He couldn’t have said why that notion washed through him like a new sort of heat.
“A notable distinction,” Hugo murmured.
And then, because he loved nothing more than complicating any given situation beyond repair, the better to make it worse, he kissed her.
They were standing so close that it seemed almost impossible to avoid for another second. Maybe that was his excuse. He slid his palm over her cheek, marveling at the sensation of such sweet, silken skin beneath his hand despite how severely she’d been regarding him all this time, and then it was the easiest thing in the world to hold her fast and claim her mouth with his.
And then they were in real trouble, because she tasted like magic.
ELEANOR HAD NO idea what was happening.
He was kissing her.
Hugo was kissing her. The hated Duke of Grovesmoor himself had his mouth on hers.
And nothing about that was all right. It was dangerous and it was terrible and it was shocking—
But even worse, she liked it.
She more than liked it.
There were no words—and least none she knew—that could begin to describe how much she liked it.
It was like fire. It was an explosion, and only the fact that he was holding her against him kept her from shattering into a million pieces, she was sure of it.
What Eleanor knew about kissing could be summed up in two very short words: not much. But the single adolescent fumbling she’d subjected herself to at a mortifying school disco years and years ago bore no resemblance to this.
Hugo’s mouth on hers was untroubled, somehow. Unhurried. He sampled her lips as if he planned to keep on doing so for hours. Days, perhaps. He seemed entirely and wholly unrushed, teasing her and tasting her, then licking his way inside to do it all over again.
With a devastating thoroughness that made her tremble. Everywhere.
And she didn’t know what was worse, that mouth of his licking fire into her in ways she could hardly begin to process, or the heat of his hand as he held her face to his. Her cheek felt as if it had been branded, as if he was still pressing a red-hot iron to her skin, but for some reason she had no desire whatsoever to step away.
And still he kissed her.
As if a kiss was not a finite thing, a buss on the cheek or halfhearted peck, easily given and more easily forgotten. A real kiss—because Eleanor had no doubt that what Hugo was doing to her was the real thing, something she’d had no idea even existed all this time—was more of a slow burn.
It was longing made physical, then slowly kindled into an ache.
And oh, how Eleanor ached.
She didn’t know how she’d ended up standing so close to him in the first place. She’d told herself repeatedly to keep her distance from the man, because no good could possibly come of their proximity when she was so aware of him, and then there she was. Stood in the center of the hallway with her hands on her hips as if she’d half a mind to scold the man, or as if she’d forgotten herself completely and was dressing down the Duke. Eleanor had no idea what had come over her. It was like an out-of-body experience. As if she was being haunted by some stroppy, mouthy ghost that was taking her over and making her act as if she very much wanted to be fired on her very first day...
She hadn’t the slightest idea what she thought she was doing.
And now this.
Whatever this was, that was setting her on fire and tearing her apart at once.
But then it hit her, as his impossibly addictive mouth moved on hers, making her feel as if a lightning flash had been trapped between them. This was Hugo Grovesmoor. This was what he did. She hadn’t expected him to be as articulate as he was, it was true. She’d expected his dark good looks to seem seedy and tatty in person—and she’d imagined she’d barely see him. But it occurred to her that she should have expected this kind of thing from him.
Hugo was a man who was willing to use his body to get what he wanted. Anything he wanted. Particularly if it was harmful to others. How could Eleanor have let herself forget? The fact that his kiss felt like a revelation was something that should have filled her with shame.
It would, she was certain, just as soon as she had time to collect herself.
Somewhere that lightning wasn’t burning her alive.
Eleanor pushed at his chest, and that was problematic too, because he appeared to be made of more of that iron. Worse, he was much too hot beneath that soft T-shirt, and she had no desire whatsoever to let go.
No matter how she knew she should.
Lazily, taking his time, Hugo raised his head. His whiskey-colored eyes gleamed as he gazed down at her and Eleanor could feel that, too. She could feel so many things she thought she might collapse. Part of her wanted nothing more than to let all that emotion take her straight down to the floor, but she was made of sterner stuff. She’d had to be. She had Vivi to think about.
“Is this why all fourteen previous governesses left?” Eleanor demanded, and she was horrified to hear her voice shake. “Is this a test?” She swallowed, hard. “Geraldine is only just down the hall.”
Something flashed in those dark eyes of his, but he dropped his hand. And Eleanor told herself that what rushed in her then was relief. Triumph. Not something a great deal more like loss.
She could feel the way he kissed her everywhere, in ways that made no sense. There was a twisting, melting ball of sensation deep in her belly. There was a rawness in her chest. Her breasts felt weighted, heavy. And there was a dampness behind her eyes that she knew perfectly well was too complicated to be simple tears.
“I enjoy nothing more than living down to each and every one of a person’s low expectations of me, of course,” Hugo said in that mocking, cut-glass way of his. “Do you not find me entertaining, Miss Andrews? Could there be anything more delightful than to discover I am exactly as you imagined I’d be? Depraved and indifferent and thoroughly spoiled, inside and out?”
Eleanor had been thinking along those lines herself, but somehow, hearing him say it all out loud like that—with such bitterness, and something she could have sworn bordered despair—made something inside of her turn over.
But she shoved it aside, because none of this should have happened. Not with her. She wasn’t the sort of woman men grabbed and kissed in spontaneous bursts of passion. That was Vivi’s life. Her sister was forever fending off male attention wherever she went. That was how Eleanor knew that there was no reason for a man like Hugo to put his hands on her unless that was just something he did as a matter of course, the way the tabloids had always claimed—or if he was making fun of her, somehow.
She’d never heard of mockery by kiss, but what did she know? She’d spent her life working rather than socializing, and she’d never bloomed into a needy curiosity of the opposite sex the way everyone had claimed she would. Something that made her profoundly grateful, as what she didn’t need or even wonder about, she couldn’t miss.
“I think it’s best if we pretend this never happened,” she said, as evenly as she could, pleased to find she’d managed to strip the tremor from her voice.
Hugo regarded her from the near foot of height he had on her, and the fact he was dressed so casually, she realized, did nothing to take away from that matter-of-fact power he seemed to exude even so. How had she not noticed that before?
Because he hides it, a voice from deep inside of her replied with far too much authority.