepest instinct was to cuddle up against him and let him protect her from the cold, nasty world. When right now, the greatest threat to everything she'd ever believed about herself was Mr. Anthony Townsend.

“You're remarkably jolly” she said in a sour voice.

He shrugged. “As you said, with the boys upstairs, we couldn't go too far.”

“Oh, Lord,” she breathed in horror. She'd completely forgotten Brand. What on earth was wrong with her? She blushed when Anthony bent to retrieve the neck cloth she'd removed and cast aside.

He continued as lightly as if they'd just ended a casual hand of piquet. “All in all, it's a promising start.”

“A promising start?” she asked on a rising note, hating that the dowager was back.

He opened the door. “I look forward to seeing where we go from here.”

Her eyes narrowed as her spirit stirred. “From here, Mr. Townsend, I'm going back to London.” She marched past him into the hall. “While you, sir, can go to the devil.”

* * *

“You can't find your room,” Anthony said softly, standing beside her in the cavernous space. It was a pity that Fenella's splendid exit ended with her staring in confusion at the staircase.

“If I ask you, I'll have to get off my high horse.”

“Aye.” He lit two candles from the branch on the ancient sideboard and passed one to her. “But I promise to contain my smugness until you're safely inside your chamber.”

She regarded him doubtfully. “Perhaps you should call a maid.”

“On my honor, you're safe. The lads are effective chaperones.”

“You'll think my hesitation is absurd, given what we just did.”

He offered his arm and to his relief, she accepted it. He'd already noticed she didn't hold a grudge. “I think you're entirely charming. Surely you know that.”

His declaration troubled rather than pleased her. “You're very kind.”

I'm very besotted.

What was the point of fighting? It was true. It had been true from the first. He kept the thought to himself and began to outline his plans for the house. By the time they arrived at her room, her smile was almost natural. “Thank you. I'd never have found my way.”

“Sleep well, Fenella.” He smiled back as he reached past her to open the door. Then because he couldn't resist, he kissed her gently.

In the flickering candlelight, he studied her bonny face. He saw signs of exhaustion and strain. And reluctance and confusion. A hint of guilt.

And deep in the blue eyes, a longing that called him as inexorably as the moon drew the tide. His heart kicked with futile excitement. After all, right now he couldn't do anything about it.

“Good night,” she whispered. As she disappeared behind the door, he heard her murmur, “Anthony.”

He stared at the closed door. Much as he burned to follow her into that room, now wasn't the time. His blood might beat with the primitive urge to conquer and possess, but he wasn't an impetuous boy. Every instinct screamed that if he pushed now, he'd lose any chance with her.

Fenella Deerham had ceded more than she wanted to. He must be satisfied with that—and hope that if he won her trust, she might yet give him everything.

First he needed to lure her back toward life. He didn't resent her love for her first husband—or no more than any man wanting a woman who still dreamed of another lover. He even found it in himself to be glad that she'd known a good man's love. She deserved it. Hell, she deserved everything good in the world.

But Deerham was dead. While Fenella was alive, and unless Anthony deceived himself, attracted.

Because the prize was worth winning, he'd proceed cautiously. But in this empty hallway close to midnight, he vowed to raise Fenella Deerham out of sorrow into the bright sunlight of joy.