Vivienne Lorret

He liked this game. A slow smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “After all, you found me.” Again.

Her gaze dipped to his mouth. The memory of the sweet press of her lips forced him to lift his hand and brush the tingles he felt on his bottom lip.

She blushed again and swallowed. “I should go to dinner.”

“Why?” He wanted her to stay. Perhaps if they continued their senseless conversation until the light faded from the sky and room grew dark, she would be bold again.

In a way, it was amusing. This rake—the seducer, the man every mama and well-intentioned aunt warned young women against—was hiding in a darkened hallway, hoping to be left alone.

Merribeth found it oddly endearing. She smiled to herself, wondering at the riddle of Bane.

Now, she did take offense. He acted as if she carried an infectious disease. Wallfloweritus or something equally ghastly.

His gaze dipped lower for an instant and then returned to hers. A grin slowly lifted the corners of his mouth. It was only then that she noticed she’d pressed her hand against her heart. If she weren’t blushing already, she was now, and then even more when he lifted his hand and pressed it to his own heart, as if he were similarly affected.

“You’re right, you know. You’ve been right all along. I do love”—he took a breath—“your garden.”

“Emma . . .” He growled at her, taking her mouth in a fierce kiss of total possession, demanding her complete surrender, and leaving her dizzy.

“But not nearly as much as I love you, Oliver.”