by Lavinia Kent
How much risk was she willing to take? Her hand stroked her swollen cheek as she looked out over the fields they sped by, the carriage racing toward London.
She was almost sure that Mark would wed her if they made love.
But almost was only almost.
Was she going to come? Mark stood on an almost identical set of steps to the ones where he’d first kissed her, and stared into the twilight. This inn could have been built on the same plan as that one, heavy stone walls on an all-too-squat square frame, shutters half closed with peeling paint, thirty paces to the stable—dry now, but probably terribly muddy in the spring. The straw had been fresher at the last place. That he knew.
Damnation.
What was he going to do about her? He couldn’t keep acting like a courting boy. Even if he kept his needs in check she’d head off in her own direction once they reached London and then what would he have accomplished?
Did he need to accomplish anything more than a few stolen kisses?
Should he not just look at this as a couple of days of foolishness? He’d amused himself while he traveled and that was surely an accomplishment in itself. The only thing lost was a few extra days in Town before the coronation. The king might not be pleased, but he also might not even notice. What was one duke more or less? It wasn’t like they were even acquainted.
Double damnation.
He knew better. King George would be very aware that his newest duke was missing. The note that Mark had received from the king made it clear that he was expected to be there. The king made no allowance for Mark’s mourning period and he certainly wouldn’t so that Mark could have a few days of flirtation along the road.
A few days of flirtation, a little play, that was all he wanted.
Wasn’t it?
Isabella rubbed again at the red mark across her cheek, succeeding only in making it redder. The sting of the blow still caused her hand to shake. She dipped a cloth in cold water and held it to her skin, hoping the mark would fade.
Pressing the cloth tighter she tried not to think, not to remember.
She would forget the whole day if she could, Joey’s illness, the slap, and Mrs. Wattington’s quiet fury, the constant threat from her pursuers. No. She was not going to dwell on things she could not change.
Mark was the only answer.
She tried to focus on the kisses of the night before, to remember the pleasure of that moment, the anticipation. It had been a moment full of danger for her, the danger of discovery, but when she was with Mark it seemed unimportant. She trusted he would keep her safe. It might be naïve. In fact she was sure it was, but she could not shake the feeling.
He clearly wanted her. Those kisses and the physical reactions of his body were very clear.
She pulled the cloth away from her cheek. It could go either way right now, either fade completely or turn to purple and yellow.
It was redder than ever.
She had prayed for fading. Too often she’d seen the victim held responsible for her own misfortune.
And it was hard to imagine trying to seduce Mark when her face was swollen and red.
Glancing out the dark window, she made her decision.
It was now or never.
Mark heard a rustle behind him. She was here.
He turned as she eased out of the half-open door. “I am sorry I am late. Joey didn’t want to settle and I didn’t dare leave until he did. I’ll need to go back shortly. He’s not feeling well and the scullery maid who agreed to sit with him is very young. I’ve told her to find me quickly if there is any trouble. I wouldn’t have come at all except that I didn’t want you to worry.”
She kept her face turned from him the whole time, almost as if she were looking back into the inn.
“What’s upset you? You don’t seem quite yourself.”
Her shoulders drew back, tight, and then she gave herself a little shake. “It will sound silly, but I’ve been certain that something awful is about to happen. Rather like that chill you get when somebody is supposed to have walked across your grave.”
Mark knew that feeling well. He also knew that it was accurate far more often than one might suppose. “Do you think Mrs. Wattington suspects us? Is there something else that you worry about?” If Mrs. Wattington knew, he would need to protect Isabella even if it meant telling her the truth, losing her forever. Once she knew his station, then he would be the duke and she only the maid. Everything would change.
Isabella glanced at him quickly and then turned away, her posture still. She was clearly considering his words with care. “No, I don’t think she knows. I would know if she did. She is not a subtle woman. If she suspected she would not hide it. This is more like the feeling when you catch a movement out of the corner of your eye, but when you turn you can’t see anything. I am probably just imagining it.”
“Then why does it have you so upset? Why won’t you look at me? What aren’t you telling me? Have I done something? Are you worried about our kiss? Worried I’ll want more? Of course I want more, but I would never push.”
“No, it’s not that.” She still didn’t look directly at him. Instead she walked past him into the shadows of the yard.
He turned and followed her. Even when she wasn’t carrying Joey her hips had a delicious sway.
She stopped in the middle of the yard and turned her face up to the sky. She twirled once, her skirts billowing wide.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Remembering.”
“What?”
Stopping, she turned to him, her face hidden in the dark. “A few years ago, when I ran away, I went through a great unpleasantness. I felt that everything was going wrong. It seemed that things only got worse. My life was not at all what I had wanted and I believed I was truly trapped. I felt like I would pay forever for the mistakes that I had made.”
“I’ve had days like that—weeks like that.”
“And then one day I looked out the window at the falling snow, big fat, heavy flakes. They were so beautiful and the world looked so new. I felt like I could begin again. It might not be the life I had planned, but it would be as good a life as I could make it. I promised that I would take joy in every minute that I could. But more than that I promised to remember that every minute is fresh, different than the one before. There is always a chance to start again. Indeed we have no choice but to start again every minute of every day. I look up at the moon now and remember that nobody has ever seen it look just the way it does at this moment.”
“I’ve never thought about that. But what has you feeling the need to remember that right now?”
“Do feelings need reasons?” She started to step away.
Damnation. He reached out and caught her beneath the chin. “Who did that to you?”
It was easy to guess the answer. Something caught in his chest as he examined the deep purple mark marring one cheek. He didn’t know whether to pull her to his chest or to go and find whoever had hit her and pound him into the ground.
She blinked and he knew she debated what to say, that she wanted to deny the bruise that marked her cheek, to pretend it did not exist.
“What does it matter? It is nothing. A bruise is a tiny thing in this world.”
He took her hand and pulled her back toward the inn. “Come, let me see it in the light. It does not look a little thing to me.”
Trying to stop, she dug her heels in. “No, it is nothing.”
“Then come and let me see.” He paused as they reached the door. “Nobody will see us, if that is what worries you. Everybody is down in the taproom. Come.”
Her lips were pulled tight, but she allowed him to lead her up the stairs and through the door.
She stopped as they crossed the threshold and stared about. “This must be the best room in the inn.”
“I imagine it is.”
“Then it must be the duke’s room. I can’t imagine he’s in the taproom.” She started to pull back through the door. �
�I’ll go back and check on Joey. I can put another cool cloth on my cheek. There really is nothing for you to be concerned about.”
“Don’t worry about the duke. He’s not of concern right now.” And oh, how he meant that. Nothing mattered except Isabella and the fact that somebody had dared to hit her.
“How can you say that? This is his room. We could be discovered at any moment.”
Mark wished he could explain that he’d sent all the servants away an hour earlier, saying he wished to be alone. He’d done that each night since meeting Isabella, and while they might still find it strange, they no longer found it surprising that His Grace wished to put himself to bed. He had not been disturbed once in the past week. It seemed unlikely that he would be tonight. “Come, let me light another candle and look at that.”
She started to speak, but then her shoulders sagged and she came toward the table obediently. He lit an extra candle and stared at her cheek. It was starting to yellow just across the top of the bone.
He ran a finger over it softly.
She cringed at the contact.
“Tell me what happened. And don’t lie. I will know if you do,” he commanded, like the duke that he was.
“I don’t see how.” She sounded like a belligerent child. “Mrs. Wattington did it. I don’t think she meant to, though.”
He had been right. “I fail to see how she did that by mistake. I can almost see the fingerprints. Do not even try to tell me that the carriage hit a bump or came to a sudden stop.” He remembered the fury with which Mrs. Wattington had gripped the maid’s collar. Isabella could not continue to work for such a woman. It was unthinkable.
Turning to stare directly at him, she reached up and placed a hand over his where it rested against her cheek. “No, she hit me, but I think it was more instinct than intent. Joey spit up all over her quite suddenly and she just swung. I should have been more careful, positioned him better.”
“You do not believe that.” His own fury was growing.
She pulled in a long, slow breath, her breasts rising against the ruffle of her gown. “No. She meant to hit me. She was mad to have her dress ruined, but I truly think she did it without thought. She would never want to leave a bruise that could be remarked on. I do not believe she would find it ladylike.”
“That I do believe.” He remembered the look Mrs. Wattington had turned on him before realizing who he was.
Isabella squeezed his fingers. “It really is nothing. It will fade by morning.”
“I doubt that. I think it much more likely you will be purple and yellow for a week.” He had to find a way to protect her, to remove her from this life she was living. He had to show her that he could protect her.
“Don’t say that.” She tried to step away, but he held her cheek still.
They stared at each other for a moment. He moved slowly, giving her ample time to step away. His hand slid down her face to tilt her chin up. Her soft breath lightly caressed his face.
He could feel her eyes drop to his lips and back. They were caught again in that magic moment before—
—and then it was during. His lips skimmed hers, hardly more than the brush of a butterfly’s wing.
She should not be doing this. It was too soon. She needed to be sure he would care for her afterward. Her plan had not been for—well, it had been—but she’d imagined that they’d talk first, that she’d have more time to decide, to be sure.
Did she know what she was doing?
Did it matter?
She leaned closer.
This was part of her plan—seduction. How would she get him to marry her, to take her away from London and to safety if she didn’t ply her feminine wiles? Only—her reasons for kissing him had little to do with her future and much to do with her present desires, her desire to touch him, feel him, know him.
Pressing her lips tightly against his, she brought her hands up to his neck, stroked, buried them in his hair. He felt so good, made her feel so secure. When Mark touched her it seemed the world would be right, that all her fears, all her mistakes were meaningless.
He tasted of tobacco and brandy—sweet and smoky.
She’d forgotten how magic his kiss could be, how it could fill one with wonder and passion, peace and anticipation.
She ran her tongue along the opening of his mouth, impatient for more. She pulled him closer, moved herself until her breasts were pressed tight against him. For the first time in years she longed for a ball gown, for something low and thin, something that would cover and entice all in the same moment.
His hands were on her waist now, lifting her to her toes, bringing their months into perfect alignment.
She could have kissed him forever, letting the passion and momentum grow second by second. The sweep of a tongue here. The gentle nip of teeth. The dance and play, every action inviting a response. This was no possession but a master fencing duel. Each sought control, but each enjoyed the game too much to want to win.
She sighed into his mouth.
Then she felt his hand upon her breast—and froze. She forced herself to relax but it was too late.
He was pulling back, staring at her, his eyes full of consideration.
Oh, she loved that look—loved him.
Could she possibly love him this quickly?
It would explain her sudden desire for marriage as well as safety. Never since fleeing from London had she even considered the possibility. Marriage . . . after Foxworthy it should have been a frightening thought, but with Mark she could think of little else.
It would grant her freedom and safety. Who would ever imagine that Miss Isabella Masters would become Mrs. Smythe, estate agent’s wife? And surely once married she could just stay at his home in—well, she didn’t actually know where his house was, but it must be somewhere near Strattington’s main estate.
Now the only task was to make sure that he wanted her—forever.
She let her lower lip plump out, and leaned toward him.
Chapter 10
Mark stared down at her passion-darkened eyes. Whenever he believed he had seen her at her best she surprised him. The more he came to know her, the more beautiful she became. He could not remember ever seeing a sunset as beautiful as her kiss-swollen lips and flushed cheeks—but it was those eyes, shining blue around deepest black, that moved him, that spoke to some part of him he had not known he had.
Even the deepening bruise did not detract from her beauty—although it did spur him on.
He needed to persuade her to trust him, to let him take care of her. She could not stay with Mrs. Wattington. She needed to be with him.
He needed her to be with him.
She leaned closer to him, her mouth quivering, and his gaze dropped. It was hard to see anything beyond her need—and his own.
There was no way he could resist her. He had been fooling himself.
She was meant to be his.
He should have realized it before.
There was one way he could assure her safety, wipe the worry from her eyes, take care of her.
He would make her his mistress, support her as she deserved, love her as she deserved, filling all her nights with passion and her mornings also. He would cover her in diamonds and emeralds, parade her before his friends. He would care for her as no woman had ever been cared for.
A duke should have a mistress.
He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.
Glancing farther down, he stared at her breasts, heaving beneath the heavy linen of her gown. He would be sure she was always dressed in something thin and low-cut, no more servant’s attire for her.
The blue of her eyes drew his attention back. Maybe sapphires. He’d been thinking emeralds because of her hair, but with her eyes it should be sapphires, large sapphires.
He should tell her the truth. He could not take her if she did not know—only he wanted her to want him as a man, not a duke. If he told her how would he ever know that she had chosen him and not the
duke?
He wouldn’t.
He leaned closer. “You do know that I’ll care for you, take care of you always, don’t you?” he said as he drew his finger across her collarbones just above the neckline of her dress.
He would care for her always. The words filled Isabella with a far different warmth than the heat his fingers evoked. Her few doubts dissolved like a morning mist. He cared for her.
It should not be hard to move him from caring to marriage—marriage and safety.
Her plans slowly formed again, fighting against the passion that filled her.
She looked up into his mink brown eyes and let her dreams evolve. She lowered her gaze to his lips, lifted it back to his eyes, watched his own gaze follow. There was such power in desire.
Her thoughts of love a moment ago no longer seemed so improbable. She’d been ready to dismiss them as mere physical attraction, the desire to be held by a handsome man after all these years. Now, with a few words, her world changed.
Marriage.
A home.
A family.
He cared for her—was that a man’s way of saying love?
She leaned back toward him and kissed him with all the passion of which she was capable. Her lips pressed hard, her breasts even tighter. Her whole body was one big tingle, one large ache needing to find release. She moved her lips over his, devouring, wanting, seeking—finding.
His tongue met hers, tangled with hers, pushed its way back into her mouth. She felt his desire to take over and fought back. She ran her hands beneath his coat, slipped them over his shoulders, ran them down across his chest, let them find their way between the buttons of his shirt, reveled in the silk of his skin. The desire to taste that flesh, to know his scent, his being, became almost uncontrollable.
Her fingers moved faster, but she could not give up his mouth. That intimacy was greater than any she had ever known.
This seduction thing was much easier than she had ever imagined.
His breath grew still each time her fingers moved; she could feel her power over him.
How daring could she be?
She slipped the first button loose.
And then the second. The third.