Time After Time

by Elizabeth Boyce

  Marshall blew his cheeks out. “So am I, but I couldn’t allow her to continue unchecked. What might she do when it comes time for Grant to marry, or Naomi?”

  It was a bitter thing for a son to have to punish his own mother, but Isabelle didn’t want him brooding now. “You did the right thing. Thank you for bringing Justin home.”

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t let him spend the rest of his life fearing to return to England. He didn’t propose?” he asked mildly. “I thought you’d come to tell me you were marrying Miller.”

  “What?” she gasped, amazed he could ever think such a thing. “No, darling, Justin brought his wife and child with him.” She wrinkled her brow. “It’s never been like that between him and me. You know that.”

  He smirked. “Not really,” he said, cutting his eyes to her. “Logically, yes, but if I hadn’t been so damned jealous of your relationship with him I never would have taken my mother’s word for what happened in the cottage that day.”

  “Jealous?” Isabelle said, bewildered. “You never said anything before. I shouldn’t have invited him while you were gone, Marshall. I know that now. I ask your forgiveness for doing so. Truly, though, I never would have done if I had any inkling you’d object. I thought you understood how things were with Justin.”

  He leaned back and raked his hands through his hair. “I know. And I did try not to let my emotions overrule my sense. I was insecure. I wanted you so much, but Mother would hear nothing but that you were only after the title and money. When she found you with Justin, it was easy to believe the worst.” He lowered his head into his hands and groaned. “I did so many things wrong,” he muttered miserably.

  “So did I,” Isabelle said wistfully.

  She crossed the room, crouched in front of him, and took his hands. Marshall’s pained gaze tore her heart. “I never told you back then that I loved you. I should have, but I didn’t think you wanted to hear it.”

  Marshall’s fingers squeezed around hers. “Did you?”

  She nodded, and felt the knot she’d been carrying in her middle for months begin to unwind. “I’ve loved you since before we married. And I’m afraid that no matter what I do, I shall love you until the day I die. So you see,” she said with a half-smile, “I find myself in quite a predicament.”

  Suddenly she was in his arms. They were standing, with her full length pressed against his. His mouth came down on hers, tenderly at first, but rapidly becoming more demanding. Isabelle felt like the light of the sun pulsed between them, bright and hot and unquenchable.

  Marshall dragged his lips away from hers. He stroked the hair above her temples and brushed his lips against her forehead. “So many mistakes,” Marshall said, repeating his self-incrimination. “I should have told you I loved you in that inn. I should have told you a thousand times before you left me. I know why you did. I would’ve left me, too.”

  Isabelle laughed softly, leaning her forehead against his chin. She pulled back in his arms and tilted her head so she could look him in the eye. “You’ll stay now, though, won’t you?”

  Marshall smiled sadly and stroked her cheek with a knuckle. “No, my love, I won’t stay. I have to go.”

  Isabelle recoiled. Her mind reeled, refusing to accept what he was saying. Not when she loved him, and he loved her.

  “But,” he said, touching the tip of her nose, “if you’d like, I will delay sailing for a few weeks — long enough to get invitations out and guests to town. How does South America strike you for a wedding trip?” His lips turned up in that sly, boyish smile of his, the one she loved best of all.

  She flung her arms around his neck and raised up on her toes to kiss him. It was an awkward kiss, more teeth than lips for the smiles they each wore.

  He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bunk, where he gently set her down on the wool blanket. Then he straightened, made quick work of the buttons on his waistcoat and tossed it aside. His shirt soon followed and joined it on the floor.

  Her breath caught at the sight of him. Heat stirred her blood. He stretched out beside her on the bunk. Their arms wound around each other as he delivered kiss after scorching kiss.

  Marshall began working the buttons on the back of her dress. Isabelle’s breath left her in a whoosh as moisture pooled between her legs. She was desperate to feel him. Isabelle tugged first one sleeve, and then the other, pulling her arms back through the material. Marshall shimmied her skirt up so it bunched around her waist. When Isabelle’s arms were clear, she lifted them, and Marshall pulled the frock over her head and tossed it to join the heap on the floor.

  Their eyes locked together, and Isabelle thought she would die if she couldn’t have him. She quivered all over with the force of her wanting. Her eyes never leaving his, she stripped out of her chemise and stockings while Marshall made short work of the rest of his clothes.

  She had one delicious glimpse of his glorious, naked self before he grabbed a folded blanket from the foot of the bed and shook it open. He turned and covered her in one smooth motion; the blanket billowed then settled over them.

  Isabelle traced her tongue up the side of his throat, relishing the light, salty tang of his skin and his spicy, masculine scent. She didn’t care how forward or wanton she might seem. Theirs was a mutual hunger, a soul-deep yearning that went beyond lust.

  Marshall groaned and captured her mouth in a heavy kiss. Their tongues danced and stroked. Isabelle clutched his neck with frantic need.

  He dragged his mouth across her cheek and then propped himself up on his elbows. Sheltered by his large body, Isabelle felt safe and warm and … home.

  Marshall’s heavy erection pressed against her thigh. Isabelle parted her legs and made a whimpering sound. Marshall moved to cover her there with a hand, stroking and parting her folds. “I have to have you now,” he said in a strained voice.

  “Yes,” Isabelle said. Her breath was already coming fast. “Me, too. I need — ”

  And then he was in her, and she gasped at the pleasure. Her nails dug into his back as she clutched him as tightly as she could, even squeezing the muscles around his staff — which resulted in an earthy grunt of approval from Marshall.

  He withdrew and drove in, burying himself to the hilt. Her taut nerves jumped in response. He moved in slow, long strokes, claiming her with his body. “You’re mine,” he rasped. “My Isabelle.”

  She hugged her arms around his shoulders, near to crying with joy and the force of her passion, oblivious to everything but the heat between them. “Yes,” she whispered.

  She was his. She loved him. She’d loved him since she was eighteen years old. She’d loved him through divorce and exile and everything life threw in her path. She’d loved him through it all.

  Marshall rose onto his knees and lifted her thighs to receive him even more deeply. The blanket fell around his hips. His fingers dug into the globes of her buttocks. She pressed her feet into the bed, willing their flesh to meld together into one.

  His eyes were hazy but intense upon her as she neared her climax. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. He drew a deep breath and shook his head. Isabelle knew he was holding back.

  “Don’t stop,” she said. “Come with me.”

  His mouth dropped open, and Isabelle closed her eyes. She felt him shift over her, moving higher, while maintaining their joining.

  The change in position had the base of his shaft dragging against her tight bud with every stroke. Everything below her navel clenched. It was all she could do to hang on and ride the pounding waves of pleasure he brought her with every driving thrust.

  “Love you, Isabelle,” he said between heavy pants.

  “Love you so much,” was her breathless reply.

  Their sweat-slicked skins slid together with sinful ease, every movement ratcheting her tighter and tighter until … “Aaah!” she
cried. Her heels pressed into the mattress and the force of her orgasm arched her off the bed, lifting Marshall just as his own climax had his fingers digging into her hips, holding them tight together while he poured into her womb.

  When they were spent, Marshall held her close for a moment, then disengaged from her arms. He dropped a kiss to her damp brow and hastily dressed to inform the captain they would not sail just yet.

  He paused in the doorway and gave her a sated smile. “I must warn you,” he drawled, “the only reason I proposed is because we need another cook. This is a working expedition, after all. No lazing about like a pampered duchess.”

  Joyous mirth bubbled up inside Isabelle and spilled out in a gale of silvery laughter. She tossed a pillow at his head, which he easily caught. He brought it back to the bed and leaned over. He planted his hands on the mattress on either side of her. She loved the feeling of being surrounded by him.

  “However,” he said, his eyes full of rekindling passion, “you’ll spend most of your time right here, assisting me in the very important endeavor of producing an heir.”

  She rose to meet him as another wave of desire fell across her. “That,” she said, smiling wickedly and curling her fingers around the back of his neck, “is an occupation I shall be glad to have.”

  About the Author

  Like all good Southern girls, Elizabeth Boyce fell in love with the past early on, convinced the bygone days of genteel manners and fancy dresses were only an air conditioning unit shy of perfection. Her passion for the British Regency began when she was first exposed to that most potent Regency gateway drug, Pride and Prejudice. She’s remained steadfast in her love of the period ever since. Those rumors of a fling with ancient Greece are totally false — honest.

  Elizabeth lives in South Carolina with her husband and three young children. She loves to connect with her readers, so keep in touch!

  E-mail: bluestockingball@gmail.com

  Blog: http://bluestockingball.blogspot.com/

  Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AuthorElizabethBoyce

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/EBoyceRomance

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  (From Once Upon a Wager by Julie LeMense)

  July 1808

  St. James Street, London

  Alec Carstairs, heir to the eighth Earl of Dorset, looked down at the letter on his desk, torn between feelings of frustration and something else he refused to acknowledge. Her handwriting was as awful as ever—undisciplined, like the young woman herself—but he knew better than to blame any long-suffering governess. Annabelle Layton did as she pleased. She always had, regardless of the consequences.

  Alec,

  I am sorry, as you well know. Two years is past time to forgive me, don’t you think? The whole episode is best forgotten. You needn’t miss Gareth’s party again. I do not, I believe, have a sickness that is catching.

  Please say you will come.

  Your erstwhile friend,

  Annabelle Layton

  A ragged sigh escaped him, the force of it sending the missive skittering across his desk, a Tudor-era monstrosity sent over from his family’s London town home. Of course he’d forgiven her, if that was even the right word. She’d been so young then—just sixteen—uninhibited and free, with little thought for propriety or decorum. Forgetting the incident, however, was another matter entirely. It had irrevocably changed the way he saw her … to his everlasting shame.

  “My sister insisted I hand deliver it,” Gareth said, dropping himself into a tufted armchair across from the desk, startling Alec from his thoughts. He’d all but forgotten Layton’s presence in the room, an unintended slight that had thankfully gone unnoticed. Alec’s distraction would only have piqued Gareth’s curiosity. After all, Gareth, like Annabelle, wasn’t easily ignored. Both were golden haired and blue-eyed—a gift from the stunning Lady Layton. They’d been the boon companions of his otherwise lonely childhood. But none of them was a child anymore.

  “Say yes, Carstairs. If you are any kind of friend, you’ll not make me go back to Astley Castle by myself. God knows I’d rather stay in London.”

  So would Alec, but he undoubtedly had different reasons for that sentiment. “My schedule is very full, Gareth. My father has secured a new seat for me in the House of Commons, and I must memorize the current legislation. It sounds like another excuse, but it is not.” And it wasn’t. Not really. Alec felt the press of his new position closing in all around him: the impressive bachelor lodgings, the tailored wardrobe from Weston, the stacks of leather-bound folios packed with Parliamentary proposals. The eighth earl insisted that his son’s surroundings reflect his recently elevated status.

  “Have I ever told you your father frightens me? I swear his face would split down the center if he attempted a smile.”

  “He is stern,” Alec admitted, “but only because he takes his responsibilities so seriously.” As a child, he’d been frightened of his father, as well.

  “Well, he is a spoilsport all the same. You’re only twenty-five. Why must you bother with the Commons?”

  “I’d rather talk about the party, Gareth. I should think you’d be eager to attend. It will celebrate your birthday, after all.”

  “Yes, but who knows what they’ve planned? Last year, the order of precedence going into dinner was decided not by titles, mind you, but by the high scores from an archery contest Annabelle organized out on the lawn.”

  Alec refused to smile, despite the temptation. “Surely she didn’t lead the way into dinner? She hasn’t even made her debut.” To do so would have been highly improper. But not atypical.

  “How did you know Annabelle won?”

  “Of course she did. You’re forgetting we taught her the finer points of the game.” Just as they’d taught her to shoot pistols, bet on cards, and ride bareback. He’d had a hand, he supposed, in making her into the hoyden she’d become.

  “Annabelle will always play to her interests,” Gareth admitted. “Which means that this year, there will be lots of dancing at the party. She’s mad for it, all of that spinning and skipping about. I ask you, who wants a Scottish reel back home when I can dance with the high-flyers in Covent Garden? Now there’s a dance I don’t mind doing.”

  An inappropriate image of Annabelle came to mind, but Alec forced it aside, turning his focus on her brother. “You look as colorful as any bird-of-paradise in the Garden, Gareth. That satin waistcoat is nearly blinding in the afternoon light. My eyesight may not recover.”

  “Just because Brummell dresses like an undertaker doesn’t mean that I have to be similarly sepulchral. Especially when there is a party I must attend. Say you will come. I don’t know the reason behind your estrangement with Annabelle—and do not deny there is one—but I’m certain that she’s to blame. She can be a maddening creature. Still, she misses your friendship. She said … let me think … that it ‘had more value than you have lately accorded it.’ I had to promise to say exactly those words.”

  Ah, their friendship. Old and inviolable once. Annabelle’s barbs, like her arrows, were always well aimed.

  With a deep breath, and before he could stop himself, Alec took a sheet of parchment and scribbled a few words upon it. He then folded it upon itself. He extracted a stick of sealing wax from a side drawer, heating it briefly above the beeswax oil lamp on his desk. He dripped a small puddle of wax where the folds met, and pressed it with his signet ring. Satisfied the seal would hold fast against Gareth’s attempts to loosen it, Alec handed him the note. “I will be there,” he said. “But I have little doubt I will regret it.”

  Gareth merely chuckled. “If you’re going to regret something, make the pain of it worthwhile. Come join me at The Anchor on Park Street. I plan on getting well and truly drunk before I meet up with Digby to play cards. It will lessen the sting of my certain defeat.”

  “Damien Digby is an ass. He makes you risk too much.”

  “I can only stand one
respectable friend, Alec. And that would be you,” Gareth added, “in case you’re wondering.”

  “You say ‘respectable’ instead of ‘boring’ to spare my feelings, I know. Go on without me. If I’m to travel to Nuneaton for your birthday, there are things I must do.” Like memorizing names, organizing arguments, and—above all else—practicing a brotherly smile.

  After Gareth departed, Alec pushed away from his desk, and walked over to the study’s large bay window, which looked out upon St. James Street below. Bracing his hands against the sun-warmed panes, he watched carriages and pedestrians move down the cobble-stoned thoroughfare, regretting his impulsiveness. Undoubtedly, his decision was a poor one. What would Annabelle read into his reply?

  Annabelle,

  I’ve missed our friendship, too. I will see you at Gareth’s party. But you must promise to keep your clothes on.

  • • •

  As he waited for his father to join him in the library at Dorset House, Alec took a brief glance at its worn leather tomes, all lined up in an orderly fashion along dozens of age-darkened wood shelves. This was Henry Carstairs’s domain, the inner sanctum where he built his political coalitions, and entertained allies with brandy after dinner. On the rare occasions Alec had been in London as a child, it had also been the room where Father meted out his punishments. Perhaps that was why Edmunds, their butler, had seated him here, rather than in the family drawing room. The earl’s note had hinted at his strong displeasure, though Alec was long past the age of birch rods and bloodied hands.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, the earl strode into the room, a sheaf of papers tucked under his arm, his reading spectacles perched on the edge of his nose, making his eyes seem owlish. Trim and fighting-fit, Father would make for a very intimidating owl indeed, though Alec now bested him in height by two inches. He was no longer the small, sickly boy who had so often been ignored, along with his mother. He’d finally earned his father’s attention, even his respect, despite their high price. Standing quickly, he offered a quick bow. “Good morning, Father. You wished to see me.”