A new urgency crept through her, something that drew shuddering moans from her chest, and made her body tighten rhythmically in his lap. Hunt was tormented by the same compelling need—she could feel the violence of his heartbeat and the strain of his lungs as they labored with each breath. But he seemed far more able to bridle his passion than she, the movements of his hands and mouth remaining careful and controlled. She thrashed in the densely layered silk of her gown, her fingers clawing at the sleeves of his coat and waistcoat—too many clothes, everywhere, and she was going mad with the need to feel his skin on hers.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispered against her cheek. “Relax. No, lie still in my arms…” But she couldn’t make her body obey, couldn’t seem to stop the writhing of her h*ps and the shivering pleas that came from her kiss-bruised mouth.

Hunt continued to murmur softly as he held her, brushing his lips over her face, his fingers massaging the delicate hollows where her pulse beat frantically. She felt him adjusting her clothes, gently lifting her as if she were a doll, fastening the back of her gown. At one point he even gave a soft, shaky laugh, as if bemused by his own actions. Later, she would come to reflect that he had seemed just as dazed as she was; but right then, in the flush of frustrated longing, she could not unravel her tangled thoughts. As the desire ebbed from her body, it left behind a sickening residue of shame.

Struggling from his lap, Annabelle faced away from him, her legs quivering. She could summon only two words to break the heavy silence. Without looking at him, she said hoarsely, “Never again.” Pushing through the paneled curtains, she left the room as quickly as she was able and bolted down the hallway.

CHAPTER 17

After Annabelle had fled the music room, Simon had remained there for at least a half hour, fighting to settle his roaring passion, letting the fire in his blood cool. He straightened his clothes and raked a hand through his hair, moodily contemplating his next move. “Annabelle,” he muttered, more troubled and confused than he had ever been in his life. The fact that he had been brought to this state by a woman was infuriating. He, who was known as a crafty and disciplined negotiator, had made the clumsiest possible offer for her, and he had been roundly rejected. Deservedly so. He should never have tried to force her to name a price before she had even admitted that she wanted him. But the suspicion that she might be sleeping with Hodgeham…Hodgeham, of all men, had nearly driven Simon mad with jealousy, and all his usual skills had deserted him.

Remembering how it had felt to kiss her, to finally caress the warm, supple silk of her skin, Simon felt passion threatening to boil up inside him once again. With all his experience, he had thought he was familiar with every physical sensation imaginable. But he had just forcibly been made aware that sleeping with Annabelle would be a different matter altogether. The experience would involve his emotions as well as his body…emotions so alarming that he could not yet bring himself to examine them.

The attraction between them had become dangerous—no less so for him than it was for her. And it was clear that Simon needed to gain some perspective on the situation. At the moment, however, he wasn’t thinking too well.

Leaving the music room with a muttered curse, he straightened the knot of his black silk necktie. Tension strung through his limbs, shortening his usual long stride and making him feel predatory and volatile as he walked toward the ballroom. The prospect of another social evening was nearly maddening. His tolerance for extended parties had never been high—he was not a man who enjoyed hours of indolent chatter and idle amusements. He would have been long gone, had it not been for Annabelle’s presence at Stony Cross.

Brooding, he went into the ballroom and glanced speculatively over the crowd. He immediately caught sight of Annabelle, occupying a chair in the corner with Lord Kendall at her side. Kendall was openly infatuated with her, his enraptured gaze making no secret of his interest. Annabelle looked subdued and flushed, seeming to have trouble meeting Kendall’s admiring gaze. She spoke very little and sat with her hands tightly knotted in her lap. Simon’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. Ironically, now when Annabelle was feeling diminished and uncertain, Kendall’s attraction to her had finally taken root. It would be a nasty surprise for Kendall later, if Annabelle did get him on the string, to find out that his wife was not the timid ingenue that she seemed. She was a woman of spirit and passion, a decidedly ambitious creature who needed a partner of equal strength. Kendall would never be able to manage her. He was too much of a gentleman for Annabelle—too mild and moderate, and too intelligent in the wrong ways. Annabelle would never respect him, nor would she take any pleasure in his virtues. She would come to despise him for the very things she should have admired…and Kendall would shrink from the qualities in Annabelle that Simon would have relished.

Dragging his gaze away from the pair, Simon made his way to the other side of the room, where Westcliff and a few other friends were talking. Turning toward him, the earl murmured, “Enjoying yourself?”

“Not particularly.” Simon shoved his hands into his coat pockets and glanced around the ballroom with simmering impatience. “I’ve stayed long enough in Hampshire—I need to return to London, to see what is happening at the foundry.”

“What of Miss Peyton?” came the soft-voiced question.

Simon considered that for a moment. “I think,” he said slowly, “that I’m going to wait and see what comes of her pursuit of Kendall.” He looked at Westcliff with a questioning arch of his brow.