The Love Affair of an English Lord by Jillian Hunter Page A

He would have to find a way to ensure her cooperation until the time came for him to reveal his killer. He might have to take her into hiding until this was finished. Not a pleasant prospect at all, for either of them.
    â€œCan I not win your friendship?” he asked solemnly.
    She was cool, this blue-eyed Boscastle in her butterfly robe. “Breaking into my room, tossing me on the bed, and blackmailing me is hardly a prelude to friendship.”
    â€œThink of it as one neighbor helping another.”
    â€œI want you to tell me what you have learned about Brandon.”
    He wavered. To reveal what he’d learned might be the undoing of all his plotting. It would also involve her in more danger than she deserved. “Not yet. Don’t tempt me to reveal facts that might destroy my chance to avenge him.”
    She nodded, apparently understanding more than he had wanted her to. “You’ve said enough for me to know I want to help you.”
    â€œThe only way to help me is to do as I ask.”
    â€œHow do I know
I
can trust you?”
    â€œI’m not sure you can,” he said. He bent his head toward hers, studying her face in the dark. “No wonder,” he murmured.
    â€œNo wonder?” she whispered, as if she sensed where his thoughts were leading.
    â€œNo wonder that your baron risked so much to kiss you in the park. I have not forgotten the day we met.”
    He saw the flicker of response in her eyes, and that was all the permission he needed.
    His lips skimmed the rim of her ear as his arms closed around her waist. He waited for a reaction. Instead, she went still. The scent of woman stole through his defenses. A month ago his life had taken a hideous turn. Someone close to him had betrayed him. Destroyed his ability to trust. And now he faced an entanglement with the sister of a nobleman he respected, a young lady headed for heartbreak if ever he had met one.
    God forbid that he contribute to her self-destruction. But how could it prove otherwise? Chloe stirred in him the ashes of hope if not innocence; her vitality and idealism were traits he once might have shared. He tasted on her lips the poignant qualities of life that he had lost forever. Did she believe in love? In happily ever after? How many stolen kisses and sweet lies whispered in the dark, how many midnight trysts would it take to unmask her illusions?
    It was not his place to destroy the dreams society encouraged. Nor did he desire to. Perhaps she would prove more fortunate than he had been. Perhaps her family’s famous charm would protect her.
    â€œYou’re kissing me again,” she whispered.
    â€œYes. I can’t help myself.” He felt a shiver ripple through her.
    â€œI thought you were going to kill me.”
    â€œIt doesn’t look like it, does it?” he murmured against her mouth.
    â€œI knew you would not . . . could not hurt me.”
    â€œI wish I could hold myself in such high esteem.”
    She pressed her hands against his chest, not struggling, not acquiescing either. His mind registered a shock of pleasure, pain, but even then he desired her above all else. Her warmth, the subtle fragrance of soap on her skin. He ached to draw her essence into his bones. She was a balm, a refuge, more than mere sexual enticement. Soft and comforting in a world of darkness and betrayals. She reminded him of how his life had been, how he wanted it to be again.
    He deepened the kiss, robbing her of any chance to resist, of breath. This definitely was not her first romantic interlude, but she was no courtesan either, and he might have been chasing one of the butterflies on her robe for all the hope of a future between them. Yet her body felt so warm and yielding, so lush and inviting, that Dominic craved closer contact. He wanted to peel off her clothes and draw her pink flesh against him. He wanted to beg her to be his, to ease his needs.
    It was almost too much for him. His starved