The Duke Is Mine

Page 43

“Of course you were!” Olivia’s smile was wide and utterly natural—until you looked at her eyes.
Or did he imagine that flash of possessiveness?
Quin deliberately put his other hand on top of Georgiana’s fingers. “We were having such a fascinating conversation that regretfully I allowed your sister to grow quite chilled.”
Georgiana glanced up at him, her eyes unreadable, and then back to her sister. “We are just returning to the house, Olivia. Thank you for coming to fetch me.”
“I apologize for interrupting your conversation,” Olivia said, her tone perfectly friendly. She fell back and walked at Georgiana’s side.
“Did I hear you call your sister ‘Georgie’?” Quin asked, looking across at her.
“Yes,” Olivia said. “It’s my pet name for her. Goodness, it is cold out here, isn’t it? I can almost see my breath.” She took a breath and huffed.
Georgiana laughed. “Don’t be silly, Olivia! In order to condense the moisture in your breath sufficiently to be visible, it must be far colder outside than this.”
Quin dimly registered Georgiana’s response, but he couldn’t find a way to bring words to his mouth. Whenever Olivia took a deep breath, her breasts strained against those delicate strings of lace. It seemed to him that a few of those strings were all that prevented her nipples from being exposed to every man in the ballroom.
A growl rose in his throat and he choked it back. “I like the name Georgie,” he said. The words came with a husky intonation that sounded as if he meant something entirely different by them.
Georgiana—Georgie—looked up at him with a surprised smile. And Olivia blinked and looked away.
They both heard his voice, and they both misunderstood.
“Well,” he said briskly, “I suggest that we go straight to the library and bake ourselves before the fireplace before we join everyone in the ballroom.”
“Oh, I’m not cold at all,” Olivia said lightly. “I’ll warm up dancing.” They were approaching the short set of stairs that led to the marble terrace. The very idea of Olivia in the arms of another man went through him like a sword.
It only took one smooth motion. He politely ushered Georgiana onto a step before him, slipped to the side, and stepped forward quite precisely so that his foot descended on the train of her gown, pinning her to the stair. Then he threw his weight forward, appearing to trip.
The scientist in him was quite satisfied by the prolonged ripping sound that resulted.
Swallowing a smile, he flowed into a smooth series of apologies—surprisingly fluent, for him. Georgiana remained calm, although many a lady would have been in hysterics. The seam at the waist of her gown had separated and now gaped open, revealing her chemise.
“I’ll walk behind you,” Olivia said to her sister. “We only have to make our way through the room and then straight up the stairs.”
“Nonsense,” Quin said. “I did the damage and I’ll carry you to your chamber. Miss Georgiana, you have turned your ankle.” He picked her up and discovered she weighed almost nothing. It was like picking up a bird, all hollow bones and feathers.
Georgiana didn’t squeal, but she sucked in an anxious breath. “Olivia, you’ll have to accompany us,” Quin said, over his shoulder. “I can carry your sister upstairs, but I need you with me as chaperone.”
Without waiting for an answer, he walked through the open doors. A rising spiral of conversation greeted them as people inquired what mishap had felled Georgiana.
“It’s just a turned ankle,” Olivia kept saying, walking just in front of them.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Georgiana said, her voice as tranquil as ever. “In fact, I think I shall rest briefly and then return to the ballroom.”
“I shall deliver you to your maid,” Quin announced, making sure all in the near vicinity heard him. “You may, of course, make up your own mind about whether you feel it advisable to return. One wouldn’t want to see you dance on an injured ankle, Miss Georgiana.”
This flummery got them to the bottom of the stairs. Quin started climbing, thinking about the difference between the sisters. Georgiana felt like a bundle of feathers in his arms, whereas the idea of holding Olivia like this . . . carrying her upstairs to the bedroom . . .
He walked faster. When they reached the top of the stairs, he moved to the side to allow Olivia to go before them.
As soon as they were inside Georgiana’s bedchamber, she politely but firmly freed herself and dropped a perfectly calibrated curtsy. “I thank you very much for rescuing me, Your Grace.”
“I am happy to be of service; after all, it was I who was responsible for your predicament. And I think we should be on a first-name basis,” he said, picking up her hand and kissing it. “My intimates call me Quin.”
There was an odd look to her eyes, one he couldn’t interpret, not the way he could read Olivia’s.
“May I call you Georgie? The name suits you.”
She nodded. “I would be honored.” Then she turned to her sister. “Olivia, I’ll join you downstairs in a half hour or so. Thank you again, Your Grace.”
“My name is Quin,” he insisted.
She really was a somber young woman; her smile came nowhere near her eyes. “Of course,” she agreed. Then she closed the door in their faces.
Olivia stared, frowning, at the door, but Quin didn’t give a damn about what Georgiana was feeling or thinking. He gave one swift look about and found to his deep satisfaction that there was no one within sight, and no one could see them from below. His hand closed on Olivia’s like a vise and he pulled her down the corridor, flung open the door to his bedchamber, and hauled her inside like a recalcitrant child.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a harsh whisper.
Quin not only knew exactly what he was thinking, but he knew what she was thinking, too. She could protest all she wished, but he had learned to read her eyes.
Without a word he closed the door and backed her against it, and bent his head to her mouth, spurring the wild, searing passion that always flared between them.
“Quin,” she gasped, but he was tilting her head to the side, unable to think, his entire body just a fierce ball of want. He throbbed to touch her, to have her, to be inside her.
“I need you,” he said haltingly. He shaped his hands around her bottom and pulled her up, closer to him, molding her luscious body to his. “Olivia!” Her name came out low and deep, like a plea or a prayer. She was on tiptoes, kissing him back, and still it wasn’t enough.
With a smooth swirl he plucked her from her place against the door and placed her on his bed. He lowered himself on top of her slowly, making sure that every inch of him was against her softness, watching her to see that she understood what he was doing.
She made a sweet, inarticulate sound, more like a gasp, but she didn’t say a word. Then she was kissing him too, and her body was soft under his muscled thighs, her fingers locked in his hair.
They stayed there, not moving much, for long minutes. It wasn’t kissing the way Quin ever thought of kissing. He thought he knew exactly what a kiss was: a caress of the lips that might or might not involve an exploration of the recipient’s mouth by the giver’s tongue.