The wind which blew outside her window was fierce and the nighttime air held a definite threat of frost. Isabella lay in bed later that evening, her feet resting on a hot brick, her mind in a state of turmoil. She had never experienced anything like the passion that had erupted between herself and Blackmore earlier that day. Her toes curled in pleasure and embarrassment as she recalled Michael’s demanding, possessive kisses.No man had ever thought to hold her in such a way, not even Harry and they had been engaged for two years.
What good were passionate kisses though, when the threat of eviction from her childhood home loomed on the horizon. Tomorrow afternoon the whole family, Isabella, Lavinia, Jack and the children would decamp to London for the season. Jack would take his seat in the House of Lords and Lavinia would take on the role of her matchmaker and chaperone.
Isabella gave a shiver of fear; she detested the pageantry that the season involved. She was by her very nature an introvert, and her one and only season in London had been a quiet disaster, as nobody had even noticed that she spent every ball going completely unnoticed. The only thing that now marked her as worthy of distinction was the large dowry now settled on her, a fact that her father had let be known amongst his clubs in town.
“I don’t want to marry a degenerate,” Isabella wailed, burying her face in her pillow and letting out a howl of despair.
In fact, she didn’t wish to marry anyone she didn’t love or at the very least respect. Spending the rest of her life with a strange man, who would expect to be allowed to kiss her like the Duke had yesterday.
Who would expect to do a lot more than kiss her.
Isabella gulped. She was not completely ignorant of the facts of life, at five and twenty and an aunt to three she had picked up a thing or two on how the male mind operated. It was just the idea of being naked, with a man she had no wish to be naked with, that left her feeling repulsed.
Her mind wandered to the Duke but quickly she stopped herself. The thought of Michale naked left her feeling even more flustered and nervous, though in a much more pleasurable way.
If only he was looking for a wife, but he had made his feelings on marriage clear yesterday. He had no desire to wed, no romantic notions - and no need as his three nephews ensured that the title would succeed. If only…
Isabella rolled over onto her back, her eyes snapping open.
If only the Duke would agree to marry her.
It was preposterous, a stupid idea - and yet. Isabella sat up, now wide awake. She knew that the Duke was fond of her - a man did not kiss a woman like that if he had no feelings at all for her. She knew that he was generous and kind. She knew that he considered himself her friend, and maybe, just maybe, he would be willing to enter into this marriage of convenience for her.
Trying to ignore the doubt that was building inside her, Isabella made herself a promise; tomorrow she would propose to the Duke of Blackmore and hope that he said yes.
Chapter Six
He shouldn’t have kissed her, Michael decided the next day, before quickly changing his mind as he relived the feel of Isabella’s soft lips the previous afternoon – he shouldn’t have kissed her so forcefully. A woman like Isabella was not used to being pursued so ardently, he reasoned to himself, as he and Pharaoh made their way along the bridle path which ran between Longleaf and Blackmore Manor. In future he would aim to treat her delicately he thought; which was easier said than done. In all his three and thirty years “delicate” was not an adjective that had ever been associated with the mighty Duke of Blackmore – and the ache in his groin at the mere sight of Isabella Peregrine - meant that there was very little blood left flowing to his brain to render Michael capable of rational decision making or delicate actions in her presence.
The thought of Isabella had him so addled, that he nearly trotted past her as she made her way through the woods on her morning walk.
“Oh,” a flush crept slowly over the young woman’s face as she regarded him.
“You Grace – I mean Michael – I mean. Good morning,” Isabella finished in an embarrassed rush, staring fixedly at the forest floor for a moment before raising her green eyes to meet his shyly.
As she smiled, Michael once more felt every rational thought leave his body.
“Miss Peregrine,” he said slowly, dismounting Pharaoh and taking her hand in his, so that he could kiss it in greeting; “I was hoping to run into you – in fact I was just on my way to Longleaf to call on you.”
“Oh,” for some reason the girl looked nervous; “I was in fact on my way to Blackmore Manor. I wished to call on you before we left for London your Grace.”
“It appears we have met half way,” Michael said trying to conceal his happiness. He clapped his hands together, took Pharaoh’s reins in hand and offered his free arm to Isabella so that they could walk together.
“A stroll to the lake might be a nice way to pass the morning?” he suggested lightly, his heartbeat thundering far too loudly in excitement at the thought of such a tame assignation.
“For God’s sake man, you’ve spent five years in ruddy France,” he thought, irritated by his own school-boy excitement.
But then Isabella assented with a smile, and he felt his heart skip a beat once more. If he was acting like a child so be it - at least if it meant that he got to meander happily through the light February morning with Isabella, talking lightly of inconsequential things. And when the opportunity arose - then he would propose.
“Just say it and get it over with,” Isabella urged herself sternly. She knew it was not the most romantic way to approach a proposal – but as Blackmore had plainly told her yesterday, he was not a man who believed in romance.
“What time do you leave?” the Duke asked, as he helped her over the trunk of a fallen tree, through the thickets and out at last onto the banks of the lake.
“Early afternoon,” Isabella responded, trying to quell the nervousness she felt – both for the task at hand and the task that would await her in London if Blackmore refused her offer.
“Mmm,” Michael muttered by way of response, his blue eyes scanning the lake before them. He was pensive and quiet, his stance almost defensive - not the type of man that one would propose to.
“I am glad I have had a chance to see you,” he continued after a moment’s silence; “I did not want to have you leave for London without asking you to forgive my behavior yesterday.”
“Oh,” Isabella gave a light, giddy laugh – she could not think of the kiss they had shared yesterday, not now, when she needed all her wits about her.
“Please do not worry yourself, your Grace,” she began taking a step towards the water’s edge and staring down at her pale reflection, which rippled as a light breeze stirred the water’s surface.
“In fact,” Isabella took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and turned to face the Duke; “I have a favour to ask of you.”
Michael looked at her, his eyes slightly troubled as she came to stand before him.
“I know that you have no desire to marry your Grace,” she began, her words falling over each other in their rush to escape her mouth; “And as you know I share similar sentiments myself. I cannot offer you much – except my dowry, which would be yours to keep of course. All I ask is for your protection and a small cottage on one of your estates. I would not be any trouble, and I would never embarrass you in society.”
The only sound for a few breathless seconds after her speech had ended was the wind as it rustled through the grass and the reeds by the water’s edge.
“W-w-what?” Michael stuttered, his face an unreadable mask as he took Isabella’s two hands in a vice like grip; “W-what are you asking me Isabella?”
“I’m asking you to please marry me Michael,” Isabella replied, her voice shaking – she would not beg; “A marriage of convenience – more for me than for you, I know. I cannot go to London and marry the first man I see nor can I wed one of my step-mother’s retched nephews. Please.”
“N-n-
n-”
Isabella watched as Michael’s face turned dark and thunderous, his anger apparently so great at her impertinence that it appeared he could not even form the word.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, turning away from him, and trying to pull her hands from his.
“No,” Michael bit out at last, using all his strength to pull her back towards his body. His lips were hard as they crushed down upon hers, and unlike the day before he did not tease her with soft caresses, he claimed her mouth as his own under his strong, demanding embrace.
“Oh,” Isabella gasped between his assaults of her lips as Micheal held her against him with one arm, while his other arm began to rove her body. Her knees felt weak as she felt his hand skim her buttocks lightly, then her hip, before traveling upwards towards her breasts which he cupped with a low, guttural groan.
“No,” Michael whispered again, almost angrily as he pressed his hardness against her thigh, before once more claiming her mouth with his.
He gently maneuvered her so that she was pressed against the trunk of the tree, his body pinning her down his hands hungrily roving her.
“Please,” she whispered with a plaintive cry, as Michael dropped his head to her neck and began tracing light kisses along her sensitive skin while his hands were busily lifting the hem of her skirt…
“N-n-no,” was all that Michael had managed to stutter as he watched Isabella propose.
“No – I don’t want a marriage of convenience, I want you as my wife,” was what he had tried to say.
“N-n-no,” was what had eventually come out of his broken mouth, after much agony. How had this happened to him again? He was three and thirty for God’s sake, a man, a war hero – a rake if some London Mama’s were to be believed. How had he been rendered so helpless and speechless once more?
The answer of course, was Isabella. As she turned, shocked by his outburst, to leave, Michael felt a wave of despair. He reached out and pulled her towards him, intending to explain himself – but the words still would not come.
He needed to make her understand, and so he did the only thing he could, he pressed his lips against hers to try and make her understand his need for her. Except once their bodies joined, every rational thought left his body. His blood sang in his ears as Isabella met his every kiss with shy, constrained passion. His hands greedily explored her curves, her derriere, her hips, the swell of her breasts – Michael lifted his lips from hers to let out a groan of longing.
“Please,” he heard Isabella whisper as he dropped a trail of kisses down her neck. He had her pinned against a tree, his primal urges threatening to overtake him he began to lift the hem of her dress.
“Oh please,” Isabella whispered, as he pressed his hardness against her, his hands scrambling to lift her skirts and petticoats - to find their way to the flesh beneath.
“No.”
The word was ripped from his mouth. He couldn’t take her like this - in fact he couldn’t take her at all. He was not worthy of a woman like her.
“I’m sorry,” Isabella whispered, mortified it seemed. She pulled herself away from Michael and hastily began to rearrange her appearance.
“I apologize your Grace for upsetting you so,” she said again, her voice wavering slightly; “It was most impertinent of me to even suggest marriage - I pray you forgive me.”
“I-I -”
Michael stepped forward, his hand outstretched to prevent her leaving but she was too quick.
“No please,” she said firmly now, her green eyes staring past him to the woods; “Please let me leave.”
With a slight bow of her head Isabella made her way past him and as she walked towards the forest path, she did not look back.
And Michael, despite his breaking heart, just let her go.
Chapter Seven
As she made her way back towards Longleaf, Isabella tried to regain some composure. She wiped her tear-stained face with the back of her hands and ran a soothing hand over her hair. She had never felt so rejected in her whole life. She had thought that the Duke had some kind of interest in her, after the way that he had kissed her at the folly, and the way that he had kissed her today.
She flushed to her very core at the memory of his hands all over her body while she lay against the trunk, trapped by his weight. Her reaction to him had been so wanton, yet even the memory was filling her with desire.
Oh Isabella you silly goose, she chastised herself as she continued to stumble through the woods, her cheeks pink from wanting and shame. She had almost given herself fully to the Duke of Blackmore, outside against a tree no less. And he, he, Isabella gritted her teeth, why he was nothing more than a rake and a reprobate of the highest order.
“Is that you Issy?” Lavina called out from the front parlor, as Isabella stormed through the front door and into the grand entrance hall of Longleaf. She slammed the door so loudly that dust from the elaborate, plaster work on the ceiling rained down on her head.
“Lavina,” Isabella cried dramatically in greeting, as she strode into the feminine front room to where her sister was seated at a writing desk, penning a letter.
“Mmm?” Lavinia looked up startled.
“Remind me when I get to London to steer clear of rakes and reprobates,” Isabella said darkly, throwing herself onto the chaise.
“Oh dear,” Lavina stood up, looked to the door to make sure it was closed and sat beside Isabella, taking her hands in a warm, comforting clasp.
“Was it Blackmore?” Lavinia asked delicately to her sister’s surprise.
“How did you know?”
“My powers of deduction,” Lavina smiled; “I deduced my dear sister, that there are no other men for miles. Did he try anything inappropriate Issy?”
Lavina’s face turned serious, and Isabella flushed. She could not say that the Duke had tried to take advantage of her , for she enjoyed every moment, and she had encouraged him at every turn.
“No,” she assured her older sister, who sighed with relief; “He merely led me to believe that there was a chance that he might be interested in me. I thought he would wish to save me from having to hawk myself on the marriage mart, but he was not inclined towards playing the hero.”
“Oh Issy, did you propose to a Duke? To the Duke of Blackmore?!” Lavina covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with mirth; “The most feared man in all of Britain. Even the Prince George has been heard to say that he finds him petrifying.”
The words “He’s just misunderstood,” were on the tip of her tongue, but Isabella resisted saying them.
“He just looks scary,” she replied dismissively instead; “And that’s only because he’s a big lummox of a man - if he wasn’t a Duke he’d be a plough horse.”
“If you say so,” Lavina was tactful, picking back her pen and reading over what she had written before Isabella interrupted.
“I do say so,” Isabella replied firmly, reaching for a cushion, fidgeting with it for a moment before throwing it down on the chaise once more. She stood up and brushed down her skirt, a look of determination on her face.
“I’m going to London tomorrow Lavinia, and I swear I shall be the belle of every ball - men will be battling down the door to beg me to marry them.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Lavina’s encouraging reply was lost to Isabella as she whirled out of the room she had just come in to find a maid to help her pack.
“Oh I thought that was you dear.”
Tabitha looked up from the book that she was reading, as her son entered the drawing room. She placed the book on the table before her, and gestured for Michael to sit down.
“You have my undivided attention,” she said, sensing her son wished to say something.
“I -I…”
Tabitha frowned, she had not heard Michael struggle to speak since he had left for Eaton.
“Is everything alright dear?” she asked, watching her son’s face. He seemed to be struggling to form the words he neede
d to speak. Her heart broke as she watched him, but after thirty three years of being Michael’s mother she knew that her son needed her to be patient and not to mollycoddle him.
“I have a friend,” Michael said slowly after taking a deep, steadying breath.
“Oh?” Tabitha’s eyebrows shot to heaven, not knowing what to expect next. Was there a bastard child somewhere that he was going to bring home? Such things were not unheard of, and while it would not be ideal, Michael’s title would ensure that the child would not be shunned by society.
“It’s nothing untoward,” Michael said with a wry smile, he knew where his mother’s thoughts could leap; “It is Longleaf’s sister in law, Miss Peregrine.”
“Oh.”
It took all of Tabitha’s will power to keep her face immobile. Michael had never discussed ladies of gentle breeding with her, in fact Tabitha was inclined to think that he didn’t actually know any ladies who weren’t actresses, opera singers or widows. She held back a disapproving sniff at the thought of her son’s usual female companions, and focused instead on what she could recall she had heard about Isabella Peregrine - perhaps she was the one to break the self imposed bachelorhood Michael had decided upon.
“It’s nothing like that,” Michael sent her a swift look of censure, sensing that her thoughts had wandered towards matrimony; “She is a lovely - ah - young woman.”
“And?” Tabitha cocked her head in confusion, what was the point of all this?
“And, she has inherited a wicked step-mother who wishes to marry her off to one of her lay-about nephews,” Michael responded bitterly; “Unless she can find a suitable match herself.”
The afternoon light played across his face, and Tabitha longed to reach out stroke his cheek to comfort him, like she had when he was a child. He would not allow it however, Michael had long ago assumed the emotionally distant facade that his father, and possibly every other Duke in the line, displayed to the world.
Proposing to a Duke Page 6