Constantine aligned himself at her back, as if they continued to view the painting even though they both knew an undeniable attraction reached for them, enthralling and forbidden. He was too close. His breath brushed the nape of her neck as he spoke and every nerve in her body tingled, as if impatient for the touch of his hands.
‘I am a complicated man, Isabelle.’ He spoke matter-of-factly, as if he offered the barest truth.
‘I live a very simple life, milord. We do not suit.’ It made little sense to avoid the tension between them, although her argument sounded unconvincing.
‘We complement each other. You are colour in my bleak life.’
‘Your life is full of colour, right down to your wagon wheels.’ A reluctant smile pulled at her lips.
He did not speak for a long minute until he murmured near her ear. ‘It is all one colour to me.’ And yet she understood, for all her flowers and gardens, her life remained colourless too. Empty.
‘Come with me.’
His voice dropped low, a sultry, sinful command, and Isabelle knew she should never have allowed their little talk to become personal. However, she did not object when he reached for her and clasped her hand, pulling her past the marble sculptures in the centre of the chamber and further, to a concealed door at the back of the room.
He drew her inside and latched the lock. She swallowed with nervousness and her eyes darted across the dimly lit storage room. Works of art littered the walls and floor, and a desk filled one corner, but she had no time to consider it further. His strong fingers turned her shoulder, and Constantine brought her against his length in one fluid motion.
‘I have wanted to do this since the first time I spied you in Lord Rochester’s study.’
He held her, their bodies pressed together at the most intimate places and Isabelle’s breath came hard and fast.
‘You confuse me.’ Her words shook with emotion, or fear, or the unfamiliar rush of desire that pooled within her, but she did not look away from his crystal gaze, shimmering with heat and promise in the broken candlelight.
‘Am I a riddle to solve, my sweet?’
She could never confess her pathetic secret: she believed him the answer to every question of her heart.
His voice, low pitched, rich and silky, proved a lethal combination of wickedness and handsomeness and his uttered endearment caused all logical thought to dissipate, turning her into a quivering mass of foolishness. A silent warning reminded her of his skill to charm and disarm, but Isabelle believed she engaged the real man who existed behind the dashing tailoring and fabulous good looks.
‘Tell me what you want, my lovely. I know you feel as I do.’ He tangled his fingers in her hair to knock loose the pins and unravel its length. ‘Your hair is magnificent.’ He touched a silken strand to his lips. ‘It is a crime you keep it hidden from view.’
Isabelle’s heart beat heavily as her thoughts scattered like the hairpins that littered the floor. When had he removed his gloves? How had they become embraced in a dark room behind a locked door?
‘Tell me, what it is you desire?’
His eyes seared into her, while his clever tongue and honeyed words decimated her sensibility. All intellect fled on a wave of longing, the intense yearning enthralling. She trembled, her body pressed to his, her skirts pushed to the side as he held her in a tight embrace against his hard length. Her gown whispered impatiently against his trousers and every point of contact, no matter the layers of superfine or silk, burned with heat and ignited her blood.
‘Constantine.’ His name came out a broken plea, but for what she begged she had no idea.
‘Tell me, Isabelle. Do you want what I do?’
He whispered kisses across her temple with stunning delicacy, to belie the intensity of his words or fervour of his embrace. She trembled at the contact of his mouth on her skin as his soft lips caressed her with extreme care and left a trail of dizzying pleasure in their wake.
‘I want to kiss you. To taste your mouth, those delicious rosebud lips, long and thoroughly, and discover the flavour of your kiss, the secrets of your beautiful body, every curve, every softness…’ He broke off, although his hold on her did not lessen in the least.
Isabelle’s mind whirled. She had no way to make sense of the carnal images he suggested, and her body reacted and flooded with desire as he continued to whisper and paint vivid pictures of sensuality that persisted and demanded attention. She knew of the pleasures men and women enjoyed, but to hear them in explicit detail, while Constantine held her captive against his heated body was achingly exquisite. And definitely wrong. She needed to stop him, but a wicked part of her, a part she never knew existed, taunted that her entire life she’d been told she was wrong in every way. Why not surrender to an opportunity for adventure?
‘Stop saying such things to me.’ Breathless, her eyes flicked upwards away from the mesmerising motion of his lips.
‘Why?’ He almost laughed.
‘Is it impulse or curiosity?’
‘It is neither.’ His fingertip skimmed over each of her eyebrows before it traced a gentle line over her lips. ‘So intelligent, yet so foolish. You have no confidence in your beauty or belief in your appeal. You are like no other woman I have encountered.’ He moved his hands to the arch of her back and his palms skimmed her sides as he splayed his fingers to wrap her in a firm hold meant to keep her in place. She was so distracted by the press of his thumbs near the underside of her breasts, she almost missed his warm murmur.
‘You enchant me like no one has before.’
Swamped with self-consciousness, Isabelle deflected his comment without pause. ‘That cannot be true. You will tire of me.’ With little success she attempted to drag her eyes from the powerful pull of his sensual smile.
‘I rather doubt that. For ever is too short a time to spend exploring your body or enjoying your mind.’
Isabelle let out a strangled sigh. It was difficult to breathe, as if every inch of her being overflowed with emotion, and at the same time, an undercurrent of raw sensuality urged her pulse into a frantic beat.
***
He wanted to kiss her senseless, the beautiful pragmatic woman in his arms; and that was just the beginning. How different things would be if they stood within his bedchamber and not in a forgotten storeroom. Pleasure would have been within reach.
He glanced at Isabelle’s lovely face. A question lingered in the depths of her silvery eyes and her lashes bowed, her attention riveted to his lips. Damn, her sensibility tickled him. With deliberate slowness he lowered his mouth to hers and her eyes fluttered closed as she tilted her face to the perfect angle. He brushed his mouth across her lips, a whispery expression of sensual temptation that captured her gasp in his demand of desire. He wanted to begin gently, but when on a whimper of pleasure she moaned his name, a powerful aching swelled deep in his chest. Unable to hold back, he took her mouth and plundered with delectable pressure, parting her lips with a coaxing stroke of his tongue. She tasted like a fantasy, a dream he dared not envision, and a rush of exhilaration lit his blood. He urged her mouth open and filled her with slick heated strokes of his tongue, demanding she offer him everything in return. She responded fully and he groaned in restraint.
It was just one kiss, one kiss that grew and blossomed into a hundred different kisses and left him wanting more. Hard heat flooded his groin when she brought her gloved hands to his shoulders in an impatient caress and then leaned into his embrace, her lush bosom pressed tight against his pounding heart. There was something about the way she returned his kiss, a quality he could not name, that made him delve deeper, as if he could touch her soul or in turn find his own.
What was left of his brain chided it was winsome innocence, not experience, a yearning to please, that caused her to offer him everything. Sweet, delicious Isabelle, gave all of herself, heedless of the cost. But desire controlled him now, not reason.
So he took.
And took.
She t
asted like the finest wine, the rarest champagne, and he drank unable to quench his thirst.
Still even as passion urged him forward, he knew he had to stop, that soon he would be at a point where he no longer heard reason, ruled by desire alone. Loathe to leave the honeyed pleasure of their kiss, he drew on her tongue with selfish insistence and tugged at her lower lip. He sucked and savoured, nipping her sweet solicitous mouth before he pulled away, his breathing ragged.
Damn it, he’d never been so affected by a single kiss.
Awareness slammed hard into his contrary feelings and he struggled to absolve the skittering shock of emotion. Somehow in the throes of their embrace, Isabelle managed to find his heart buried under countless layers of pain and rage and years of resentment. And she touched him. She found a crack and seeped into his soul, and now however would he find peace knowing she planted the notion of happiness inside him.
He watched with lowered lids as she removed her glove and touched her kiss-swollen lips. Her fingers trembled. When she raised her eyes, he held her gaze in silence, although heat sang in his blood. When the tip of her tongue flicked forward to coast over her mouth, he averted his eyes, not trusting he would not recapture her to him.
His mind, clouded with hazy pleasure, cleared sufficiently, and he loosened his hold at the same time she bent to retrieve a few hairpins, her coif replaced in less than a minute.
‘Meet me at the bergamot tree this evening. Come at midnight.’ The husky rasp of his voice betrayed his experience as an accomplished lover.
Isabelle’s eyes narrowed, the slightest of movements, before she turned and rushed from the room. Constantine took a deep breath. He adjusted his cravat and smoothed a hand through his hair, his fingers idly coasting over the series of scars at the back of his head. The action cleared his mind and replaced any lingering desire with temper in a swift stroke.
What was he thinking? He’d almost forgotten to guard his past from her innocent exploration.
Reassembled, Con strove to provide Isabelle time. He was sure she needed clarity, as he had just regained a normal pace to his breathing. His eyes scanned the dimly lit room and fell to a pile of stacked canvases in the far left corner. Something called to him. A splash of red, nothing more. He walked to the pile and lifted the torn brown paper from the top. What the devil. One of his paintings lay beneath.
Chapter Eleven
The carriage ride home proved bearable by means of Meredith’s incessant conversation. An appropriate nod of the head and tight smile served Isabelle well, and once the Highborough coachman extended the steps she expressed perfunctory gratitude and made for the townhouse with haste. She told herself it did not matter how long Meredith dallied with Constantine and scrambled up the stairs to her bedchamber, locking the door behind her as if to keep her emotions at bay.
It did not work.
Myriad conflicted sentiments pulled at her heart, even while her mind spun with the heady remembrance of Con’s seductive entreaty to meet him in the square. She sank onto the bed and pressed her fingers to her temple in an effort to make sense of the afternoon.
What exquisite torture to be embraced by Constantine. She would never forget the imprint of his arms around her, even though propriety scolded she should have pulled away and abraded him.
Instead when his mouth crushed down upon hers, it was as though she’d lain dormant for twenty-six years and now, finally, awoke with new life. Guilt promptly clouded her revelation, confusion quick to follow. And then good sense intruded. No one could kiss like that without a great deal of practice. Could she believe him sincere?
The remainder of the day passed in excruciating tedium. Reluctant to face Meredith, she took a tray for dinner and claimed exhaustion to deflect inquiries about her health. Lily’s precious condolences caused remorse to bubble to the surface, but in truth she did feel fatigued.
Now as she stared at the clock under glass set upon her writing table, Isabelle waited with excruciating nervousness for the slender silver hand to finish its climb.
Four minutes until midnight.
Her hands fluttered to her neck and her fingertips tingled with sensitivity as they coasted over her lace chemisette, the rise and fall of each anxious breath disquieted with the rapid beat of her heart. She removed the flimsy cloth as if it were the cause of her tight breathing and dropped it to the dresser.
Three minutes.
What if Meredith heard her sneaking down the steps? How would she explain her actions if she awoke someone in the household? Isabelle wiggled her toes in her satin slippers, uncomfortable with indecision. What was becoming of her? She had lived respectably in her single state, while here in London she had made impetuous choices and taken daring chances. Her sensible life had been set reeling out of control because of the attention of one perfectly formed gentleman and her desire to experience an adventure to remember.
The minute hand crept closer and Isabelle spared not another thought. She slipped from her bedchamber and towards the man calling to her heart.
Constantine waited beside the bergamot tree as promised. The innocent episode that caused them to meet along the path days ago seemed far forgotten. Now her pulse drummed in her ears and her hands trembled with anticipation as she neared. He looked dashing, his broad profile outlined in the moonlight glimmer where he leaned against the tree trunk. He had foregone a neck cloth once again and Isabelle had the sneaking suspicion he disliked cravats as much as she disliked corsets.
She stepped closer and his sensuous mouth turned an easy smile. Without warning, her blood heated as if he had pressed his lips to her skin. Every inch of her tingled with awareness and her traitorous pulse skittered an uneven tempo.
If he kissed her again, she feared she would say something foolish. In her heart she was already half in love with the man. But the time spent in her bedchamber had not gone wasted. Isabelle had come to a difficult conclusion, and her objective would not be distracted by the seductive invitation of his crystal blue gaze.
He pushed forward from the tree and coasted his eyes down her length. ‘I did not know if you would come.’
Lovely little shivers coursed over her skin as his rich timbre reached through the night air. ‘Neither did I.’ She strove to keep her tone even.
‘But you are here.’
‘To tell you I cannot be disloyal to Meredith.’ She released an impatient breath, relieved to have the words out of her mouth.
Before she knew what he was about, he’d pulled her bonnet ribbons loose. She wore the hat to keep her identity concealed, but while she considered his astute finesse in reading her heart, his fingers removed the hat. ‘So instead you will be untrue to yourself?’
Her head jerked up at his words, more than his actions. ‘Do not presume to know me. It would be incredibly naive of me to believe London’s notorious rake is interested in someone as…’ She faltered as she fumbled for the right word to describe herself.
‘Enchanting? Beautiful? Interesting? I can exhaust what is left of this night supplying answers, but I would rather spend it kissing you.’ He reached forward and traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb, a feather-light path along her jaw, the sensation just as electrifying as earlier.
A nervous laugh escaped despite her greatest effort to keep it hidden. ‘Oh, but you do have a clever tongue.’ She watched him loop her bonnet on a low-lying branch before he turned to speak, his smile a flash of white in the splintered darkness.
‘Then you enjoyed our kiss. You will not deny it.’
Were it not for the shadows cast by tree branches, Isabelle knew he would see her blush. Heat spread from her cheeks, down her neck, and to the tips of her breasts. She wished she hadn’t removed her chemisette. But no, she would not allow herself to disown the most passionate experience of her life.
‘I cannot kiss you again.’ She answered, her words decidedly unpersuasive.
‘Even if I ask kindly and politely?’
His devilish smile proved difficult
to resist.
‘You didn’t ask at all.’ Weakened by his charm, she hoped her reprimand expressed indignity.
‘Clever of you to point that out.’
‘You did not believe you invented clever, did you?’
He leaned forward through the darkness and his hands found her as if he held her a thousand times before. Isabelle stilled, unable to pull away. Without a doubt she knew she could not continue to meet him, to talk and tease with him, but her heart was tied to him now. And no matter how logic scolded her conscience, she knew she would go to him as naturally as a shooting star cannot change its course.
The disquieting realisation overrode any romantic notions and she forced herself to look into his eyes and reveal her innermost concerns. ‘Correct me if I am wrong – ’
He leaned in and placed a tender kiss to her forehead.
‘What are you doing?’ Her hushed whisper was barely that.
‘You said kiss me if I am wrong.’
‘I said no such thing and you purposely twisted my words.’
‘I am an earl. I can do whatever I please.’
‘Absolutely not.’
He made a funny sound in his throat. ‘Says who?’
‘I don’t think that matters.’ He stroked her back with the lightest touch and Isabelle moved a trifle closer. ‘Not to you it doesn’t.’
‘Nor to you.’ He exhaled long and thoroughly and she absorbed the press of his chest against her heart, wanting to melt into him and forget the vow she made a few hours earlier. Somehow a bit of sense prevailed, though her whole body tingled with the touch of his fingertips as they stroked her back with infinite tenderness.
‘I traveled to London so my stepmother could meet you. It is highly improper for me to be here with you in the middle of the night.’ Her words held strong while her knees went weak.
‘I have met her.’ He angled his face, his breath hot against her cheek. ‘Would she have you unhappy?’
‘That does not signify. It is no simple matter and it weighs heavily on my conscience.’ Her heart constricted waiting for his reply.
To Love a Wicked Scoundrel Page 10