The Earl Claims His Wife by Cathy Maxwell

her wedding night came rushing back to her. She’d been so enamored of him. So silly, silly in love. Kissing him had been as natural to her as breathing—and it still was.
    She attempted to think of Andres but his face wouldn’t form a picture in her mind. Instead, all she could see was Wright. Damnable, irritating, annoying Wright. How she wished their lips didn’t fit together.
    Gillian leaned against the banister for support as if to avoid him. His arms came around her, his hands gripped the rail, trapping her. Not that he needed to do so. With a will of their own, her arms went around his neck, flattening her breasts against his chest.
    Their hips fitted together as if pulled by two magnets. He deepened the kiss and, God help her, she followed him.
    A footfall sounded behind them as if someone approached.
    Her first thought was of Mr. Peters. She should not be seen smooching like a dairy maid on the staircase of a public house. She started to break away, but then Wright bit her bottom lip, soothing it with the tip of his tongue and she could have melted into his arms.
    Dear God. Who would have thought after all that lay between them, all he had to do was kiss her to make her forget pride and common sense?
    He’d performed this same trick on their wedding night. It had thrilled her, frightened her…tempted her, just as it did right now.
    What little sanity she had left shouted no through her mind. She must not let him kiss her this way.
    She must not let him seduce her. She had to remember how he’d been able to walk away from her.
    How he’d not had so much as an hour for her before he left to join Wellington.
    She had to remember the mistress he’d chosen over her.

    But that mistress was gone, the devil of temptation whispered to her. There was no one else but herself. Even the earlier footfalls threatening discovery had vanished from her doubts.
    Gillian tried to think of Andres, but couldn’t. Wright’s kiss obliterated all thought of her beloved Spaniard.
    His lips made their way up to her ear. “Let’s go to our room.”
    The brush of his breath against her skin almost sent her through the ceiling. Fortunately, his arms now held her fast. He smiled. She could feel his lips curve—
    The spell he wove was broken.
    He’d had her until he smiled.
    Wright left the lamp behind as he half carried, half backed her up the stairs, his lips barely leaving hers. In the upstairs hallway, he backed her against the door to their room. His arousal was hard and bold between them. He cupped her breast and she could have cried out because it felt good to be touched this way.
    She’d been wrong when she’d thought his kisses would remind her of their wedding night. Back then she’d been shy and he hesitant and slightly uninvolved.
    There was nothing uninvolved about him right now. He kissed her with a raw, urgent need.
    And she wanted him, too. She wanted to taste him, to feel him, to take him inside her. She barely remembered their joining. There had been nights when she’d tried to remember and had failed.
    Andres . She had to think of Andres. Noble, kindhearted Andres. Andres who waited for her.
    Gillian reached behind her for the door handle.
    The door opened and she practically fell inside—effectively breaking the kiss.
    “I need a moment of privacy,” she managed to mutter, her heart racing. She shut the door and leaned back against it, thankful to have escaped. The only light in the room was the warm glow from the hearth. The white counterpane on the bed seemed to take on an unholy glow in the firelight.
    There was no time to rest. She had to pull herself together. She could not, must not let him kiss her like that again. She had no defenses against him.
    All he had to do was touch her and she reverted back to the silly chit who had been so dovey eyed for him when they’d first married.
    “Gillian?” He rapped light on the door. His voice took on warmth as he said, “May I come in?”
    She couldn’t