Lynne Connolly and L.M. Connolly - powerful men and the women who love them

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The Making Of A Marquess

 

The Society for Single Ladies is a crime-solving club founded by the wealthiest woman in London.
Yet even Miss Angela Childers’ charming detectives are not immune to the forces of love . . .

Dorothea Rowland attends a country house party to investigate a long-lost heir—not to find a husband. But when the dashing American claimant discovers her prowling for clues, she is startled—and then seduced—by his provocative kiss. It’s all Dorothea can do to remember her mission. Especially when a series of accidents adds up to something  far more dangerous . .

Benedict only meant to silence lovely Dorothea—not find himself enamored. What’s a gentleman to do but join forces—and propose to the clever beauty? Yet as Ben and Dorothea pursue the truth about his inheritance, their faux betrothal threatens to become the real thing.

Soon Ben’s plan to return to his life in America is upended—not only by his deepening bond with his bride, but by someone who wants his fortune badly enough to jeopardize his future—even end it. And Dorothea can’t let that happen. Not for the title, but for Ben .

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Here's an excerpt:
Dorothea opened her mouth and let him in. She could do nothing else. His power, so carefully harnessed, swept through her and put her in his thrall. If he’d forced her, she’d have broken away immediately, but he didn’t.
He persuaded, and that was worse. Offered her just enough to make her pursue him, to become an eager participant. Had a kiss ever proved so seductive, so irresistible? She had kissed men before, but not like this. She recalled hard lips on hers, or young, eager ones, clumsy and unpracticed. Nothing like this. Never had she known the power of a mere kiss before.
When he touched her lips with the tip of his tongue, she almost swooned from the intimacy. But she was no schoolroom miss. She was made of stronger stuff. Dorothea looped her arm around the back of his neck, the velvet of his hair-ribbon grazing her skin. The enticing fabric of his shirt barely concealed the powerful muscles beneath. If he had not bent to her, she wouldn’t have been able to reach his arm, such was the width of his shoulders and his height. That alone fascinated her, that he had to bend to her instead of reaching up.
He dipped his tongue into her mouth, and she clutched at him, grabbing his waistcoat and pulling the top few buttons undone. He groaned into her mouth. Eagerly she swallowed the sound and came back for more. Her fichu loosened, whether from her frantic need or his hands she didn’t know. Nor did she care. He could rip it off her if he liked.
Drawing away, he gasped, “I did not mean…” but she pulled him back, using her arm to haul him against her. So there were advantages in being tall, after all. A shorter woman wouldn’t have had the leverage. Triumph soared through her when he responded, dragging her even closer to press her breasts against the firm wall of his chest. It brought her some ease but not nearly enough. She needed more. She wanted skin.
Working her hand between them, she found his waistcoat buttons and tugged them through the buttonholes. He did not stop her, and emboldened, she carried on, until she could flatten her hand on his chest. Now only his shirt lay in the way of her and her desire. If she didn’t have him now, she’d never have the chance again. He was rough at the edges but still a gentleman, and he’d keep away from her. Voracious, unfulfilled, she pressed her lips to his, afraid that if he came to his senses and recalled who she was and what she looked like, he’d move away. If he did that, she would die. Or something inside her would. She’d never felt desire like this before, and she wanted more. Now.
He responded, pulling her close, and dragging her fichu up and away. Her breasts swelled up, threatening to burst out of her stays and shift. If only they would!
Tracing his finger across the top of her breasts, following the line of her stays brought tingling awareness to her skin, deliciously sensual.
A click behind them heralded the entrance of—someone, and the scandalized cry brought her back to earth. “Unhand her, sir!”
If ever a brother was de trop, this was the time. Ann’s shocked, high-pitched cry was broken off.
Ben spun around, pushing her behind him as if to shield her and standing tall. “Yes?”
If anyone doubted his aristocratic pedigree, they should hear and see him now.
His arrogance made her giggle, half-nervous, half-shocked. Bending, she retrieved her fichu and tossed the light square of white linen across her shoulders, shielding what should never have been exposed. Hastily she gathered the precious papers which she’d let fall, when she’d lost her senses to his kiss.
“May I ask what you are doing in my sister’s bedroom?” Laurence demanded, every inch the proper guardian.
“I must apologize, Lord Sandigate,” Ben said smoothly. “I had private business with Dorothea, and we got somewhat—carried away.”
She did not bother wondering how and why she could have done this; she knew perfectly well. The man had overwhelmed her senses from the moment she’d laid eyes on him. She would do it again. And resenting his protection of her, she emerged, smoothing her skirts and holding the papers with hands that barely trembled. “And really, Laurence, what business is it of yours?”