The Rogue's Disgraced Lady. Кэрол Мортимер

continued to plunder and claim hers. Her breasts had firmed, and the nipples tingled achingly where they were pressed so firmly against his brocade waistcoat. His hands caressed the length of her back, the movement causing the tips of her breasts to stroke against his body, and Juliet groaned low in her throat at the sensation that this caused throughout her body.

      What was happening to her? Juliet wondered wildly.

      She had never experienced any of these sensations on those occasions when Edward had pushed her nightgown up to her chin before he thrust the hard thing between his legs painfully inside her, his member so long and thick that the first time he had taken her Juliet had actually fainted as Edward ripped through the barrier of her innocence.

      It had been the same every time Edward had come to her bed—he took her in a cold, silent way—and Juliet had always had to fight to keep the tears from falling, knowing that her tears would only anger Edward into making her suffer even worse degradation.

      So Juliet had suffered the pain as Edward had thrust himself between her thighs, eventually giving a grunt and collapsing heavily on top of her, rather than suffer the verbal and physical retribution that would rain down on her should she attempt to refuse him.

      Thankfully Edward had not come to her bedchamber quite so often during the last few years of her marriage, but on the occasions when he had done so no amount of pleading on her part had succeeded in softening his demands. She was his wife, he had told her coldly, and as such it was her duty to lie back, open her legs, and give satisfaction to his physical needs—whenever and whatever they might be.

      The memory of those miserable nights with Edward was enough to kill any possibility of Juliet ever finding pleasure in any man’s arms—even Sebastian St Claire’s!—and she wrenched her mouth free of his before pushing him away, her hands held out defensively in front of her as she backed away from him.

      Edward was dead, Juliet reminded herself desperately. She was free of him at last. Not just free of him, but of all men. Juliet had promised herself after Edward’s death that she would never again suffer the torment of belonging to any man.

      ‘Do not come near me again!’ she warned harshly. She knew by the raising of his hand that St Claire was about to do exactly that.

      Sebastian had meant only to cup the side of Juliet’s face, to lay the soft pad of his thumb soothingly against lips slightly swollen from his kisses. But his hand fell back to his side, and his gaze became searching as he saw the wildness glittering in the deep green of her eyes. Like those of a rabbit cornered by a bigger and stronger predator…

      Who was responsible for causing this look of desperation in such a lovely and delicate woman?