Not a modicum of it.
All he could feel was relief. And desire. Fierce, overwhelming desire.
He cupped her head—even the shape of it was ideal, perfectly molded to his hands, and held her to him when she would have withdrawn. Because she wanted this every bit as much as he did. He could feel it in the eager response of her lips. He felt it in the bone-deep connection, the way their bodies melded together.
A realization hit him.
Struck him with the force of an unexpected blow.
He wanted her, as always. But he was not certain, now that he had tasted her lips and held her in his arms, that he could continue tamping down the need to have her. Resisting her, clinging to his honor and restraint, grew fainter, much like the stars of the night’s sky as the sun rose on the dawn.
I am in my cups. This is wrong. Tomorrow, I will regret this.
And yet, he could not seem to stop. Even with the layers of their garments between them, there was an undeniable rightness to the way their bodies fit together. But he wanted to be atop her. It was a base urge, elemental. One he could not deny himself.
Later, he could blame his actions upon the blow to the back of his head—still smarting—when they had fallen as one. Later, he could appease his sense of honor with the knowledge he would never pin Lady Helena Davenport to the floor of the lady’s withdrawing room and have his way with her unless he had struck himself dumb.
But those insistences would be lies for the benefit of his conscience.
Because he was insensate to anything but his need for her, raw, uncompromising, all-consuming. He rolled them as one, without breaking their kiss. Slowly. Tenderly. Until she was the one on her back, and he was leveraging his body over hers, his tongue dipping between her lips to tangle with hers.
Lemon and bergamot filled his head.
And as before, he was on fire. Only this time, he was burning hotter than he could have imagined. Hotter than he ever had. Lady Helena Davenport would be the end of him. Half of him was certain he would not mind if she proved his demise, for he would die a happy man.
A wicked urge hit him, then. He wanted to know if she wore drawers. Gabe prayed she had not attended this evening’s entertainment in the hopes of ruining herself yet again. His hand traveled of its own accord. He found his way beneath her voluminous skirts. His fingers connected with the soft, warm curve of her calf first. Covered in silken stockings. Lace-frilled drawers met his questing touch next.
His need for her was about to tear him apart. He would surrender every vestige of his pride, all his honor, to make her his. To take her here and now, although he knew quite well he could not. That he must stop.
And he would.
Soon.
But first, a small sampling of paradise. The paradise he had denied himself for far too long.
Ah, Lord. His palm slid over the delectable curve of her hips. Perfection. Soft, lush womanly flesh. Her legs opened without any provocation, naturally, instinctively, welcoming him. And oh, how much he wanted to take everything she offered and more. How much he wanted to make her his.
Forever.
But that was not meant to be. And neither was this moment of desperate hunger between them. Their familial duties were calling them in twain directions. His inner confusion was more difficult to battle today, but tomorrow would be a new day.
For today…
He kissed her harder, almost with bruising force, his tongue sinking into her mouth as his fingers traversed the thin layer of fabric keeping the divine flesh of her inner thigh from him.
He groaned into her mouth. She hummed her pleasure. This was a mutual desire, consuming them both. He did not fool himself that it was one sided. Mayhap it was the recklessness of the moment, the excitement of their precarious assignation, the chance of being caught. Whatever the reason for her eager reaction to him, he thanked the heavens.
Some part of him balked at what he was about to do, but the rest of him took precedence. Helena filled his mind, his senses. She was all he could think about, all he could feel. To hell with honor. She was beneath him, kissing him back, making him wild. She was his, damn it.
Just as she should be.
No, that was wrong. She could not be his because he was promised to another. But as he struggled to recall Lady Beatrice and stop himself, he found he could not. He could blame it upon the whisky he had consumed after returning to his home. He could blame it upon Lady Beatrice’s strange reaction at their meeting earlier today.
But the oddest realization of all was that he had no wish to worry about a damned thing past this moment. For the second time in his life, he was going to do what he wanted and worry about the consequences later. He had Helena where he wanted her, where he had dreamed of her being, for far too long. He had been longing for her from the moment he had realized his friend’s precocious younger sister had blossomed into an elegant, desirable woman.
He kissed the corners of her lips. And then he finally, at long last, skimmed his fingers over the slit in her drawers. Damp warmth seduced him. He was so close, desperately near, to touching her there. He could not stop himself. Another kiss, and his fingers were on her. Hot, wet, female flesh welcomed him.
Gabe swallowed her moan as he deepened the kiss.
He parted her, finding the bud of her sex. She was so slick, and she gasped, her hips jerking responsively. He knew this was wrong. Desperately wrong. But nothing had ever felt so right. He wanted to make her come undone. To feel her shudder helplessly as she surrendered to her release.
He wanted to be the man who made her spend.
He wanted to be the only man.
The realization hit him with the weight of a landslip.
He tore his mouth from hers and reared back, his breathing ragged, fingers still drenched in her beckoning dew. What was he doing? He could not be the only man. He had no right to touch her thus, to claim her for himself. She was not for him, and nor was he for her.
He was betrothed, for God’s sake, and she nearly was as well.
He exhaled, forced himself to withdraw his hand from beneath her skirts. “Forgive me, Helena.”
Another few minutes of mindless pleasure, and what would he have done? What was he capable of?
Once again, her lips were swollen from his kisses, her emerald eyes dark with desire. Her breaths were every bit as ragged as his. She swallowed, and he followed the movement down the elegant, ivory column of her throat. His cock was stiffer than a ramrod in his trousers. He thought he would offer his soul to the devil for the chance to make her his.
“You seem to be making a habit of offering me apologies lately,” she pointed out, a cutting edge in her contralto.
He was still atop her, he realized, a burst of shame blossoming in his chest. What a hypocrite he was. What an utter rogue. He had believed himself better than this. Had not imagined he would ever stoop so low.
“I will not take advantage of you again,” he vowed stiffly, rolling to the side and standing before offering her his hand.
Which she promptly ignored, opting instead to leverage herself into a sitting position on her own, and then to rise to her feet. Her silken skirts were wrinkled from their tussle on the floor. His self-loathing was on the rise once more, rather in the fashion of the tides. Threatening to consume him.
She shook out her skirts. “I do not require your form of aid, Huntingdon. If you carry on in this fashion, you will be the one to ruin me. And what will your precious Lady Beatrice think of that?”
What indeed?