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

senses could not ward off the attack. He hadn’t allowed himself to feel anything but unadulterated hatred for almost a month. The silky robe she wore accentuated her breasts and bottom in such a provocative way that her sensual appeal alone could have brought him back from the dead.
    From the corner of his eye he noticed a blur of movement outside. It might have been a shadow, a cat on the limb of the tree, anything. But he wasn’t about to take any chances. He caught her by her elbows and pulled her straight down on the floor, imprisoning her between his legs.
    Chloe jerked her head back in alarm. “What are you doing now?” she demanded.
    â€œThe window. I didn’t want anyone to see us.”
    She shifted, drawing her robe together where it had opened to reveal the pearlescent skin of her inner thigh. The muscles in his groin tightened with unbearable tension. She fit so snugly between his legs that he had to draw several breaths to subdue his arousal. He had not touched a woman in weeks, and this one stirred a sexual hunger in him he wasn’t sure he could handle.
    He didn’t know what to make of her, or himself for that matter. He wasn’t about to admit that kissing her had left him as hot and explosive as a sex-starved adolescent. But, damnit, she was right. His entire body felt sick and weak. In the past few days he’d been pushing himself to the limit, not sleeping at night so he could watch what happened at his house.
    If Chloe Boscastle was as clever as she was attractive, he might have escaped one hazard only to find himself in a worse predicament.
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    Chloe was afraid to move, not certain herself what had happened or how to react. If he had kissed her to prove how inexperienced she was, he’d get no argument from her on that point. Her lips tingled from the forbidden friction of his, and she wasn’t sure why she felt less frightened than before. There was an inexplicable air of intimacy between her and this man. She decided it had more to do with being an unwilling conspirator in his plans for revenge than with romance. How could she hate someone who wanted to avenge Brandon’s death?
    Captor and captive in a dressing closet strewn with her own undergarments. Only a Boscastle could find herself in this situation. Of course it was appalling that she had allowed him to kiss her again, but deep down inside she still thought of him as the man who had rescued her in the rain.
    It would be dangerous to underestimate him, or his effect on her. Sir Galahad, or an embittered ghost? Chloe could not decide if it even mattered. Either identity threatened her.
    The unyielding planes of his face did nothing to steady her nerves. The hard determination had settled back over his features even if his eyes smoldered like coals as he settled her back down on the floor in a pile of muslin petticoats.
    Petticoats! It took them both several awkward moments to achieve a semblance of sanity. To pretend they might be sitting as normal as you please in a drawing room instead of cramped together on a closet floor. Chloe tugged the dressing robe around her shivery body, clearing her throat to ask again, “What are we supposed to do now?”
    He leaned his good shoulder back against the trunk and stared up at the window. “I’m not entirely sure.” He gave a start as he felt her kneeling over him, her delicate fingers on his chest. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”
    â€œHow dare you ask me such a question,” she said mildly. “Especially after the way you’ve behaved.”
    He sat forward with a curse as she finished unbuttoning his shirt to press her fingers lightly against the mangle of inflamed flesh. “That happens to hurt, in case you hadn’t guessed. Besides, I don’t recall giving you permission to undress me.”
    â€œI never gave you permission to break into my room or to kiss me either, but that didn’t seem to