by Sophia Nash
A cascade of pulses raced across his finger and his tongue as she suddenly gave herself over to the pleasure he had promised.
At least he had been given the joy of sharing this with her. He was nearly spent by the restraint of holding back from ripping off his breeches and taking her.
He dragged himself back up her soft body and she wrapped one arm about his shoulder. The other dropped between them.
She was still trying to catch her breath, and he was holding onto his desire when he felt her hand undo the falls of his breeches and slip beyond.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
“What you just did to me,” she said, surprisingly composed.
His eyes closed when she naively found the exquisite notch of pleasure pain on his arousal.
And just like that, gone was his reserve, his iron grip on any possible chance of checked motion.
“Isabelle,” he ground out. “Stop. For the love of God.” His body spasmed in an effort to reverse desire.
“No,” she whispered, and emboldened by his reaction, began to stroke him with a wickedness he had not guessed she possessed.
He lay between her soft thighs and rested his forehead against the fabric on the felt table, gulping a great lungful of air.
And suddenly a sort of cold calm invaded his body. He kissed her, and raised his head to look down at her. “Is this what you truly want, Isabelle?” He could barely breathe. “You should not trust me. You know that, don’t you?”
“I have always trusted you.” Her voice did not waver. “And I always will.”
And again she touched him with her soft hands, uncertain but bold. He strained into her fingers, urging her to never stop. He had crossed a line, the line that turned a man into pure instinct.
In one practiced motion as ancient as all mankind, he covered her small body with his own larger one, urging her legs once again apart with his own. He grasped behind one knee and pulled it higher until her delicate foot lost its anchor.
Pushing his hips forward, the tip of his length sensed her feminine heat and impossibly inviting depths. The wait was excruciating, and yet he would not move.
And so he wavered on the edge of disaster—damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
Temptation was upon him like an unbearable midsummer’s night, the pressure of a storm bearing down. Then, in the blazing tension of the moment when the crickets and night birds fell silent, he knew what would happen. The heavens would tear open and loose their fury.
Just like he would do to the only woman he knew who was a slice of paradise in this private corner of hell on his earth.
All the muscles in him pulsed as he pushed the slightest fraction of an inch more inside of her. He desperately wanted to tell her something important, assure her of something he could not, comfort her, and yet he couldn’t unclench his jaw to open his mouth so the words would pour forth.
And so he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and gave in to the great hunger to strain closer. He could feel the muscles of his back popping with exertion as he entered her, and felt an unbearable ring of pleasure that made every fiber of his being long to surge past.
He could feel beads of sweat forming at the base of his back.
Then he heard the smallest sound, and he opened his eyes to glimpse raw pain on the face of the woman whom he trusted—who trusted him—whom he loved and would always love even if she stopped loving him.
Duty came roaring back into his head with a vengeance at the same moment she disengaged her knee from his grasp, ground her feet and lunged up to take the choice from him.
Exquisite physical pleasure battled temporal horror at his guilt. “I’m so sorry. Oh Christ, Isabelle. Don’t move,” he rasped.
And when she stilled, he finally undulated forward, working just the edges of her, slowly. He shifted as he dared to pulse ever deeper. He nearly lost his thin grasp of control when he felt her warm fingers tracing the muscles of his arms and then down his spine.
He tried desperately to be gentle with her and feared he was failing miserably in a battle between slaking a burning need to wildly possess her and to go slowly. He was so lost in a sea of sensation that he could not hear anything except a roaring in his head.
And suddenly all thought left him and blinding need took over. His muscles locked when there was no more depth inside her to plunder.
Just when he thought she could take no more of his length, something loosened inside of her and she cried out so loudly he heard her through the mist of pleasure. The twin points on the base of his back tightened, and he could no longer stop the wild fury of his release. It unleashed him from his past and bound him to a future that was not his to live.
And he had done the unpardonable. He had lost complete control—become an untamed animal, barely leashing his brute power over her. Already the black specter of a far greater guilt was rising up from his soul.
Gathering her in his arms, he rested against her before the full weight of his actions overtook him. She smelled of woman. Of serenity and happiness all packaged in perfect femininity.
She was quietly saying his name and wisps of words he could not make out for the life of him as he was drawn back behind the mask he had never let slip before. He was a blackguard. His father had been right not to trust him. And he had grossly broken his word of honor to his godfather, the one man whose opinion mattered more to him than any other.
He felt her gaze as she studied him, and finally met her eyes. She said not a word and neither did he. There were no words he could form. Oh, he knew what the future held. He supposed he always had. He was not above history repeating itself. Only he had helped it along quite famously tonight.
Her face was painfully open and honest, and he sensed she was waiting for him to say something. But he dared not say a word before he had thought it all through and planned what must happen.
So instead of speaking, he eased his great weight off her and pulled her against him in the cradle of his shoulder. It was all he could do. The shock of what he had done, what he was capable of doing when he had allowed his facade to fall from his form appalled him. She did not move beside him after settling her head on his arm.
He understood so little of what had overcome him. There was only one thing he knew with crystal clarity. He had been an utter fool to think that he was a gentleman. He never deserved to be the Duke of Candover. He belonged in the gutter along with the rest of mankind without character. He had ruined the woman he held above all others. He’d shown no restraint, none of his famed but false good character. And to boot, he had failed to protect Amelia. He had failed the most important people he was put on this earth to guard and defend with his life.
And he knew why.
He had never truly wanted or deserved the title. And so, he thought blindly, he had failed on purpose. The thought had lurked in the furthest recess in his mind, mocking him. He had not wanted to be the next Candover. In his darkest moment after the monotony of days where his only joy was ensuring the tranquility of all those who depended on him, he would dream.
A life at sea and on distant lands would have been his preference had he been given the choice. He loved the hidden mystery of the sea’s blue depths, and exotic lands. He had felt most at ease with the salt in his hair and on his skin during those long summers when he was a boy and his mother had returned to her parents’ estate on the southeastern coast that looked toward the unseen Bay of Biscay far, far away.
He’d wanted to be a naturalist, an adventurer, a charter of maps and unknown species of animals and plants, responsible for no one or anything beyond foreign horizons. Yes, all those many summer days endlessly long ago, when his mother had taken him on miles and miles of nature walks and then taught him how to sail. Both pairs of eyes had rarely strayed from the horizon—ever in search of new seabirds to discover and draw.
And yet now he was so different from this beloved mother. He very much feared he had become just like his father.
It was the last coherent thought he had as his mind blanked at the enormity of his failings. James Fitzroy, the last man who should be the premier duke of England, a man who never slept at peace, let go of the world finally and fell into a slumber so deep that he did not know that the love of his life got up and left him while he snored loud enough to rattle the walls of this house of sticks.
Chapter 14
Isabelle knew her greatest strength. The ability to remain calm in the face of a crisis. And this was beyond a crisis.
She paced the floor of her chamber, ignoring the pain of her torn and aching flesh. She’d washed all evidence away in private, donned a thin summer night rail and then a winter pale blue robe to stop the chattering of her teeth.
She barred her thought beyond an iron will. She would not think of him. Yet. Oh, what did it matter? She knew what would happen. She’d already seen it in his eyes. He would never fight it and she had been a fool to think he would.
But more than anything, she had seen the truth. He did not love her. And his guilt was the proof.
The desolate guilt she had seen was not the simple one—the one where he would feel ill at ease for taking her innocence when she had in fact forced it on him. No, it was not that, because love had the power to overcome a guilt like that.
His eyes had reflected a deeper, uglier emotion—something made of despair, horror, and the knowledge that he would regret this to the end of his days.
Because he did not love her.
But he’d eventually let guilt overwhelm him, come to her. He’d be on one knee tomorrow. And he’d do it properly. She had the gravest certainty that he’d act the enamored lover with great élan once the cool mask was drawn back over his features.
Oh, where was Amelia Primrose? She had no patience anymore. If Amelia did not appear within ten more minutes, she would go to her.
Isabelle halted and drew in a shaky breath. God, what had she done? She did not regret it in the least, but oh, if she was with child . . .
The sound of a rap on the door had her hurrying to pull Amelia inside.
“Is Calliope all right?” Amelia’s face showed her concern.
“She’s perfectly fine. In the adjoining chamber, sleeping. I merely told my maid that as an excuse for you to come to my chambers.”
Amelia relaxed.
“Look, I need to apologize for interfering in your affairs. I just wanted to inform you that you are not officially married. The archbishop told me. And so I wanted to offer you my protection.”
“But, I don’t—”
“Pardon me, Amelia, but I must tell you all quickly for I—I must arrange for all of my affairs to be packed at this late hour.” She put up her hand to stop Amelia’s words. “I’ve taken a decision. Calliope and I must leave at first light. I very much want you to come with me. But only if you want that, too. Candover told me of all the difficulties you witnessed for his family.”
Amelia’s eyes filled with shocked. “Pardon me?”
“We shan’t speak of it, unless you like. I shall always be here if you need to unburden yourself. But I sense you might choose to do the very opposite. You will find peace in my household, Amelia. I just wanted you to know that. I know you’re very close to His Grace’s sisters and that perhaps you’d be too gracious to be honest with me. I am sorry to give you such short notice but would you like to accompany me to the duchy’s seat in the Lake Region? We would leave in four hours.”
Amelia shook her head. “You are very kind, but I shall remain here.”
Isabelle cocked her head. “But where will you go? To His Grace’s sisters? To Scotland? Have you really family there?”
“No,” she admitted, wryly. “But I have family here. Or soon will.”
It was obvious Amelia did not want to confide, and Isabelle would not pry. “Amelia, I’m arranging for a sum to be in your possession within three days. I refuse for you to be beholden ever again to anyone. With me it is different. You know I don’t ever want to see it again, but I won’t argue against your pride. I know it too well.”
Amelia raised her blond eyebrows. “I won’t need it, but thank you.”
Isabelle waited.
“I’ve already plans of my own in place. Please don’t worry about me. I promise I will turn to you if I ever become desperate or must protect another.” Amelia paused as if choosing her words carefully. “But you have been far too generous.”
She grasped Amelia’s hands. “But have you chosen a plan? And where are you going?”
Amelia smiled. “Why do you ask?”
Isabelle opened her mouth and then snapped it shut.
“Where is Your Grace going?” Amelia’s eyes glittered with feeling.
“I told you. And please, we are friends. You’re no longer in my employ. There’s no need to stand on ceremony.”
“If you will pardon my interference, I must beg from you one favor.”
“Anything,” Isabelle replied.
“Don’t leave,” Amelia said softly. “Please. Don’t leave him.”
It was the second time in less than a day that someone had asked her to help him—first Calliope and now Amelia. But they did not know how it stood between them, and she could not confide in anyone. Tears pricked the back of her eyes when she realized that she had just lost her first and best confidante—James Fitzroy.
Isabelle could not hold back the tears that had been forming since she left James in that dust-laden lair in the easternmost corner of Sussex’s abbey.
Amelia enfolded her within her thin arms. “He needs you. He’ll never say it. But everyone needs somebody. It’s hard to admit, but it’s truth. And . . .”
“Mmmm,” Isabelle mumbled, a new wave of emotion rocking her.
“He is the man for you. Don’t let him push you away. He will try. And . . . Oh, Isabelle, I hold you in highest regard. But, don’t go. Wait. Please.”
She could not make a promise she would not keep. She gently pulled away from Amelia and stroked her face. “I could give you the same advice.”
The other lady nodded. “But my story is not the same as yours. I fear mine is far more outrageous.”
“You’ve never done anything outrageous,” Isabelle said with certainty. “I know you well enough to know you are the greatest lady in this abbey.”
“I fear you do not know me at all. I am quite capable of the gravest of sins. Indeed I shall roast for it, if not hang—I mean pay for it, dearly.”
A tickle of uncertainty itched Isabelle’s brain. Amelia was so proper she probably thought she’d go to hell if she’d allowed Sussex to touch her. “Well, you could always marry Sussex in truth,” she joked through her tears, “although I am afraid that he’d lead you very far off the path of righteousness. But I daresay it would be worth it.”
Amelia refused to laugh. “Will you promise me you’ll stay? Give him a chance?”
“I am willing to compromise,” Isabelle finally said. “I will stay three more days. But . . .”
“Yes?” Amelia waited.
“You must tell me what is going on. Oh, I can see you are too embarrassed to tell me the how and the why of how you ended up married to Sussex. But really, can’t you tell me if you will marry him again, properly or not?”
Amelia studied her face and finally made some sort of decision. “I am not supposed to breathe a word.”
“Yes? Go on.”
She rolled her eyes in fine abigail form. “That’s it.”
“You’re not supposed to breathe a word of what?”
“Of anything,” Amelia said with great significance.
Light dawned and Isabelle nodded. “Oh, I see.” But she had to be certain. “And does anything involve the Archbishop of Canterbury and Sussex or does it involve . . .”
Amelia arched a brow. “It involves prayer.”
Isabelle gave up. She only prayed Sussex and Amelia would be married in truth. Amelia was the only lady up to the task of outwitting a charmin
g duke wilier than all the rest of the royal entourage put together.
Isabelle had made her promise to Amelia, and so she would endure the interview and the remaining time with the rest of the house party. It was fruitless, of course. But she also knew, within her heart, that if she did not take her leave properly as a true duchess would, it could haunt both of them.
And James was waiting for her beyond the wide sheets of glass of the orangery.
Again the orangery.
The grinning, knowing face of the archbishop had not faded in her mind. She hated being made the fool, and knowing she had been completely wrong on every level.
It was half past six in the morning. Obviously the ideal time for a guilt-laden proposal of marriage.
As she stepped before him in the farthest corner of the chambers, where every sort of exotic plant thrived, he did not fail her prediction. His face was a veritable mask of reserve.
His most famous expression. The one she had loved with girlish infatuation. But now it meant something more. She realized as she gazed into his chocolate-colored eyes that he didn’t want to be anything other than this. And she was the fool who had overpowered him while he had been drunk, left vulnerable by admitting the bitterness of his father’s actions, and then had taken advantage of him. And it would never be right between them.
He did not love her. And she wasn’t even certain he could trust anyone to love him. His father had not trusted him, and now he did not trust himself—last night only compounded it.
Indeed, he might very well be ruined, beyond happiness’s reach. One had to choose to see joy in life. It was far too easy to take the other more trodden path, filled with fast-growing vines of despair.
She thought these things, but they sounded false for the first time in her mind. Would she find true joy after this? Or would she become like James—dulling all her emotions and following a grim course of duty between the occasional—very occasional—house party composed of people chasing after little white leather balls filled with feathers hidden in the grasses of a golf course?