Isolde stiffened for a moment, stunned. She sucked a ragged breath into her lungs sharply and held it there. Oh NO. Please, not this. Not like Chauncey. Not another man trying to make her earn a living on her back.
She had little enough experience of men outside her family circle, of which her fiance Chauncey had been a part, as a cousin. Her engagement had been an established thing between their families for many years, and thus she had never had a season, nor the chance to see how her beauty, modest fortune,and her good looks had compared with those of her peers.
At the same time, she had not felt she was missing much, for all the girls she knew seemed to be marrying for all the wrong reasons. As she had nearly done, she admittedly inwardly, recalling that she had agreed placidly enough to please her father, but then also been the one who had kept postponing the nuptials, until of course she had been thrown over.
It turned out she had been right all along, she determined as she tried to wriggle free of the Earl's sensual grip. All men were the same""
She opened her mouth to protest, but it only deepened their kiss further, making her head swim.
"Mmmm, nnnn," she said, shaking her head side to side in an effort to break free. Then his tongue met hers, and it was as though she had been pierced with a lightning bolt. Her body convulsed against him, pressing her breasts to his broad abdomen, so that he gathered her to him more tightly, bending his knees even as he scooped her bottom upwards to fit almost perfectly against him.
So THIS was a kiss, she thought with an inward, almost hysterical giggle. It was certainly like nothing she had ever experienced with Chauncey. Mistress indeed. The Earl's reputation as a seduced was certainly well-deserved, she decided as she started to actually relax against the onslaught, outrage giving way to curiosity.
After all, he was the most handsome man she had never met, and she was never likely to see him again. Where was the harm in one little kiss?
"Tell me your name, my sweet, your given name," he urged throatily, before taking her lower lip between his own and nibbling at it delicately.
"Isolde," she murmured, the sensations flooding through her keeping her so enthralled that her resistance to his every touch and kiss was melting like snow in June.
"Ah, one of the most famous of all Celtic heroines. Very apt, considering your fiery red hair. Come my pagan goddess, take your ease with me. And I am Randall, or Tristan if you prefer, my dear," he said, nuzzling her cheek.
"My lord, really--"
"Don't tell me you're already betrothed to some doddering old King Mark," he pleaded, gazing into her eyes briefly before caressing the other side of her face with his lightly stubbled cheek.
"Nay, that is to say, he was not so very old, but certainly not a man of my choosing," she confessed with a blush.
His head snapped back and he looked at her so intently she was sure her clothes were about scorch and to fall to the floor. "I'm sorry. I can only imagine how difficult it is to not have a choice about, well, any of this," he said with a sigh, one hand sweeping outwards to indicate the room and what they had just been doing.
She was at least partially free now, and could easily have grabbed her things and darted for the door, but the sight of his grim expression halted her flight.
"I take it things are not so easy for you in the, er, romantic area," she guessed, blushing, completely at a loss as to how else to explain his rakish behavior.
Unless of course he thought it would be one of the advantages of hiring her to tend to his sick relative...
"Indeed, it has been for some time now," he admitted with a sigh, stroking the hand that remained on the small of her back upwards so that her head rested against his hammering heart tenderly. "Do you hear that? It's the first time in, well, years, that I've felt so excited."
"Oh, I'm sure not, sir," she said with a wry smile. "You're just, well, bored and used to getting your own way, and then I come along and well, dare to overstep my bounds. Because of it, you've found your attention caught, that's all. If we were to meet on the street or in a drawing room, you'd never even notice me."
He shook his head. "That, my dear, would be impossible, for never have I seen such a glorious figure."
"But my gown is all--"
"And your hair and eyes," he continued. "A dashed shame, to squander all this on a man who wouldn't know how to appreciate it."
Isolde nodded. "Exactly my sentiments. Which is how I come to be here now."
His hands had moved up when he'd mentioned her hair, and now as yet another pin was removed, her luxurious tresses tumbled down over her shoulders. He ran his fingers through it delicately, as though stroking silk, loosening the coils so that it flowed freely over her sinuous back and down across her breasts in riotous waves.
She suddenly noticed what he was doing. "What are you--"
"Glorious. Simply breathtaking."
"Thank you," she said, her own breath catching in her throat. No one had ever dared do such a thing before. And even more shocking than the gesture was how it made her feel, as though she were all woman, and had met her match in this most masculine man.
She held her breath as he stroked his hand from the top of her head down to the nape of her neck as though sampling the finest silk. His other hand angled her body more tightly against his, her breasts taut against her undergarments and gown.
Randall felt the heat of her burn through the silk brocade of his waistcoat, the linen of his shirt.
For Isolde, the muscles rippling underneath the expensive fabric practically begged to be touched.
"Really, sir, I think, in the circumstances, I should be going--"she said with a hot blush, one hand raising self-consciously to the remains of her coiffure, while the other ached to caress his own dark locks. Instead she planted it firmly on the buttons of his waistcoat and pushed, though it was like trying to move a marble monument.
"Only if you wish to," he murmured, though his hands gave lie to his words as he continued to cup her to him. "I know this is sudden, not what you are used to at all, but I find myself so longing for your company, and the comfort only an intelligent and empathetic woman can provide."
"Hmm, empathetic," she said with a mocking arch of one brow. "Is THAT what you call it these days?"
He assumed an expression of wide-eyed innocence. "Why, whatever do you mean?"
"That I was warned ever since I came out of short skirts not to trust myself alone with a man," she said, wriggling to get free, "and I see now that your reputation with the ladies was not exaggerated. Though why you would deign to even kiss a woman in my position--"
His eyes sparked with something more than the burning desire she was sure she had seen in their lapis depths. "Your position is hardly your fault."
"True enough. But if I were to sacrifice even more than I have already lost, well, then it would truly be all over for me, and perhaps even my family. Especially my younger sisters," she said, her voice catching at the thought of how they would suffer were she to ruin this one chance of respectable employment.
"I understand," he said tightly, the game suddenly losing its allure as the lovely young woman's uneviable position was brought home to him. It was one thing gadding about with experienced women of the Ton out for a bit of sport. It was another thing to pay for a human being to slake his appetites as he would lay down coins for a hot meal at a tavern. "I am sorry."
He stepped back now, freeing her from his embrace so suddenly that she almost fell. Her hand reached out wildly for the chair back, and grazed down the length of his arm.
Both stared at the other, dumbfounded, for her were sparks indeed as their hands met once more. Their fingers merged, melded, clasped, clung.
"My lord, really, I ought to go," she whispered.
"You are free to leave any time you wish, my dear Isolde. It is your choice. Stay or go. I shall give you the allotted stipend no matter what you decide, or how you spend your time here. You have come a fair distance, at great inconvenience to yourse
lf. But I have no wish to keep you from your family if they have need of you."
"But you have need of me too, else you would not have sent for me," she pointed out as their free hands sought each other out as well.
"That is true, but given all you've told me, and all I can surmise about your predicament, I would like to make so bold as to suggest something which might seem utterly foreign to your way of thinking."
"Oh?" she said curiously, her eyes widening, her heart hammering.
"That for once in your life, you decide to please yourself. To take what YOU want, Isolde, without fear of the consequences."
She gave a short, sharp bark of laughter, and turned away slightly. "Spoken like a true man. And an Earl at that. There are ALWAYS consequences for a woman."
"And sometimes for a man too, you know, if they are not wise in their course of action. But I have a feeling I shall be safe with you."
"Indeed," she said with a pert toss of her head, causing her wavy hair to frame her face and shoulders. "How can you be so sure?"
"A woman as chaste and lovely as yourself, what would I have to fear? And I would not have invited you here had I not believed you most suited to my needs and tastes," he replied smoothly, entering into the spirit of the game once more.
"I have to confess," she said, staring into his eyes, "you're both everything I imagined, and nothing like. Most strange."
"In what way, my dear?" he asked softly, wrapping his fingers lightly around her wrist, teasing the flesh there.
"Well, truth to tell, you're even more handsome than the on dit has credited you, but, well--" She blushed.
"Go on," he urged, feeling his own blood rising, as well as his flesh, at her open admiration of him.
"Well, you're not really such a seducer after all, are you. I mean, I am sure you could have overpowered me in an instant, if you so chose, yet now you're offering me the choice of departing, or remaining to, well, to--"
He smiled tenderly at her tongue-tied confusion.
"To act upon my own inclinations for the first time in my life," she said at last, though her words were scarcely audible.
Her mind had been whirring for so long with her endless round of duties, worries, the demands made upon her by everyone, including Chauncey, who had badgered her mercilessly to become his mistress.
His words came back to her now with the force of a slap: "Who would want you, with nothing to your name, and more brains than bounce. You're lucky I'm even offering to set you up in an establishment once I'm wed. There are plenty of other women who would give a hell of a lot more than you, for a hell of a lot less."
"I give you my word, I'm at your disposal, Isolde. Do as you will. Do with ME as you will," he added, raising her right hand to bring it to his cheek.
The simple contact and her spirit of rebellion against her long yet undesired engagement proved her undoing. Before she realised she had moved, she slipped the hand across his cheek to the back of his neck and brought his head downwards, even as she stretched upwards into a kiss.
He stiffened for a slight moment, stunned at her ardor, then felt some sort of dam within him burst its banks at last, allowing the most joyful pleasure to flow.
Really, she ought to be on stage, he thought wildly, for her shy virgin act was almost flawless. The only telltale sign was the way she was kissing him now, for he had never experienced anything like it even in the fleshpots of Paris.
Unless of course she was being honest, and genuinely did desire him...
As she kissed him, her hands caressed his shoulders, gripping him as though drowning in a tide of sensation, with him the only anchor.
Her mouth travelled down his chin and throat. She shuddered with longing as she inhaled his crisp masculine scent, piney forest with a hint of bay rum and lime. He felt the soft satin of her hair graze his skin, and became possessed by a vision of what else she could do to him with that incredible mouth, not to mention her nimble fingers and wondrous hair....
With a savage groan of barely repressed desire, he began to kiss her back with all of the pent up longings of a man who could no longer be denied the one thing he craved most.
Her corresponding moan of passion echoed in his mouth as he stretched her full length against his body, chest to chest, hip to hip, her flexed toes barely touching the floor as he swept her up into his arms with fiery passion.
He had wanted The Eternal Virgin for the novelty; she had certainly provided it thus far. No woman had ever responded to him so, and he had not even enjoyed her yet, but he was already sure that one night with this incredible woman would never be enough.
Yet still he hesitated, though for the life of him he could not tell why. "Isolde," he panted, his eyes gazing down at her lovely face. "Isolde, are you sure?"
She bit her lip, then nodded, still gripping him as though she would forcefully merge them into one flesh through the tightenss of her embrace.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure. THIS is what I want. To know this kind of passionate madness once in my life, well, it's worth it. To have a man like you treat me like the woman I long to be. It will be one tiny magical interlude to savor for the rest of my days. And nights," she added in a husky whisper, before kissing him once more.
Randall knew then that he was utterly lost.
As her deft fingers began to work at the fastenings of his clothing, aching to touch bare his flesh, he swung her up into his arms, and headed for the stairs as though racing headlong toward heaven...
Chapter Four
"She took the bait," Howell said with satisfaction to his companion, now seated at the table opposite him. He took the profferred tankard and gulped a hefty swig, then smacked his lips in smug satisfaction. "Silly bitch. Just wait til I get my hands on her. Led me a merry dance, so she did. Was trying to run off out West."
He waved his hand dismissively, and then plunked the back of it down on the table with a thunk, and abruptly made a fist. "But I've got her now, Parkins. And once I have her, well, I'm going to make her pay."
"Except Randall has her at the minute," Parkins said mildly, before taking a sip of his own beer. Chauncey's expenses had been so great of late that he would have to do his best to make this pint last while they waited for the next coach to London.
Chauncey's bushy brows drew downwards. "Eh, what's that you say?"
"Just that Randall has her, Howell, old fellow. He's had many a woman," Parkins added with a snigger, impressed with his own wittiness.
Chauncey guffawed and took another swig. "Nonsense. Isolde looks like a siren, with that red hair, but she's as cold as charity. She'll probably bash him in the bollocks if he even looks at her the wrong way."
Parkins blinked and looked round. "Eh? I didn't hear anything. And Isolde is a gorgeous woman."
"What do you mean, hear anything?" Chauncey demanded impatiently.
"You said she's like a siren, but she's always been quiet around me, and--"
"No, you fool, a siren, from mythology."
"Oh." He blinked. "Were they toothsome wenches?" he asked hopefully.
Howell gave a lewd grin. "Indeed. Famous for it. They lured sailors onto the rocks with just the sound of their voices, let alone their looks."
Parkins nodded enthusiastically then. "That's the ticket. That's just like Isolde. Which is why Avenel won't be able to resist."
Howell paused mid-slurp. "But I told you, she'll be the one who resists."
Parkins took a dainty sip, looked around as though he'd forgotten where he was, but finally asked, "Are you sure?"
"Sure of what?" he growled.
"That she'll resist."
"She always has against me, blast it, and we were engaged," Howell grumbled.
"Yes, but this is Randall we're talking about. I've never met a woman who didn't fancy him."
Chauncey glared, but his tone was not quite so confident above the din of the tavern's front room as he insisted, "Nay, she's a bluestocking. Goes about preaching the evils of futtering to anyone who
will listen. She works at that clinic for fallen women, remember? She would never--"
"Well, a lot of women would, that's all I'm saying. Even a man or two," Parkins said with a wink. "I mean, he's, well, a male siren, I guess."
"Humph," Chauncey grunted, slamming down his tankard.
In all the times he had imagined finally destroying Randall and getting Isolde for himself in one fell swoop, he had never picture Isolde giving in to the young Earl's charms.
Well, she would certainly be ruined in truth, rather than through his salacious gossip, but the prospect filled him with ire. Damn it, she was HIS. He had waited years for his crack at her. Now to be pipped at the post by that bastard Randall....
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