Eleanor thought of the jerky violence with which Lisette had swung the lute. “I believe she was irritated by something Roland said.”
“I can certainly understand that. I would suggest that Sir Roland’s manner could be considered a far more reliable guide to matrimony than might his kisses.”
“What do you mean?” Suddenly the stars seemed much closer, now that there were only the two of them outside together. The night air was velvety and warm on her skin.
“If I were married to him, it would be about a week before I pushed one of his pompous, artistic poems down his throat,” Villiers said with a perfect lack of expression, which made his comment hilarious.
Eleanor burst into laughter. “You hurt his feelings with that twaddle about Shakespeare. It could be that he’ll be a great writer someday, you know.”
Villiers leaned a little closer. “Dropping the tiresome poet from the conversation, I don’t think I want my marriage decided by a kiss that includes the Duke of Astley as an unknowing partner.”
“I thought of Gideon for only a moment.” Her treacherous heart sped up a bit.
“Why don’t you kiss me this time? Perhaps that will help to focus your attention on the man before you.”
Of course she could kiss him. She was good at kissing, and those dalliances with Gideon weren’t all that many years ago. So she leaned forward and kissed him with all the persuasive power that she’d polished with Gideon. Her lips slipped along his, begged him for entrance.
His lips didn’t move.
She swallowed a little humiliation, leaned farther forward so he could see her bosom if he wished.
Gideon always closed his eyes when she kissed him, but Villiers kept his open. And to her dismay, he seemed to be looking at her with amusement rather than raw desire.
“What?” she demanded.
“I don’t think I like being kissed. That was as boring as my kiss, the one that drove you to start dreaming about Astley.”
Gideon hadn’t liked her kisses all that much either. “Very well,” she said, moving back and feeling around for her wrap. “I really should go to—”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like kissing you,” he interrupted.
“Yes, you—”
“I don’t like being kissed.” And with that rather cryptic statement he reached across and pulled her against his chest.
Eleanor’s arms went instinctively around his neck. But she didn’t have time to think before his hands laced into her hair and his mouth took hers. He didn’t beg or seduce. He invaded. He took her mouth hard, with a kind of concentrated lust and fever, and she knew exactly why all those women had never said no to him.
It didn’t have anything to do with his ducal crest, as he seemed to think. It was the moment when the immaculately dressed, starched and beruffled duke suddenly turned wild, his mouth hot on hers, his hands gripping her hard.
This kiss was unlike any she’d shared with Gideon. There was nothing sweet about Villiers’s kiss. And Villiers didn’t feel like the right way to think about him.
She broke free and his lips slid, hot, across her cheek. “What’s your name?” she whispered, knowing it perfectly well. Leopold was too accustomed to women’s avid attempts to claim intimacy with him. He was spoiled by too much adoration.
He said it against her lips. “You do remember my title?”
“I don’t care about your title any more than—” But she didn’t want to talk, so she turned toward his mouth again, starving as a new-born chick. He made a growling sound in his throat, and their tongues tangled. She was shaking, she thought dimly, pushing her fingers into his hair and pulling it free of its ribbon so that it slid like rough silk across her skin.