Some Like it Scandalous. Кэрол Мортимер

thighs and long legs of the excellent swordsman he was known as through the length and breadth of England.

      “Sophia,” he returned tauntingly.

      Sophia raised her long dark lashes long enough to give him a reproving glance at his familiarity, and at once wished she had not, as she was instantly overwhelmed by the masculinity of the man’s rakish good looks. A handsomeness that had set many a female heart aflutter since this man had first made his appearance into Society on attaining his eighteenth year. Feminine hearts which had remained unsatisfied, as he easily and continuously managed to avoid being entrapped by both the marriage-minded mamas and their equally eager female offspring.

      His dark hair was fashionably styled to look tousled across his high forehead, with dark brows set above piercing eyes as green as Sophia’s own, high cheekbones either side of his long and aquiline nose, and sculptured lips that could tighten almost to a look of cruelty or curve with a wicked sensuality. At the moment they were most decidedly the latter!

      Sophia’s own mouth firmed with displeasure at this unexpected encounter. “I believe I have mentioned before how much I abhor your familiarity.”

      He gave a rakish grin. “Oh yes, I remember only too well the set-down you gave me, when aged eighteen, I stole a kiss or two from you!”

      She drew in a sharp breath at being reminded of this man’s audacity ten years ago when he came to stay for several weeks in the summer at Claybourne Park with her husband’s nephew before the two separated to attend different universities.

      ‘A stolen kiss or two’ which Sophia was ashamed to say she had thought of far too often during these past years…

      Her mouth pursed. “I was a married woman and you—”

      “And now you are not,” he murmured softly, appreciatively.

      “—were nothing more than a boy taking advantage— “Sophia broke off with a frown as Sherbourne began to laugh softly. “Pray tell what is so funny in that statement?”

      He gave a shake of his head. “I was almost nineteen years of age at the time, Sophia, nor had I been a ‘boy’ for some years. Since my sixteenth birthday, to be exact,” he added dryly.

      “What happened on your sixteenth birthday…?” Sophia prompted softly.

      He raised dark and mocking brows. “Are you sure you really wish me to tell you that?”

      No, Sophia was not, and never had been sure of anything where this particular man was concerned. “Of course.” She nodded coolly.

      “On your own head be it,” Sherbourne drawled. “I am not sure if you are aware, but my mother died when I was born? My father, after dutifully attending her funeral, then left his only son and heir in the care of a wet-nurse, followed by a nanny, a tutor and then boarding school, and to all intents and purposes forgot my very existence until my sixteenth birthday. Imagine my surprise when he then arranged for me to be taken up to London and placed in the arms and bed of his current mistress, for the purpose of tutoring me in all the pleasures of my own flesh as well as hers.” He gave a humourless smile. “Lessons I applied myself to diligently, I assure you, and which for the next two and half years I continued to practise as often as time and chance allowed.”

      Sophia would be lying if she claimed not to be shocked by the behaviour of the previous Earl of Sherbourne. What sort of father ignored his son’s existence for sixteen years, and then only showed an interest in him in order to have him tutored in the arts of the bedchamber by his own mistress…?

      Sherbourne gave another of those humourless smiles. “I trust that this explanation succeeds in assuring you that my advances towards you ten years ago were that of a man and not a boy?”

      Which only succeeded in making Sophia’s memory of this man’s kisses all the more alarming! “It certainly assures me of something, Sherbourne—”

      “I believe that we are now well enough acquainted, Sophia, for you to call me Dante,” he corrected challengingly.

      Dante.

      It was a name, which conjured up, for Sophia at least, visions of burning infernos and devils with horns and pitchforks. Unfortunately, it also brought to mind a hot, masculine and muscled chest, bared and slicked with sweat—

      She shifted uncomfortably. “Your title is that of the Earl of Sherbourne,” she insisted firmly.

      “Could we both now drop all pretence of formality and simply become Dante and Sophia…?”

      “I think not,” she said haughtily.

      “And I would rather you did not think at all in my presence, my dear Sophia.” Dante deliberately lowered his voice to a soft purr, a sensual huskiness that resulted in a scornful smile now curving the pouting temptation of Sophia’s full and delectable lips.

      “No doubt that is how best you like your women, Sherbourne, but do not ever expect such subservience from me!” She eyed him derisively.

      Dante had long enjoyed this verbal battle of wills with this particular woman, but hopefully, now that her year of mourning her husband was over, the battle between them would come to an end, too. To his most enjoyable—and long-awaited—satisfaction, he could only hope. And Sophia’s too, if she would but allow it.

      And, no matter what she may think to the contrary, he had no wish for Sophia to be in the least subservient to him—in bed or out of it.…