He set his hand on her wrist. She stiffened, but as he did nothing, only held her wrist loosely, she slowly relaxed again.
He opened the hook-and-eye closure on her cuff and slid his fingers beneath the black silk of her mourning gown. Her skin was wondrously soft. His breaths came back in gulps.
All of a sudden her fingers were in his hair, her mouth fastened to his, parting his lips and seeking his tongue. He heard a small moan from himself. Yes, this was what he had hoped would happen, when he came to the Lake District: a sweet friendship made even sweeter by the pleasures of the flesh.
He tilted his head to kiss her more closely, more completely. Little whimpers escaped her throat. She spread her hands against his back, running her fingers over his shoulder blades and the channel of his spine. His body pulsed with arousal.
She already had his jacket off his shoulders before he began to reciprocate the disrobing. He did not hurry, but relished the feel of each fastener popping apart, the sensation of his knuckles sliding against the soft, almost airy nainsook of her corset cover while he divided the stiff silk of her dress. She did not stand idle, but continued to strip him of his clothes, and applied her lips to every new square inch of skin she exposed.
Those dropped kisses were slightly moist, and scorched him wherever they landed. He kissed her on the mouth as he roughly pushed her dress to the floor. Now there was no more patience. He yanked her corset cover over her head and all but tore her corset in half.
“I knew I employed a sponge tonight for a reason,” she panted.
“My God. Do you mean to tell me this is all premeditated?” The thought of her inserting the sponge while anticipating his lovemaking made him almost painfully hard.
“Precisely. So you had better make my efforts worthwhile.”
He pushed her to the edge of his bed; she pulled him into it. He kissed her—her throat, her collarbone, her shoulders—while she pushed his trousers, first with her fingers, then with her foot, off his person. Her hand dug into his bottom. He took her nipple into his mouth. The feel of her, all glorious skin and impatient desire; the taste of her, milky and wholesome; the sound of her, a sonata of unabashed moans.
“Yes, more,” she cried, as he licked her nipple with the underside of his tongue. “Yes, more,” she cried, as his hand arrived at the seam between her thighs. “Yes, more,” she cried again, as his fingers parted her damp folds and penetrated deep inside.
He thought he would never heard sounds lovelier than an infinite loop of those two syllables. But then he licked her where his fingers had been, long, slow strokes, and this time, she made only beautifully incoherent noises, too far gone for words.
Her first climax came quickly, an undulating shudder that started at the center of her body and propagated everywhere else. Her second climax came even quicker, with barely a pause for her to catch her breath. After that her climaxes blurred into a continuum, her nipples hard, her body writhing, the entire room ricocheting with the throaty moans of her pleasure.
When he entered her at last, she quivered, peaking anew. Then she pushed him onto his back and climbed atop him, her long legs spread wide, her hair tumbling free, her flesh gripping his in a way that made him throw his head back in amazement. And when she tossed her hair over her shoulders, and teased him by playing with her breasts, the sight of her slender fingers upon those rosy nipples drove him completely over the edge, his release fevered and endless.
OH, HOW SHE’D MISSED IT, the euphoria of lovemaking, the bone-melting relaxation following the quakes and tremors.
“My God, Isabelle,” he murmured against her cheek. “Now I can see why you wrote that limerick. But I don’t believe Captain Englewood ever groaned when you wanted to be pleasured again. In his place I’d have been ecstatic.”
She giggled. “No, he never quite groaned. Though he was rather shocked in the beginning—he’d been led to believe that genteelly raised young ladies only participated passively in such animal acts.”
“I love being ravished by you.”
“Then you’ve made the right friend, Ralston.”
“I have made an amazing friend, Isabelle.”
Such a sense of ease permeated her, not just from his compliment, but from his presence and the combined optimism their togetherness generated. She kissed him on his jaw. He turned his head, kissed her on the corner of her mouth, and brought a strand of her disheveled hair to his lips.
“You have some white hair.”
“Had my first one when I was sixteen. I’m going to turn grey early in life, like my mother did.”
“You will be the most gorgeous silver-haired lady in all of Britain.”
That she would be silver-haired by the time she was forty had never bothered her. But now, for the very first time, the thought excited her. She slid her fingers along his arm, meaning to interlace her fingers with his.
“I want to brush your white hair someday,” he continued.
She stilled. Her hair wouldn’t be completely white for almost another decade and a half. Either he was suggesting a very long affair or…
“Don’t let your sister stop you—if that’s what you are worried about.”
He’d misinterpreted her silence. As much as she wanted him to be accepted—indeed, embraced—by Louise and the rest of her family, it was no longer her family’s opposition that had her fretting. She knew now what she was up against; she was prepared to dig in and hold her own ground. Not to mention she was both of age and financially independent: She wanted their approval but she did not need it.
“My family can huff and puff, but they will come around eventually.”
“Then what are you worried about?”
She exhaled, not quite ready to face that eventuality. “You.”
“Me?” He sounded surprised, even amused.
It hadn’t mattered at all when she’d propositioned him at Doyle’s Grange. Even when they became long-distance friends it hadn’t been a pressing concern. But now that he’d come for her, now that they were lovers—lovers who hoped to remain lovers for a long time—the problem could no longer be skirted.
She pushed herself up on her hands and gazed into eyes that were the color of a mossy pond. “Everyone would think, as my sister does, that I am using you as a substitute for Fitz, a replica I happened to find when I couldn’t have the original. You would hate it.”
He shook his head firmly. “Not as much as I would hate it if you were to let such a trivial reason stand in the way of much happiness.”
She did not plan to let her fear stand in the way of anything—she had no wish to ever again allow fear to be the guiding force in her life. But it did not mean she could not have legitimate concerns. “What would happen when you and Fitz run into each other?”
He smoothed her hair. “I dare say I would find it a laugh. Then I would thank him for choosing otherwise, so that you and I could meet as we did.”
He sounded so confident, so certain, it seemed almost churlish not to believe him. “Are you really sure about that?”
He pulled her toward him, his gaze upon her, and whispered against her lips. “More sure than I am of anything else in my life.”
WHEN RALSTON ARRIVED AT THE Lakehead the next morning, he was shown into the sitting room of Isabelle’s suite. The room was furnished in the lightest of colors: An ivory chaise, chairs upholstered in buttery hues, and creamy wallpaper—the use of such pristine shades made possible by the hotel’s distance from the sooty air of the cities. Isabelle, seated in a straight-back chair, was the somber focus in the midst of so much delicate brightness.
The wait for his arrival had not been easy: Her hands were clutched together, her jaw tight. But before he could direct a reassuring smile at her, a sharp gasp erupted from a different part of the room. He turned to see a dark-haired woman of about thirty coming out of her chair, agape.
“Louise, may I present Mr. Fitzwilliam? Mr. Fitzwilliam, my sister, Mrs. Montrose.”
They shook han
ds, Mrs. Montrose’s hand limp and unresponsive in his. To his inquiry concerning the agreeableness of her stay in the Lake District, her answer was a few mumbled, indistinct syllables.
“I understand you reside in Aberdeen,” he said, making small talk. “I passed through years ago, when I was still at university.”
“Yes, I suppose,” she murmured, her shock-widened eyes never leaving his.
A sense of unease crept over him. He had expected a strong reaction, but not an extreme one. “And Mrs. Englewood tells me Mr. Montrose is a barrister.”
Isabelle had also informed him that her sister had to wait a number of years to marry, as Mr. Montrose had come from a family in trade, rather than country gentry, like theirs.
“Yes, I suppose,” was again Mrs. Montrose’s response.
Nonplussed, he turned to Isabelle. He might be the one needing her reassurance now. “And how do you do, Mrs. Englewood?”
“Very well, thank you.” Despite her obvious nerves, she smiled a little. “One might even say I am in an enviable state of being.”
He couldn’t help smiling back. “And Miss Englewood and young Master Alexander?”
“They are on the water, rowing with Miss Burlingame. Alexander will be in heaven; Hyacinth will wish herself in a submarine boat instead, crawling along the bottom of the lake.”
A hotel attendant brought in a tray of tea. Isabelle offered him a seat and busied herself pouring tea for everyone. The moment he had a cup in hand, Mrs. Montrose said, “I trust we’ve beat about the bushes quite enough?”
She had, it seemed, recovered from her shock. Isabelle’s lips flattened. Ralston set down his tea and rose to stand next to her chair—Mrs. Montrose was no doubt acting out of concern, but she was still distressing her sister.
“This is madness, Isabelle.” Mrs. Montrose’s displeasure was palpable. “Until Mr. Fitzwilliam walked in, I had thought you meant he shared a general resemblance to Fitz: hair color, eye color, build, and so on. But this is worse. This is so much worse than anything I could have imagined. Does this poor man have any idea? Have you not shown him any photographs?”
“I don’t carry a photograph of Fitz with me everywhere I go,” said Isabelle defensively. “Not anymore, in any case.”
“Mrs. Montrose, please do not speak of me as if I am no longer present,” said Ralston. “And please do not attribute any exploitation to Mrs. Englewood’s part. I was given to understand, the moment we met, that I am Lord Fitzhugh’s spitting image. Our friendship developed not because of it, but in spite of it.”
Mrs. Montrose glanced Isabelle’s way, and back at him. “I was also given to understand, sir, though not as soon as I should have been, that you resembled Lord Fitzhugh. But being told is not the same thing as witnessing with my own eyes. I can only imagine, by your nonchalance, that you have yet to meet Lord Fitzhugh?”
“Indeed I have not.”
“I have, sir, many times. And I cannot look upon you without thinking of him in the most visceral manner possible.”
Her vehemence took him by surprise. Isabelle chair scraped against the floor as she shot out of it. He set his hand on her elbow a moment before turning back to Mrs. Montrose. “I understand you have twins, Mrs. Montrose. I have cousins who are twins. I do not mistake my cousins and I am sure you do not mistake your own children.”
“Oh, drat it. Why do the two of you insist on using twins for an analogy? How many times do I have to explain that it is not the same?” Mrs. Montrose stalked to the window. “I can have quadruplets who look exactly like each other and they can all be my children. But Isabelle can only love one man. You are so sure, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that—”
Something below caught her attention. “My goodness gracious,” she whispered.
“What is it?” asked Isabelle immediately.
“It’s Fitz—and his wife. They look like they are about to leave.”
“What?” Isabelle rushed to the window. “Are you—”
She fell silent. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head and glanced at Ralston. It must be Lord Fitzhugh then. Ralston hesitated, but the next moment he was standing before the window, acutely aware of the two women’s attention on him.
Outside the hotel there was more than one party leaving. Porters rushed about with portmanteaus and steamer trunks. Ladies in their bright summer dresses waited in small clusters. A group of gentlemen, a father and his two grown sons, by the looks of it, were engaged in an animated discussion.
There was no sign of anyone who looked remotely like him.
Then his gaze landed on…himself.
It was as if he stood before a mirror, with his reflection acting independently of him. The real him clutched at the windowsill, dumbfounded, while his reflection leaned down and spoke into the ear of a petite, pretty brunette, who laughed behind her fan.
But this is worse. This is so much worse than anything I could have imagined, echoed Mrs. Montrose’s words in his head.
Lord and Lady Fitzhugh climbed into a carriage and drove off, leaving Ralston with a strange hollowness in his chest. He turned away from the window, only to catch sight of himself in a mirror on the wall.
I cannot look upon you without thinking of him in the most visceral manner possible.
Dear God, he could not look upon himself without thinking of Lord Fitzhugh in the most visceral manner possible.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam. Mr. Fitzwilliam,” came an urgent voice. “Ralston.”
He looked blankly at Isabelle.
She was pale and hesitant. “Are you all right?”
No, he was not all right. How could he be? He was but an almost exact replica of a man who was now in love with another woman.
He shook his head to clear it, but it was no use. “Please excuse me, ladies, I’m afraid I must take leave of you. I’m—I’m—”
He gave up trying to think of an excuse, bowed, and walked out of the room.
Chapter Eight
HE LEFT WITHOUT A BACKWARD GLANCE—and with all too swift a gait, as if he would have gladly broken into a sprint had the road outside not teemed with chattering tourists.
Isabelle remained at the window until he disappeared from sight—then she remained some more, rooted in place by disbelief.
“I’m sorry,” said Louise, her arm around Isabelle’s shoulders. “Will you allow me to apologize?”
Isabelle bit her lower lip. “He walked out on his own two feet. It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, I want to apologize for earlier, when I said that you were using him as a copy for what you couldn’t have.”
Isabelle laughed. It was either laughing, or crying. “What changed your mind?”
“If Fitz was the one you still wanted, when we were all at the window, you would have been looking at him. But you had eyes only for Mr. Fitzwilliam. So I was wrong to tell you that you didn’t know your own mind. Forgive me.”
“What’s there to forgive?” Louise only wanted her to not make a mistake she’d regret. And as much as her stubborness had frustrated Isabelle, she could not resent her for it. “You should have seen yourself, like a mother tigress, growling in protectiveness.”
“Mr. Fitzwilliam was protective of you too. He didn’t like it when I was too hard on you.”
Isabelle did not reply. Was it only yesterday that she’d thought happiness as simple a matter as throwing open a window to see the sun outside? The curtains of the window before her were open, the shutters drawn back, the sky beyond wide and blue. But she could not see the sun, only the shadow it cast of the hotel.
The next moment she squared her shoulders. No, she would not be so pessimistic. She could not see the sun because her window faced west, and it would be hours before the sun’s path took it within view. In the meanwhile, light drenched the surrounding hills, reflected from the windows of every passing carriage, and shimmered upon the waters of Windermere.
“He will come back,” said Louise earnestly. “It’s just the shock. Once it wears off he will
remember that even twins who resemble each other most fiercely are still separate persons.”
Isabelle snorted. “Since when did you subscribe to the twins analogy?”
“Once I saw how you looked at him.”
She’d looked at him as the man who had promised to brush her hair when it would have turned all white. But he, he hadn’t looked at her at all. Had all but run away.
In the distance she could make out a boy in a sailor suit and a girl in a reddish frock walking alongside a young woman in a brown tailormade—her children, returning from their excursion on the water with their governess. They looked chatty, all three of them, smiling and gesticulating. Hyacinth and Alexander would reach the hotel bursting with discoveries to share.
And she would have to be sure not to cry in front of them. She never had, not even on the day of Lawrence’s funeral. She must not begin now.
“He will be back,” Louise said, patting her on the shoulder. “I promise you he will be back.”
Isabelle blinked back her tears. “I’d better order a tray for the children. Mr. Fitzwilliam will do as he pleases, but my children must eat when they are hungry.”
RALSTON WALKED. WATER, HILLS, TREE-SHADED paths, pink-cheeked tourists returning from their morning hike—everything was a blur to the roiling unrest within. At some point, vaguely realizing the day might not be long enough for him to go all the way around Windermere, he turned around, took the ferry he’d passed on his way, and crossed the ribbon-like lake at its midpoint.
His thoughts kept dragging him back to the kiss beneath the portico of Doyle’s Grange. The memory of it had always both amused and aroused him. Now, however, he truly understood for the very first time that her need and fervor had been for someone else.
A man cast from the exact same mold as he, but another man nevertheless.
And what of their lovemaking the night before? Her voluptuous climaxes had filled him with both gratitude and pride. But whom had she been embracing, really, when she’d cried out in her moments of pleasure?
A Dance in Moonlight (The Fitzhugh Trilogy) Page 7