Throne of the Fallen

The wry amusement vanished from his face. He cocked his head to one side, his attention languidly sliding over every inch of her as if each dip and curve were for his viewing pleasure alone.

By the time he brought his gaze back up to hers, there was no mistaking the raw hunger that flashed in those emerald eyes. She wished she hated his heated stare, but it made her feel breathless, like a fire crackling to life.

“Do you believe I’m a gentleman, Miss Antonius? I’d wager your heart is beating so wildly because deep down you hope I’m not.”

Camilla wasn’t sure how he knew her heart was suddenly pounding, but she certainly wasn’t going to own up to the fact that he affected her.

“You’re mistaken. I don’t think of you at all, Lord Synton.”

The smile that had been teasing the edges of Synton’s mouth turned into a full grin, showing off a pair of dimples she hadn’t noticed before.

“Another bold and interesting lie.”

He moved closer to the bed, a hunter sighting his prey, and the thought of being caught by him caused her pulse to race harder in anticipation.

With one languid, effortless movement, Synton stepped up, pressed a hand to the wall to settle in, and now stood on the mattress beside her, leaning in close.

As he stared down at her, Camilla briefly forgot about the forgery.

No one had ever looked at her so boldly. So intensely. Like he could see through all her carefully erected walls to who she was at her very core.

Or maybe he simply looked at her like he knew the depth of her desire and it affected him in turn. More than either of them wanted it to.

She’d only wanted to keep up her normal life here. Had fought hard to become what people expected. But now, she could admit, for only a second, that maybe she’d wanted something else, too. Something that called to a secret part of her.

“You ought to know, if I had taken a lover, I would have needed hours, Miss Antonius.”

His gaze dropped to her neck a second before he reached out, slowly stroking along her quivering pulse.

A bolt of heat lashed through her from the brief contact of his bare skin, and his hand fell away as if he, too, had felt the burn.

She expected him to draw back entirely, but instead he looked at her curiously and then surprised her by raising that same hand to run his thumb against the seam of her lips, applying steady pressure until they parted and allowed him entry.

An ember of desire ignited in his eyes, locked on hers, when she submitted to his unspoken command, drawing his thumb into her mouth.

He tasted of sin and decadence. A heady mix that heated her core.

“The tongue may lie, but other parts of the body always tell the truth, Miss Antonius. If one looks closely enough.”

With what appeared to be great effort, he withdrew his thumb and dropped his hand once again, though he didn’t step away.

Camilla wasn’t sure what it was about him. Perhaps that he was largely unknown to her, unlike other members of society. Or maybe it was the quiet intensity with which he studied his surroundings. Whatever it was, she couldn’t bring herself to move away, ensnared by curiosity, wondering what he’d do next.

Synton stood entirely too close and not close enough, his intoxicating scent now overtaking Vexley’s in the air. There was something dark and utterly masculine about it. Bourbon and spice with only a hint of sweet berries.

Suddenly, Camilla wanted to run her tongue along the seam of his lips, tasting the sweetness of sin she was certain she’d find there.

Instead, he brought that tempting mouth to her ear, lightly brushing it against the lobe. Her eyelids fluttered shut from the sensation.

“Why are you after that painting, Miss Antonius? Did Vexley steal it from you?”

The forgery.

Vexley.

It was as if Synton had dumped a bucket of ice water over her, bringing her back to her senses. The scoundrel hadn’t been trying to kiss her at all, he’d been after information. Likely to blackmail her too.

Camilla went to push herself away from the lord of temptation, but he suddenly stepped aside on his own, causing her to lose her footing as the mattress heaved.

She went tumbling forward.

Camilla tensed for what would certainly be a painful collision with the hardwood, but Synton moved faster than should have been possible, leaping forward to enclose her in his arms and break her fall with his body, which thumped heavily to the floor.

Air whooshed out of him upon impact, their knees and hips and chests crashing together, accompanied by the sound of silk ripping. For a moment, both lay still, dazed. But then Camilla stirred.

“Damn,” she cursed softly.

She pushed herself up, quickly taking stock of things.

Synton looked all right—not a hair out of place or wrinkle in his suit.

Camilla’s full skirts were twisted but were otherwise unscathed. But the seam along the left side of her dress wasn’t as fortunate.

She glanced at the exposed stays, cursing like the worst sailor ever to visit Waverly Green’s shores. The black lace of her stays, her secret indulgence, was clearly visible, clinging to the outline of her breasts, displayed in all its decadence.

A deep chuckle below her—and its subsequent rumble that vibrated along a very sensitive area of her body—drew her attention to more pressing issues: she was straddling Synton in another man’s bedroom, her gown half torn as if they’d been in the throes of passion, her hands braced on his chest.

His hard chest.

Lord help her. Synton felt like a marble statue crafted by one of the greats.

Camilla became intimately aware of just how large he was as he shifted between her thighs, how toned and powerful.

She also realized she rather liked the feeling of him beneath her—it was as if she’d conquered some great beast and for a moment, he belonged only to her.

At least until he pounced in turn.

He gave her a lazy sort of smile.

“If you’re unharmed, Miss Antonius, you may wish to stand up. Quickly.”

“Are you hurt?” Camilla looked him over more carefully, then scooted down his hips before he could stop her. “Should I… oh. Oh.”

Something hard pressed against her backside.

At once she understood what he’d been too polite to say.

Synton was as far from hurt as a man could be.

Her mouth went dry, her pulse speeding.

For a breath they both remained frozen, staring into each other’s eyes.

Camilla didn’t know why he’d paused, but she was suddenly battling a fierce internal war. She should get up immediately, and probably make a small fuss, but her body tingled where they touched, and her pulse pounded a tempting beat.

Any sense of reason was quickly being replaced by physical desire.

And even he couldn’t scoff his way out of this one: his body was responding beneath hers.

Camilla glanced down to where his hands now grasped her hips, his strong fingers buried in the silk of her twisted skirts. She had raised her head to meet his eyes again when he abruptly shifted, pushing her up onto her feet, then slowly rose to his own.

“Apologies, Miss Antonius. I assure you I didn’t intend for that—”

“No, no,” Camilla interrupted, looking anywhere but at the lord and his fierce arousal. “There’s no need to apologize or explain. I should have—”

“Hello? Who’s up there?”

Vexley. His voice came from what sounded like the top of the stairs.

Dread washed over Camilla, erasing all feelings of awkwardness.

“Oh, God, no. Hide! We mustn’t be seen together. Especially like this.” She pulled uselessly at the torn edges of her bodice, but the curve of her breast remained stubbornly free.

Indeed, Vexley sounded intoxicated enough to cause a scene. He stumbled along the corridor, cursing as he smacked into things, drawing slowly closer.