by Elise Marion
“He’s too old!” he declared, grasping at straws.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she countered. “He might have a few decades on me, but I’d hardly refer to him as old.”
Neither would Serge, damn it. Lord Burnham seemed to have defied age and time, and he’d seen firsthand just how attractive the fairer sex found him. Even the youngest debutantes inside that ballroom had cut their eyes at him as he’d walked past, whispering behind their fans about the grand vizier.
“Primus is actually perfect,” Isabelle said with a little laugh. “I cannot believe I did not think of it before.”
This conversation was not going at all as he’d planned. He narrowed his eyes at her, a vein in his temple pulsing as she continued on, oblivious to his state of agitation.
“He’s handsome, he’s charming, and has been ruling Barony all this time as steward. He has military experience, and there is the added bonus of his impressive lineage.”
Serge finally recognized the ugliness that grew in his chest for what it was.
Raw, undeniable jealousy.
It was tearing him apart, ripping him open from the inside out. To hear her speak of another man this way … for her to seriously consider marrying him … he could take no more of it.
“Isabelle,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
Having not heard him, she continued listing the grand vizier’s attributes. Serge tried to wait it out, but got tired of being ignored somewhere between Primus’ ‘regal bearing’ and his ‘concern and love for the people’. His control finally slipped from his grasp.
“Damn it Isabelle, you cannot marry him!”
She started at his sudden outburst, her jaw dropping as she seemed to finally notice his defensive posture and stony features.
“Why on earth not?” she countered with an imperious tilt of her head. “Because you have irrationally decided not to like the man?”
“No,” he ground out. “You cannot marry him … you simply can’t!”
“You still haven’t told me why,” she exclaimed, obviously at her wit’s end.
Well, good, because he had come to the end of his own patience. He’d had to stand back when it came to her for years. For so long, he’d had to make himself accept that she could never be his. But, she was within his reach now. He’d be damned if he allowed her to slip through his fingers and into the arms of a man who neither knew nor understood her.
Taking her shoulders in a firm grasp, he yanked her toward him. She fell against him with a gasp, but made no effort to push him away or twist out of his grasp. Her hands rested against his chest as he wrapped an arm around her and held her tight against him. Eyes wide, she seemed incapable of anything other than staring at in him open-mouthed shock.
“Because as good as Lord Burnham could be as your husband, we both know there is one other man who would be better,” he said, his voice going low and husky from the desire that flared at her nearness.
“Serge,” she whimpered, squirming against him in a way that made the organ in his evening knee breeches go hard as flint.
“Yes,” he groaned, lowering his head until his mouth brushed her ear. “Unlike those other men in there, I understand you, I respect you. I see you as more than a prize to be won or the means at gaining power. I have proven to you time and again that I can be your confidant, your friend … and a few nights ago, we discovered how well we would suit as lovers.”
She gasped when he kissed just beneath her ear, working his way down the slender pillar of her neck. Her hands tightened around his lapels, her back arching and urging her body even tighter against hers.
He was swimming in the heady bliss of her nearness—the soft press of her bountiful curves against him, the scent of rose oil and lemon clinging to her skin, the sharp hitch of her breaths at each touch of his mouth against her flesh.
“You cannot marry him because I want you to marry me,” he declared, drawing back just enough to look her in the eye. “Because he doesn’t affect you this way … because you’d never come alive in his arms like this … because you know how good we could be together—both as king and queen, but also as man and wife.”
Then, he was cupping the nape of her neck and urging her close again, seeking her lips for a kiss. She came up on tiptoe to meet him with a breathy sigh, the clench of her fingers now tight enough to hopelessly ruin the lines of his coat. He hardly cared about that—or even their location in the garden where anyone could happen into the hedgerow maze and discover them.
The taste of Isabelle mingled with champagne danced upon his tongue, crackles of electricity arcing over his skin from where their mouths met and parted, sending a powerful current through his entire body.
Their tongues met and he groaned, hands clutching at her back, her hips, her buttocks, seeking out the hills and valleys of her form through the many trappings and layers separating them.
Just as he’d said, she sparked to life in his arms, returning his kisses with her own ardor. Her hands were everywhere, in his hair, cupping his jaw, gripping his shoulders.
He had lost his grip on sanity and control, all his previous reservations melting away in the face of one basic truth.
He wanted her.
He wanted her in a way he never had, and after so many years of denial, he couldn’t be stopped—not with her kissing him back, touching him, letting him know with her little whimpers and roaming fingers that she wanted him back.
“Isabelle,” he whispered against her lips. “I can’t … I need … oh God, please tell me you want this too.”
“Yes,” she sighed, drawing him back to her and sealing their mouths together once more.
He had longed to hear that whispered, impassioned plea from her lips for as long as he could remember, and now was his chance. There would be no stopping this time, no reticence or doubt. Perhaps he might feel guilt later, but just now primal need superseded all else.
She helped him shrug out of his coat, then waited while he spread it out on the stony ground. Then, he lifted her into his arms and claimed her lips once more, engaging her in a deep, languid kiss as he lowered her on top of the garment. Her voluminous skirts billowed around his legs as he lay in the cradle between her thighs, giving her bodice a swift tug to expose her breasts and dragging down her undergarments along with it.
They groaned in unison as he captured a nipple in his mouth, sucking with a desperation born of the need to taste every inch of her. He couldn’t while they lay out in the open, but the next time he vowed to strip her naked and kiss her from head to toe.
She arched her back, letting out a keening cry as he palmed her other breast, working its tip with his thumb and forefinger as his mouth steadily pulled at the other. He trembled at the sounds she made, guttural and primal, completely wanton. She threaded her fingers through his hair and held him to her bosom, quivering and shaking as he got his fill of her, releasing one from his mouth to capture the other.
Then, he was fisting handfuls of her gown and petticoats, shoving them up and seeking her beneath the layers. He found one leg and followed it upward, his hand skimming along her silk stocking until it met bare flesh. Her soft thigh filled his hand, and she moaned when he gave it a squeeze, edging his thumb closer to her center.
He found her other leg and followed the same path until he held her open wide, palms pressed to the insides of her thighs.
She’d grown mindless with need now, tearing at his cravat, then the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt to part them as he edged his thumbs toward her core. She bared his chest and lifted her head to kiss him, her tongue flicking at his collarbone and the point of his pulse.
“Have you any idea how long I’ve wanted this … wanted you?” he rasped, parting her lower lips and seeking out the tender flesh inside.
She groaned against his chest as he strummed at her pulsing bud, circling it, then testing her slick entrance. He lowered his head to rest against her shoulder as he stroked her, fighting the urge to free
himself from his breeches and find his way inside her in one forceful stroke. It had been so long since he’d been with any woman, but this was his Isabelle. He needed her to find fulfillment, to fall apart for him.
“Serge,” she whispered, hips undulating in time with this strokes, his name on her lips breaking off into a guttural cry.
“That’s it, Isabelle,” he murmured kissing her neck, then her chin and the line of her jaw. “You don’t have to fight it anymore … just let go.”
He slipped a finger into her, then a second, his thumb still steadily working her toward her finish. Her sheath contracted around him, her legs trembling on either side of his hips as her end loomed nearer and nearer.
Serge clamped his mouth over hers just as she climaxed, trapping the sound of her hoarse cry and muffling it. She fell apart beneath him, bucking and writhing and moaning into his mouth as the release went on and on. He rode it out, gentling his touch and keeping up his ministrations until she went still beneath him with a deep sigh.
Withdrawing his fingers from inside her, he brought them to his mouth, the one concession he’d make to indulging in the taste of her. He groaned at the heady flavor, desperate for more but knowing they could only linger for so long before someone came looking for Isabelle.
Next time, he told himself.
And there would be a next time. He vowed then and there to ensure there would be, and on the first opportunity he was going to taste and nibble at her intimate flesh until she flew apart, squirming and screaming his name.
He sat up on his haunches, hands shaking as he fumbled at the buttons of his breeches. His erection practically flew free of the garment, hard and aching and straining toward the woman spread out before him.
She pulled him over her and hooked her legs around him once more. Using his arms to bear most of his weight, he allowed her to guide him to her opening. All it took was the kiss of his tip against her wetness and heat, and he was lost.
With one swift, hard thrust, he was inside of her, enveloped so tight he could hardly breathe. His lungs began to burn, his belly clenching as he fought not to release then and there, the height of his need and his year-long dry spell making it difficult.
When he felt as if he could move without embarrassing himself, he withdrew and plunged, releasing his held breath on a low growl. The fit of her around him was exquisite, so perfect he could swear this was where he was meant to be.
He tried to take his time and make it last, but he’d lost what was left of his control the moment he slipped inside her, and now there was no holding back. His thrusts became deeper, his pelvis battering hers as he gripped her shoulders and pulled her down into each drive of his hips. She panted and clung to him, her breaths forced out of her in sharp sound each time his body collided with hers.
Slipping a hand between them, he found her little nub and began stimulating it again, desperate to make her climax again, to fly over the edge right along with him. He held back for as long as he could, his legs shaking and his thrusts became slower and deeper. With a shudder and a helpless groan, she joined him in a tangle of ecstasy, her insides clenching tight and surrounding him with the pounding spasms of her climax. He seated himself inside of her and spilled his seed with a rough groan.
For a long moment, they simply lay together in silence, their harsh breaths ringing out in harmony, their limbs entangled. After a while he finally found the strength to prop himself up on his elbows and gaze down at her.
She glanced up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, cheeks tinged pink and her mouth swollen from his kisses. Stroking a lock of hair back from her face, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.
He pulled her bodice back into place, then yanked her skirts down before helping her to her feet. Then, he set about putting his own clothing back into some semblance of order. Isabelle seemed unable to meet his gaze now, the flush on her cheeks having deepened to red. He frowned at the thought of her regretting what they’d done so soon afterward.
He couldn’t have that.
Reaching out to take her hand, he raised it to his lips, earning a shudder when his mouth lingered for more than a few seconds. Her gaze seemed uncertain now, wide and filled with endless questions.
“I know we said we would try to forget what happened, but this thing between us isn’t going to simply go away,” he said, reaching out to take her other hand. “Consider this my official declaration, Isabelle. I want you for my wife, and I will do whatever I must to have you.”
She lowered her gaze, her chin trembling as she seemed to fight for composure. “I-I thought you didn’t want to take Damien up on his offer …”
“This isn’t about him, it is about us,” he argued. “I’d still want you, even if you didn’t come with a throne and a kingdom. You might even say I want you despite those things.”
“I need time,” she replied, gaze now focused on his rumpled cravat. “Please don’t ask me to give you an answer now. This is all happening so suddenly, and I … you are right that this attraction between us cannot be denied but I … I just need time.”
Serge smiled, reaching out to lift her chin. He couldn’t help taking one last kiss from her, this one soft and lingering while his fingers stroked at her smooth cheek.
“I just wanted you to know where I stand. When you’ve made your decision, you know where to find me.”
Forcing himself to turn away and not look back, he made his way back through the hedgerow maze. A triumphant smile curved his lips as he re-entered the ballroom.
He might not have secured a promise from her as he’d hoped, but he had definitely taken a step in the right direction. He’d proven to himself and to Isabelle that they had what it took to have a passionate marriage as well as a companionable one, fulfilling his own secret fantasies in the process.
Now, he wouldn’t be able to stop until Isabelle was his in every way.
* * *
Isabelle waited until she could no longer hear Serge’s footsteps against the stone walkway before she relaxed. Shoulders slumped and face buried in her hands, she rested on. the ledge of the fountain, trying to sift through her muddled thoughts.
She and Serge had just crossed the line from friendship over into … what? She shook her head, still unable to believe what they had just done. Worse than that, she could not say it wouldn’t happen again. Something had changed when she’d gone to his bedchamber that night. Her soul had been touched by his kiss. Desires she’d thought to be dead along with Lionus had come roaring back to life, stoked to new heights by his seduction.
Now, the very thought of his nearness sent chills racing down her spine. Her lips still tingled from his impassioned assault, and her knees remained weak. Despite her attempt at forgetting and moving past their first passionate encounter, this night’s incident would ensure that she could never look at Serge the same again. A friend did not have the power to reduce one to a writhing, panting mess with nothing more than a kiss, so she could no longer apply the title to him.
When she felt absolutely certain her weakened knees would hold up, she stood and made her way back through the maze. Relieved to have gone unseen, she slipped back into the ballroom. Vernon had attended and hung close to keep watch, but did not seem to have followed her out into the garden. And thank God for that. She didn’t know what she might have done if she’d been caught underneath Serge with her skirts raised.
After only a few minutes of mingling and attempting to make idle chatter, Isabelle decided to take her leave of the ball. Serge remained always within her line of vision, seemingly calm and content after their tumultuous encounter in the garden. She couldn’t stop watching his hands as they reached for another glass of champagne, knowing the fingers wrapped around the delicate glass stem had been inside her only a few minutes ago. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from his lips as he took a drink, couldn’t stop from licking her own as she remembered his mouth pressed against her breast or his tongue slipping into her mouth.
When he glance
d up and gave her a sly, knowing smile, she thought she might just die.
Searching for Vernon, she found him lingering on the edge of the dance floor, hands folded behind his back as he watched her like a hawk. Had he seen her leave the ballroom with Serge? Could he see what she’d done written all over her face?
Despite her shame and embarrassment, she went to him, informing the guard that she was ready to return to the palace. Wordlessly, he escorted her to the front steps of the Valons’ townhome, sending a servant for their driver and carriage.
Within minutes, she was safely tucked into the vehicle with Vernon, speeding toward home. They rode in silence for several minutes, but Isabelle could feel him staring at her in the dark.
“Would you mind telling me what the hell you could be thinking?”
His words made her wince, his voice like a gunshot in the silence of the carriage. Of her four guards, Vernon proved the most protective, as well as the one she felt closest to. It was why she could not lie to him if he asked her what she’d done. She respected him too much to insult his intelligence.
“He wants me to marry him,” she whispered, clasping her hands together in her lap and staring down at them.
“Are you going to?” he asked, leaning forward in his carriage seat and studying her with a pensive gaze.
Isabelle slouched in her own seat with a sigh, bringing her hands up over her face. “I don’t know. Everything is happening so fast. One day I am in mourning and off limits, and the next every man I know is out to win my hand.”
“Including your dead husband’s brother, who also happens to be your friend.”
Tears filled Isabelle’s eyes and she nodded, swiping at them in frustration. “I don’t want to feel this way about him, Vernon. He’s Lionus’ brother. It is … wrong it is …”
A betrayal that would have wounded Lionus deeply.
But she’d never desired Serge when her husband had been alive. Or, had she? Had Lionus’ death allowed dormant feelings to come to the surface?