What A Duke Dares. Anna Campbell

kiss to last a lifetime wasn’t too much to ask. Except she already had too much to remember.

      “Is that because you don’t want me?” The flickering light was more deceptive than true darkness. She could almost imagine desperation in his eyes. Cam was never desperate. He’d never let himself become desperate. “Or because you do?”

      She jolted back, spilling wine over her hand. “Cam, I—”

      “God knows this is wrong. I’m courting another woman. You’re my friend’s sister. We grew up together.” His voice shook. “But tell me you want me. Not knowing is driving me mad.”

      She didn’t want to hear this, partly because a wicked, wanton part of her burned to fling herself into his arms and beg him to do a thousand wild and forbidden things to her. She retreated against the balustrade. Fear beat high and fast in her throat.

      The threat of betraying her secret hovered close. He must never know she loved him. His pity would be worse than death. “There’s no point to this.”

      Cam took her glass and placed it with his on the balustrade. “I need to know.”

      “No, you don’t,” she said, then groaned when satisfaction flooded his face. On this breezy terrace, with his usually immaculate dark hair ruffled and his eyes glowing with passion, he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen.

      He grabbed her hand. “If you don’t want me, you’d say so.”

      She knew to her bones that if he kept touching her, she’d lie in his bed tonight. “Someone might see.”

      “I don’t care. Tell me.”

      His touch set her blood ablaze, shooting hot and urgent to the pit of her belly. “What use is this?” she asked in angry despair, struggling to withdraw. “You’re marrying Lady Marianne.”

      His gaze focused on her lips, making them tingle as if he kissed her. “Once, I wanted to marry you.”

      Bitterness welled. “When you thought you could mold me into what you wanted. Before my family’s eccentricities tumbled over into full-scale scandal with Peter’s ruin.”

      She’d cut off her right hand to hear him deny her assertions, but of course, he didn’t. He wouldn’t lie to her. She respected that even as she loathed it. “Lady Marianne will make the perfect duchess.”

      Pain lanced through her as she acknowledged that he’d never have said that about Penelope Thorne, even before her bohemian wanderings. “Do you love her?”

      He snatched his hand free and his jaw hardened with the rejection familiar whenever anyone mentioned love. “You’re mistaken to think that love is a requirement for a happy marriage.”

      “You’re mistaken to think that it’s not,” she snapped back.

      “My parents were in love. For a short time.”

      “Your parents were always children dressed as grownups.”

      He glared down his daunting nose. “You venture on dangerous territory.”

      She drew herself to her full height. Temper made her speak in a rush. “Why? You speak freely to me.” Her tone eased. “Cam, I know this … attraction is a pest. But it’s not so surprising. We’re two healthy adults confined to each other’s company. It would be unnatural not to demonstrate a little curiosity.”

      A bitter smile twisted his lips. “That’s a facile explanation.”

      For a sizzling interval, their eyes met. She knew that, like her, he remembered her standing naked before him.

      Then the shutters crashed down over his expression. She felt disoriented. He’d lured her up to a door, then slammed it in her face.

      Still, she was grateful when Cam’s fierceness ebbed. It had been torture to hear him speak his need aloud and know that it wasn’t enough, it could never be enough.

      As if by common consent, they turned toward the sea that tomorrow became their highway. Somewhere down there his yacht lay at anchor. If winds were favorable, they’d be in England within a fortnight.

      A silence descended. At first, it was heavy with suppressed passion, but gradually it became something softer and kinder. As his voice was softer and kinder when he spoke. “Pen, why are you so determined to go into exile? What are you running away from?”

       You.

      She’d spent the last nine years fleeing this man she loved but who could never love her. Despite excitement and adventure, despite playing a sophisticate in a sophisticated world, she hadn’t run toward anything. What a lowering admission.

      “I enjoy my life.” Apart from a constant ache that no spectacular scenery or charming admirers or glamorous intrigues banished.

      “You’d enjoy London.”

      “I doubt it. People at home are more conservative than here. English society won’t accept me with open arms.”

      “I would.”

      Pen couldn’t help herself. She laughed. It was either laugh or cry. If she cried, he might guess how it would crush her to leave him. “No, Cam. I’m not throwing myself into your arms under any circumstances.”

      He didn’t laugh. He looked disturbed and angry. That dangerous hum in the air returned. Fatalistically she recognized that it had never gone away. “Pen, I’m trying my best to remember that I’m an honorable man.”

      She sobered, telling herself that she couldn’t allow him to compromise his principles. But how easy it would be to ignore what was right when for the sake of a little sin, he could be hers. However briefly. Physically if not emotionally.

      She could cross a mere foot of space and kiss him. If she knew anything about men—and at twenty-eight, she should—the slightest encouragement would shatter his restraint.

      “Unfortunately,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

      The hum rose to overwhelm every other sound.

      Then he stepped back and bowed. Even as hunger darkened his eyes, he spoke with the chill politeness she’d heard too often on this journey. This evening, they’d spoken like friends. Or lovers. Now she watched Cam draw the shades over that intimacy. “I won’t act the cad. My family’s reputation is at stake. If I tumble you, I prove that all my work to restore the family honor has been in vain.”

      She’d known that. Still, rejection hurt. She bent her head, not wanting him to see how he wounded her.

      A couple emerged onto the terrace from the inn. The lady paused and spoke with joyful recognition. Even worse, in the clipped accents of an upper-class Englishwoman. “Miss Thorne, what a wonderful surprise.”