Felicia retreated--until her back hit the portal. With one hand, she grabbed the edge of the door. To steady herself? To shut it? With the other, she clutched her dress to her breasts. Duke still saw the shadow between them, pale, plump, tempting ...

His gaze jerked up to her face. She stared back.

The lust thickening his blood nearly knocked him over, and Duke gripped the door jamb above her head for support. In forty-three years, he'd never felt anything like this. Not during his privileged adolescence, where the right glance and a bit of title-dropping got him any girl he wished. Not during his tumultuous transition from man to wizard. Certainly not recently, when sex had become mechanical, nothing more than a way to power up for the next battle against Mathias.

This was totally unfamiliar and beyond his control.

Duke shuffled closer. Her body heat grabbed him across the mere ribbon of space between them. He leaned in, tilted his head, his gaze zeroed in on her lips, thoughts of tasting her storming through his head.

He was about to make the biggest mistake of his life.

"Stop me," he murmured.

Felicia stared, breathless, silent.

Heart revving, Duke inched closer, enough to see the little line bisecting that lush lower lip and smell the peppermint of the holiday candy he'd given her in the car.

"Felicia, stop me."

But she swayed closer, her eyes fluttering shut. Her hand left the door and latched on to his bare shoulder. Her touch jolted his system, a lightning rod charging through him. Thought stopped, desire flared.

Yes, he was going to hell, but he'd go with her sweet taste on his tongue.

He fused their lips together, covering her mouth with his own. So soft. Her gasp hit him in the chest as her fingers tightened on his shoulder, nails biting. Duke pressed his body against hers and urged her mouth open, instinct roaring at him to taste her. Felicia hesitated, then slowly, her lips began to part.

He willed patience, his fingers clutching the wood above her head until splinters dug under his skin. He wanted to touch her so damn badly, stroke his hand down her delicate flesh, and caress her. But with need roaring through him, Duke was incapable of being gentle just now.

Using his free hand, he yanked her dress off her hips, unable to hear whether he'd torn it over the drumming of his heart. It pooled at her feet.

Then, finally, her lips parted completely, all the sweet treasures inside his to taste.

He skimmed her lace-clad hip, her naked waist, until he settled the bare curve of her breast in his palm, her nipple burning his flesh.

Desire burst like fireworks inside him, loud, bright, impossible to ignore.

Duke crushed her mouth under his and delved deep, not wasting the time to sample. He inhaled, her sweet gardenia scent filling his senses like a drug. Her tongue brushed his shyly. She shuddered, her hand searing its way up his shoulder to clutch the back of his neck, her fist grasping at the short strands of his hair. The pull on his scalp told him that he affected her, and that revved him up.

Then instinct flattened him. Like all wizards, Duke sensed his mate by taste. After a single kiss, he knew for certain that Felicia was meant to be his.

He didn't waste another instant before he pressed his entire body against hers, their bare chests hot against each other, intimate. He devoured her as if she was the most sumptuous flavor he'd ever rolled across his tongue. As if he'd starve without her. Both were true.

Words stormed through his head, familiar despite the fact he'd never spoken them.

Significant words. Life altering. He couldn't wait to say them. To speak the Call and make her his.

Then as Felicia moaned and pushed at his shoulder, he remembered that she loved his brother.

Fuck! The scandal. His mother. Mason, who would never forgive him ...

Duke tore his mouth away, panting. Still, the words were a chant in his brain.

Become a part of me, as I become a part of you. And ever after, I promise myself to thee ...

Not going to happen.

Felicia snatched her hand from his neck as if his skin burned and dived down for her dress, clutching it to her chest. "W-we ... can't do this."

Duke couldn't argue with that.

Already, he was biting the words back, the effort painful. If he spoke the Call, he would belong to her irrevocably and forever. Her heart would always belong to another.

Backing away, he watched as she clutched her dress to her chest, which rose and fell with each hitched breath. Her eyes, so blue, looked somewhere between stunned and accusatory.

He had no one else to blame. Everything was his fault.

"I'm sorry." Duke forced himself to step away, putting more space between them.

She wrinkled her nose and stared for a long, stilted moment. What the hell was she thinking?

"No, you're not."

Her harsh breaths rent the air, one after the other. In the air, he smelled the faint hint of arousal. Duke couldn't stop himself. He stepped forward again, his palm skimming up her so-soft arm, around her shoulder, sweeping across her bare back.

"Felicia ..."

She gasped, jerked away, and slammed the door between them. Then locked it.

As the shower started, he cursed bitterly and paced toward the window across the room--as far away from Felicia as he dared go.

Outside, he spied Tynan O'Shea huddled in a long trench coat, lounging against a tree. Marrok paced the yard near the road, his sword flapping with each booted step.

Ronan--he could only tell which Wolvesey twin from the dark hair--walked a circle about the house, passing just under Duke's window. He'd have to apologize later for their misery, but at least he knew Felicia was safe tonight.

From everyone but himself.

More than once, he'd heard friends say that love was a bitch. He'd never understood until now. Granted, he shouldn't know Felicia well enough to love her. But in her kiss, he'd sensed even more about her. Soft. Sweet. He'd bet she adored children and baking...but she had a hint of tartness. From that, Duke suspected that she possessed more than a hint of vixen that she only showed those she trusted most. Already, he'd seen glimpses of the quick temper she tried to hide beneath her polite British facade. She was clever, very genuine, and, her delicate face told him, confused about that kiss.

Knowing that she was meant for him but that her heart belonged to Mason was the most shattering pain he'd ever endured. If felt like losing the sun forever, sending him into deep freeze. Duke frowned, that truth hacking at his heart.

Even if he managed to hold back the Call, he'd never be the same again.

Chapter 6

THE SHOWER PELTED FELICIA, steaming up the small, black-tiled bathroom.

Though she wasn't cold, nearly five minutes after Hurstgrove's kiss, she couldn't stop shaking. That hadn't been a simple meeting of the lips.

What have I done?

Felicia could scarcely process the fact that she'd been in the arms of two brothers in one night, and had reacted very differently to each one.

Mason's kiss had surprised her. Though he'd tried desperately to both seduce and reassure her, she'd been unable to hide her shock and distress. Since then, she'd been awash in guilt. The man had held her hand through her adoptive parents' funeral, then Deirdre's two years later, forever lending his support and smiles ... and she'd been unable to respond to him on their wedding day? If he was going to father her children, shouldn't she be able to enjoy his touch? When Mason had kissed her, Felicia suspected that her fears had locked down any passionate response and the suddenness of his romantic feelings had overwhelmed her too quickly for her to adapt.

His brother blew that myth to hell.

She was barely acquainted with Hurstgrove and knew of him only through Mason's accounts and what she'd read in the tabloids, all of which told her that His Grace was the last man she should ever want. Yet when he'd ravished her mouth, had she been stunned, repulsed, or afraid? No. The first touch of his lips had been blistering hot. Then she'd melted into him, her head spinning, her heart pounding. Instantly, she'd been desperate for more.

Then he'd deepened the kiss, turning it into something that felt like a vow, blindsiding her with a sense of connection even deeper than the tug she'd felt at their first meeting. It made no sense. Hurstgrove was the master of temporary flings and tawdry affairs. How could she possibly desire him? Felicia couldn't explain it, but denying her response to him was pointless. Just thinking about his kiss made her belly tighten. Even lower, an ache settled in and throbbed, precisely where she didn't want it.

Pressing her thighs together, she let the hot water slide over her. Hurstgrove's seduction had been slow, controlled--but she'd felt his hunger seething under thin restraint. Holding back had cost him greatly and done nothing to disguise the fact that he'd been ready to shove her against the wall and have his way with her. With him, she'd become a trembling mess in seconds, a stranger to her own body, aching for more of his forbidden touch. She'd nearly allowed him anything--and everything--he wanted.

Why Hurstgrove? Why didn't she respond with such ardor to familiar, reliable Mason? Whatever the reason, she must get the man, or whatever he was, out of her head and focus on staying alive.

Felicia scrubbed her skin until it felt raw, but she couldn't erase the feel of Hurstgrove against her, his palm swallowing her breast. Regardless of the stunning pleasure, he could not touch her again. Though her relationship with Mason was up in the air, she owed him everything. He'd been willing to give her his name, his life, his support, his patience, and the family she craved. After mere hours apart, she'd repaid him by nearly succumbing to his playboy sibling. That fact flayed her with shame.

There had been only two people in Felicia's life with whom she could discuss a dilemma of this magnitude. Deirdre was cold in the ground, and the last thing Mason wanted to hear was that his half brother's kiss sent her up in flames.

Felicia swallowed back her tears. Wallowing never accomplished anything, and she couldn't hide in the shower forever. She must face Hurstgrove.

With a palmful of shampoo, Felicia scrubbed away the hairspray, tearing out the remaining pins in her hair. She took a deep breath, willing herself to calm. When she finished, she would cover herself as best she could, then sit the man down and explain the boundaries of their rapport in no uncertain terms.

Feeling clean, if not better, Felicia emerged from the steamy shower. She donned her bra and panties--she'd insist on clean replacements tomorrow--then noticed a white men's T-shirt folded on the faux marble counter. She froze. Hurstgrove had been in here while she'd been naked and thinking of him?

A wave of heat and fury jolting her, Felicia yanked the shirt over her head. Then stopped. Oh God, it smelled exactly like him. Sandalwood, slightly citrusy, something sinful. It was his.

Hating the way she trembled for him, she found a new comb inside a drawer and yanked it through her hair, then emerged to set the ground rules.

As Felicia stepped out of the bathroom, surprise rippled through her. He lay, not on the very cozy bed that a man his size would practically eclipse, but curled awkwardly and half-bare on the wooden bench at its foot. Her anger drained, and she frowned.

Wouldn't a selfish bastard simply take the bed? Wouldn't a Casanova insist they share it?

Instead, her gaze staked over his bare bronzed shoulders bulked with muscle, even at rest. Bulging, corded arms that had carried her effortlessly, shouted the fact he was all male. His calves and large feet hung over the edge.

Again, she couldn't help but wonder what he was. Given how much he affected her, Felicia's theory that he was somehow magical made sense.

Lying on his side on the short bench with his legs tucked close to his body, Hurstgrove looked bloody uncomfortable. Inviting him to the bed would be both detrimental to her sanity and her future. To make matters worse, the old house was drafty, and winter's chill had definitely invaded. No doubt, he was in for a long, miserable night.

Guilt tugged at her.

"Y-you should stoke the fireplace."

"Go to sleep, Felicia," Hurstgrove murmured. His voice was low, scratchy, intimate. Shiver-inducing.

"It's freezing in here." She crossed her arms over her chest.

"Get under the blankets. They'll warm you."

"I'm concerned for you. If you start a fire--"

"Neighbors may see smoke from the chimney and get suspicious. Same with Mathias if he followed us. Go to sleep."

So he would forego warmth to keep her safe? And give her the very shirt off his back to keep her covered? Neither had he taken any of the pillows or blankets from the bed for himself.

It made no sense. Hurstgrove was a duke. A wealthy, entitled man. Mason had described him as both womanizing and selfish. Yet His Grace had stolen just one kiss, which he'd begged her to stop. He'd given her the shower, left her the comfort of the bed.

Who was he, really?

Biting her lip, she wrestled with herself. But she couldn't leave him to shiver for the rest of the night.

Felicia grabbed a soft down pillow in one hand and the quilt off the bed with the other, and approached Hurstgrove, draping the thick blanket over his hard, elegant frame.

He lifted sooty lashes to look at her. "What--"

"I don't want you to catch your death." She cradled his head and slid the pillow beneath. The intimacy of the act--his soft hair sliding across her palm, the stubble of his cheek tickling her fingertips--washed over her. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She sucked in a stunned breath as desire surged anew. What was it about this man?