Book Info:
Lady Sophia has long been estranged from her husband, Vane Barwick, the Duke of Claxton, whose rumored list of amorous conquests includes almost every beautiful woman of the ton. Yet a single touch is all it takes to reawaken her furious passion for him. But how can she trust the man who crushed her dreams and took away the one thing she wanted most?
Claxton has never forgiven himself for the youthful mistake that ruined his marriage to Sophia. Now, after nearly a year abroad, the reformed rogue vows to win back the only woman he's ever truly loved. He'll do whatever it takes to prove he can be the honorable husband she deserves-and the passionate lover she desires.
Book Excerpt:
For Sophia, there was something devastating about the knowledge they would never spend another
moment alone again until after the details of their separation—settlements and annuities and
agreements—were negotiated through intermediaries and finalized. In these last moments could he
not speak to her with some gentleness out of respect for the happier times they’d shared?
With
all the force within her, she yanked the case back, inadvertently jerking his
hand in her direction, because he did not let go. His eyes flared wide with
surprise.
Of
course she overreacted, and in a most irrational and childish manner, but in this
moment she did not care. Her mind buzzed with hurt and anger, and she didn’t
even feel the cold anymore. Did he not wish for them to have a decent and
meaningful goodbye? They had once loved one another.
His
jaw flexed. “This excursion was utter folly. Admit you were wrong in leaving
the house.”
That
he would be so obstinate here, on the threshold of the place where she would
say goodbye to him forever, upended her composure. Once she regained full
possession of her case, she could go inside, shut the door on Claxton and
convince her heart to forget him.
“Of
course I was wrong. I’m a foolish, silly woman. Thank you, your Grace, for being such a gentleman as to point out
my every failing,” she said archly. “And for being so much larger and stronger
than me, your helpless, little wife.”
She
backed away in an attempt to free the handle, but still he did not release it.
Indeed, he gritted his teeth and held tight.
“Sophia—”
he warned.
“But
I’m not your wife any longer.” She jerked the case, throwing all her weight
into the effort. “Not really, not for long, because you’ve made it clear, not
just to me, but the whole of England that you prefer to be anywhere in the world and with anyone
but with me.” And jerked it again. “So you’re not a gentleman after all, and most certainly not my hero, so no, I’m not inclined to thank you for anything.”
For
a moment, there was nothing but the sound of the wind and ice cracking, and the
echo of her words in her ears.
“Not
a gentleman, you say?” he said in a hushed voice.
His
expression dangerous, he yanked the handle hard,
gaining possession of the valise and Sophia, who pitched forward, along with
it. The force of it brought her crashing against him. The valise between them
halted her abruptly, her face inches from his. Her heartbeat raced wildly, but
not in fear. With the attraction she struggled even now, in her anger and hurt
to conceal.
“It
took you until now to realize?” he said, nostrils flared.
With
a downward shove, he wrenched the case from her hand, throwing it to the
ground. He stepped toward her.
“Don’t
you touch me,” she gasped and retreated toward the steps, thinking to escape
him but he lunged, closing the distance between them to capture her face in his
hands.
“Dear
God, you drive me mad,” he growled, his eyes alight with blue fire.
She
waited for the squeeze of his fingers, for him to twist off her head in the
middle of the lane, for being such a tiresome, troublesome wife, who had ceased
to bring him a single moment’s peace or pleasure.
His
mouth fell on hers.
Stunned,
she grabbed his hands to remove them, but…
Didn’t.
She
gasped against his lips, inhaling in his breath, and in an instant remembered
all she craved. His full lower lip. The bristly texture of his unshaven skin.
The taste and scent that was only, deliciously Claxton. Every particle of her
being exploded with need. His hands found her waist. She grasped his upper
arms. He groaned, devouring her.
The
world around them faded into a maelstrom of desire, she only vaguely aware of
the snow crunching under their feet as they danced, struggled…his hands—her hands—tangled in hair and wool. On
skin.
“Claxton,”
she breathed.
He
made a guttural sound.
In
wild surge, all the anger of the past months exploded inside her, transforming
the kiss into some thing more primal. She bit him. He nipped her back, a moment
before his tongue entered her mouth, to slide over hers. Consciousness blurred
into a frenzy of pleasure and not-so-terrible pain.
Pain.
With
a gasp, she thrust her hands against his chest and pushed.
Dazed
and heavy-lidded, he stared at her, his cheeks ruddy with passion, his arms bent
at his sides, almost as if he’d never seen her before.
“Oh,
my God,” he exclaimed thickly.
Touching
her fingertips to swollen and tender lips, she teetered on unsteady legs, and
wholeheartedly concurred with his assessment. They’d shared thousands of
kisses, but never anything as magnificent as that.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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