The Rake And The Heiress. Marguerite Kaye

in a year down here.’

      ‘That seems a shame. It’s such a lovely place.’

      ‘Well, the prospect is certainly breathtaking at the moment.’

      He was not looking at the view. His meaning was unmistakable. Serena could think of no reply, only of what he would do next. She did not have to wait long.

      ‘Stand up, Serena, I mean to kiss you.’

      Somehow she was on her feet. How did that happen? He was pulling her close into the warmth of his body. His arm was looped round her waist. She could feel the heat from his fingers through the thin muslin of her dress. Now he was untying the strings of her bonnet with his other hand, tossing it carelessly on to the bench.

      ‘I don’t intend to let you,’ she finally managed to say.

      Nicholas raised a quizzical brow. ‘I think you’ll find that you do.’ He moved closer, watching her all the while, his hold on her still loose, unrestraining, allowing her space and time to retreat. His fingers were on the nape of her neck now, gently exploring, stroking down to her collar bone, up to the shell of her ear. Her body hummed with anticipation, her nerves tingling, her skin, her whole being urging her towards him, as if invisible strings pulled her in, tangled her up, enmeshed the two of them together.

      ‘Serena?’ His voice was husky. His eyes, dark and disturbing, searched her face questioningly.

      She hesitated as his fingers stilled their caress. His hold on her slackened. She knew she should resist, knew it with certainty.