by Darcy Burke
“Oh!” She slapped her hand to her mouth, and it was such a ladylike gasp and action that Val jumped to his feet.
He swept up Isabelle’s ale and handed her the tankard. “Don’t know your own strength there, Beaufort.”
Her gaze barely met his before she buried it in her mug and took a long drink, draining the vessel.
“Looks like you’re in need of more ale,” Val said. “Allow me to show you the brewery, and you can try a few samples.” It was time for her to go before she completely exposed her disguise. He turned to Viola. “Would you like to come along?” It wasn’t supposed to be a question.
Viola, however, thought it was. “No, thank you. I’ve still some beer left. I’m sure one of these other gentlemen will be happy to shoot in Beaufort’s place.”
“I will!” This came from the odd man who wasn’t currently engaged in one of the other games. Val knew him, of course, just as he knew everyone else in the room. It didn’t trouble him to leave Viola here alone with them. She came to the tavern dressed as a man—the jolly Tavistock—on occasion so that she could pen her column for The Lady’s Gazette, “Observations on Gentlemen.”
Val couldn’t tell if Viola was aware he knew their identity but decided it didn’t matter just then. He’d tell Isabelle to be more discreet or she’d have to leave. If she chose the latter, he’d come back and inform “Gates” that his friend was ill and needed to depart.
Touching Isabelle’s arm, Val said, “Follow me.”
She hesitated, and he feared she wasn’t going to come. Then she gripped her tankard and trailed him from the billiard room.
He led her through the private salon, then into the kitchen and on to the brewery. As soon as they were inside, he closed the door.
She moved into the center of the room, her back to him.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked.
She half turned, her head pitched down, and her voice dropped to that ridiculous level that was amusing and yet somehow also carried a dark sensuality. “I beg your pardon?”
Val strode forward, intent on exposing her scheme. He wasn’t entirely sure how until he reached her, and then it was obvious. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
The hair of her beard tickled his face, and he might have laughed at the absurdity of it if he hadn’t been instantly swept away by the touch of her tongue as she opened her mouth in surprise.
Cupping the back of her neck, Val dislodged her hat and plunged his fingers into her hair. Pins went flying, and the silken locks splashed over his hand as his mouth danced with hers.
She pulled back, her hand moving to the back of her head and connecting with his. “You’ve ruined my costume!”
“Your costume wasn’t very convincing. Or do you think I go around kissing strange gentlemen?” He was torn between laughter and overwhelming desire. Despite the hair covering the lower half of her face and her masculine attire, he’d never wanted her more.
She dropped her hand to her side. “I’m sure I don’t know. Mayhap you like the feel of a beard.”
“I think I might, at least in this instance. Shall I try again to make certain, or would you prefer to take it off?”
She looked about, then sauntered to a worktable where she set her empty tankard down. Then she faced him, her gaze sultry, and her lips parted in provocative invitation. “I think I’ll take it off. Tell me, Your Grace, does that door lock?”
Chapter 12
Isabelle should not have asked such a thing, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to take it back. Already stimulated by this daring escapade with Viola and the tankard of beer she’d consumed, it hadn’t taken much for her attraction toward Val to rise to a dangerous level. When he’d helped her to position the cue, her entire body had come alive, both in memory and in anticipation. She wanted to know if being with him would feel as good now as it had ten years ago.
There was only one way she was going to find out.
Val stared at her, his eyes narrowing slightly and his nostrils flaring. The muscle in his jaw grew taut, and then he suddenly spun around. He didn’t move, however; he simply stood there for a moment. Then he sprang into action and dragged a barrel in front of the door.
It wasn’t a lock, but she supposed it would do. Lifting her hand to her face, she gently pulled at the beard, which Viola had applied with a paste she’d insisted was safe, that actors used it on the stage. But now, as Isabelle tried to remove the hair, she began to think it would rip her skin right off.
Joining her at the table, Val took her hand and pressed a kiss to her wrist. He then took over, carefully pulling the hair away from her face. He worked slowly, and she closed her eyes as he freed her flesh. When he was done, she heard him move and opened her eyes.
He returned with a damp cloth, which he smoothed over her cheek. Then he kissed her there, his lips caressing her with the same care as he’d taken with removing the fake beard. He moved to her other cheek and repeated the ministration. She closed her eyes again and surrendered to his touch. He wiped the cloth across her chin and kissed her there, his mouth lingering for a moment. Then the cloth stroked her lips, and her heart beat in anticipation of what would come next.
The cloth disappeared and was replaced by his lips. But this wasn’t a gentle caress. This was an urgent request, a plea for her surrender.
Isabelle clasped his neck and pressed her hands against his heated flesh, opening her mouth to him and answering his entreaty with her own. The barriers of time and propriety fell away as their lips and tongues moved together.
He kissed her hard, then soft, then angled his head in a new direction, then drew back to nip at her lip. She dug her fingers into him, sliding her hands beneath his cravat—or at least trying to. Frustrated, she tugged at the silk, loosening it until the knot came free. Then she pushed her hands inside his shirt and this time had total access to his neck and collarbones. He was heat and corded muscle and divine sensation, groaning into her mouth as she explored him.
He pulled at his coat, and she helped him shrug it to the floor. She unbuttoned his waistcoat, eager to feel him against her. But wait. How were they to do this? There was no bed. No place of comfort. There was only brewing equipment.
She pulled her mouth from his and sucked in air. “Perhaps—”
He kissed her again, hard and fast, then he leaned his forehead against hers. “If you tell me we should stop, I might die. I mean, I will stop, but it’s possible I will actually perish.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you to stop. I was merely going to ask if we should wait to do this until we’re in a more appropriate location.”
He cupped the side of her face and drew back to look into her eyes. “I don’t need a bed. Or anything else. I only need you.”
“I shall trust you, as I always have.”
He kissed her once more, his lips searing hers with an intensity that made her knees almost buckle. She clutched at his shoulders, and he rotated her until she felt the table against her backside.
Pulling back, he untied her cravat and surveyed her costume. “While I enjoy looking at your legs encased in breeches, this would be far easier if you had worn a skirt.”
She could see that now and giggled. “I hadn’t planned to be seduced.”
He arched a brow at her as he tossed her cravat aside and then followed it with her coat. “You’re being seduced? I believe it was you who suggested I lock the door. I think I am clearly the object of the seduction.”
She finished unbuttoning his waistcoat as he did the same for her. After dropping hers to the floor, he lifted her shirt over her head, leaving her upper half covered only by the length of muslin Viola had wrapped around her breasts.
He stared at it, his expression a mixture of disappointment and confusion. She pulled the end free, which was tucked between her breasts. “Unwrap,” she said simply.
Taking the muslin from her fingers, he slowly unwound the fabric, his eyes meeting and holding hers. The simple t
ask became a sensual endeavor as she was more and more liberated by the loosening of the muslin. And then it was gone, and his gaze dropped.
The sound of his indrawn breath cloaked her in heat and need, making her body pulse with desire. He reached for her, his hand lightly stroking her breast before he dragged his thumb across her nipple. She felt it harden at the precise moment she saw his eyes narrow with lust.
He bent and put his mouth on her there, his lips teasing, his tongue taunting. He tortured her for a long minute, and she closed her eyes, basking in the sensation even while she was desperate for more. She cupped his head and tugged at his hair, urging him to take more of her, to give more of himself.
And he did.
His mouth closed over her, and he sucked, sending a fierce spasm of want straight to her core. Yes, a skirt would have been far better. She could have pulled it up that very instant and urged him to come inside her.
She pressed her fingers into his scalp. “Val.”
He paused and looked up at her.
“I want you. Just as I did ten years ago. No, I want you more. And I know I shouldn’t, that we shouldn’t, just as I knew it then. I am helpless when it comes to you.”
“Shhh.” He smiled softly before he kissed her. “Not helpless,” he whispered against her lips before he pulled back and stared into her eyes. “You’re a woman who knows what she wants and takes it. Cole and I opened the Wicked Duke so that people could be precisely who they wanted, without pretense, without judgment, without regret.”
“You have always allowed me to be exactly who I am. Except a barmaid,” she teased.
“If you really want to be a barmaid, you can be a barmaid.”
“I rather like being a librarian. Thank you.” She pressed her lips to his. “For making that happen. For bringing me the girls today. For this.”
His mouth curved into a seductive smile. “I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Not true, but I do want you to finish.”
“Are you certain?” he asked gently, his brow creasing.
She found the hem of his shirt and swept the garment up over his chest. He helped her take it the rest of the way off, and while he was busy casting it aside, she kissed the hollow of his throat. She put her hands on his fall and began to unfasten the buttons. He palmed her nape and moaned softly as she reached into his breeches and stroked his cock.
His hips pressed forward and then he was a flurry of movement. He unbuttoned her breeches, which were thankfully far looser fitting than his, otherwise they would have been a terrible disguise, and pulled them down past her hips, then lifted her onto the table. She gasped at the sensation of the cool wood against her bare backside. Stripping her boots away, he discarded the breeches next and didn’t bother with her stockings.
Need pulsed in her sex. “Touch me, Val.”
He moved between her legs, claiming her mouth as he stroked his hand along her thigh. His fingers pressed into her curls, finding her clitoris, that sweet spot he’d introduced her to so long ago. The spot her husband had never even looked for. The spot she had touched so many times and thought of Val. Never in her dreams had she imagined she’d feel him again.
Pleasure curled through her, and she ached to have him inside her. She wriggled to the edge of the table, seeking more of him. He slid his finger into her sheath, and she cried out. He kissed her, taking her exultation into himself.
Isabelle squeezed her eyes closed and completely surrendered to his sweet torment. To feel him and smell him and taste him. It was almost too much. She was going to lose herself completely, and she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to be found again.
He stroked slowly at first, his thumb teasing her while he pumped his finger in and out. She moved with him, eager to reach that promised pinnacle where light met dark and the end met the beginning again. He began to move faster, touching her in precisely the way she needed to be touched. It was as if he recalled every caress, every sensation, and was recreating them exactly.
But then there were two fingers, and it was suddenly different. More. Faster. Frantic. He tore his mouth from hers and whispered against her ear, “Come for me, Isabelle.”
Everything inside her split apart. She plummeted into the glorious darkness and embraced the end, knowing it was only temporary and eager for the ecstasy to begin anew.
He pulled away from her sex, and she reached between them to liberate his shaft from his clothing. He groaned while she stroked his velvety softness, the memory of it paling now that she had the reality in her grasp.
His hand covered hers, and together, they guided him to her sex. Her flesh was sensitive, and the pleasure she’d craved washed over her with stark intensity, making her gasp. She clutched his hip and pulled him into her. Obliging, he drove deep, filling her with wild abandon.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, and he scooped her against him. He kissed her, openmouthed, his tongue dragging along hers. She felt greedy and desperate, as if she’d never have enough of him, and she supposed she wouldn’t. She didn’t want to think about that now. Now, she wanted to glory in this moment, in this rapture.
Their bodies moved together as if it hadn’t been ten years but ten minutes since they were one. She held him tight, anchoring herself to his strength as pleasure buoyed her on a tide of passion. He moved faster, and she met him stroke for stroke as she built toward the peak once more.
Then she was there, taken completely by surprise as she descended into bliss. He was a moment behind her, filling her again and again until his muscles went taut.
She felt him start to pull away, but she held him close. “Don’t go.”
He cried out as his body shuddered. She smoothed her fingertips along his shoulders, his spine, taking deep breaths to return to earth.
His lips pressed against her cheek, her temple, her forehead. “I should have left your body.”
“I was married for four years without issue. There is likely no need to be concerned.” Likely. She supposed there was a small need, but she refused to consider it. This night was something she’d cherish for all time.
His lips claimed hers, kissing her with sweet satisfaction. She held him tight, never wanting to let go, but knowing she must. And soon.
A chill raced across her shoulders, and she shivered.
“You’re cold,” he murmured. Leaving her, he collected her clothing and began to help her dress. He’d tucked himself back into his breeches and rebuttoned the fall but remained shirtless. She couldn’t help but appreciate the expanse of his chest and the faint curls of blond hair scattering the landscape between his nipples.
He held up the length of muslin Viola had used to wrap Isabelle’s breasts. “Do we need to bind you again?”
She touched her bare face. “I think my disguise is fairly ruined.”
Smiling, he tossed the muslin onto the table. “You can leave through the back so no one sees you, and I’ll fetch a hack. First, I’ll inform ‘Mr. Gates’ that you became ill.”
Isabelle giggled as she drew her shirt over her head. Val pulled her breeches up over her legs and gently lifted her down from the table. He started to help her tuck the shirt into the waistband, then withdrew, taking a step back.
“If I start touching you again, I won’t be able to stop.”
“And I wouldn’t ask you to,” she said huskily. She wanted him again already and feared she’d want him forever.
He tore his tortured gaze from hers and, turning from her, found his own shirt. Pulling the garment over his head, he cloaked her delightful view. His back was as splendid as his front, from the angles of his shoulder blades to the muscles running down to his backside. Though it was encased in breeches—a marvelously fitting pair that were nearly as snug as buckskins—she could still appreciate the fine curve of him.
When they were both dressed, Val took her hands and kissed the palm of each one.
“Shall we do this again in another ten years?” she quipped.
His winced,
his forehead creasing. “Please don’t make me wait that long.”
What did he mean? Was he proposing they continue? That they have an affair? The temptation was great, but she’d meant what she’d told him—she couldn’t become his mistress and then expect to be a headmistress at a school. But what if she was going to run a circulating library instead?
Except you can’t afford a circulating library.
Resisting the urge to stamp her foot in frustration, Isabelle caressed his cheek. “We surrendered to one night. Nothing more.”
Then he said the one thing she’d never imagined. And the one thing she could never say yes to. “Marry me, Isabelle.”
Chapter 13
The surprise in Isabelle’s eyes mirrored what Val felt. The proposal had tumbled from his mouth before he could think better of it. Could he? Think better of it?
They were clearly well matched in temperament, wit, and certainly physically. She would not be the kind of wife Louisa had been, of that he was confident.
When she failed to answer, just continued to stare at him as if he’d suggested they fly to the moon, he spoke. “You’re shocked. In truth, I am shocked. Only think of it, Isabelle. We are quite good together, and we could do this every night.”
“You want to marry me so that we may have intercourse whenever we like.”
When she said it like that, in a halting, somewhat disbelieving manner, it sounded less than wonderful. Which was silly. “There are far worse reasons to marry.”
“Yes, there are, and I’ve married for them.” Her eyes dimmed with sadness, and he knew she was going to refuse. “I can’t marry you. You know how I feel about my independence. I surrendered it once, and I won’t do so again, certainly not for the convenience of bed sport.”
“Why did you marry your husband?”
She let out a laugh, but it was dark and hollow. “I married him because my father recommended him, and he was of adequate means to take care of me. He was also kind and well-read, which I appreciated. But I soon learned it was all an act. He was a solitary man with a cool disposition. I’d expected a home and a family, but I got neither. When he died, he left me with enough debt to see me nearly bankrupt—so there was no home—and of course, there were no children.”