by Liz Carlyle
“Mrs. Aldridge,” he interjected, his eyes flashing dangerously as he came around the gatepost. “I should very much like the two of us to get on, but deceit and trickery are not insults I’ll tolerate.” He set a large, very firm hand on her forearm. “Do we understand one another?”
But the word coincidence was slowly seeping into her consciousness.
“Surely you don’t mean to claim—” Isabella cut off her words and tried to draw back. “Surely you aren’t suggesting this is purely—”
“Accidental?” He gave an odd half smile. “Little in life is. I saw a woman I wished to bed, but alas, she declined. Still, women, to my mind, are very nearly interchangeable. It was no great inconvenience to ask the resourceful Mrs. Litner to find me another raven-haired, violet-eyed beauty willing to slake my lust. Imagine my surprise when she wrote that I should expect you.”
“Dear God.” Isabella tried to back away, but the hand on her arm did not relent. “I don’t believe it.”
“Mrs. Aldridge,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over her face, “you approached Louisa Litner with every intention of marketing yourself in just the fashion I suggested. And she has sent you to—well, let’s be blunt—to charm and to flirt and to almost certainly warm the bed of one Mr. William Mowbrey, a gentleman of very specific tastes. What can it possibly matter to you that I have turned out to be Mowbrey?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Isabella tried to think. “It just does.”
“Does it?” His voice dropped, his eyes suddenly heavy. “My dear, you intrigue me.”
“I don’t wish to intrigue you,” she managed, setting a hand against his chest. “I want n-nothing to do with you.”
But she knew it wasn’t true; not entirely. More than once during the long drive from London, she had remembered their almost-kiss and wondered what this man next would be like. Would his eyes flash with fire? Would his touch singe her through her clothes?
Oh, yes. It would.
And she, apparently, was an idiot.
Hepplewood had caught her chin and was holding it none too gently. “No, Mrs. Aldridge, I was not mistaken in you,” he murmured, his voice thickening. “You are a stunning creature—and very much in need, I think, of being tamed.”
Isabella had the sense of slipping over a mossy cliff; as if she were falling, her stomach bottoming out. His mouth was nearly over hers, his intent plain, and she would not escape it a second time.
“Just a taste, my dear,” the earl murmured, his lashes lowering. “Yes, merely that—for now.”
Isabella knew she should run; that to kiss him would be surrendering something of herself. But her feet were frozen, his grip relentless.
Hepplewood pulled her hard against him, surrounding her in the scent of male sweat and something even more primitive. He settled his lips over hers, gently at first, and Isabella let escape a faint whimper.
The sound elicited a deep groan, and Hepplewood opened his mouth over hers, thrusting deep on the first stroke. Blood seemed to well up, roaring in her ears, and it was as if the garden and the world around them spun away.
His heat and the overpowering weight of his body surrounded Isabella. Sliding his tongue deep, the earl drew her firmly against him, one hand settling boldly on her hip, urging her against him as he thrust.
Isabella had been kissed, but she’d known nothing like this. It was raw and vulgar and wonderfully knee-weakening; a rush of hot desire that threatened to swamp her. His fingers, she dimly realized, no longer held her arm but had instead plunged into the hair at her nape, forcing her to hold still. His left hand was cupped beneath her hip, lifting her slightly against his groin as her will went weak with a longing that frightened her.
The tip of his tongue stroked the roof of her mouth in the lightest, most erotic of caresses. Inexplicably, the raw hunger it engendered jerked Isabella from her confusion. She wedged both hands flat against his chest and shoved.
To her shock, he stopped, lifting his lips an inch, his eyes still heavy with desire. His mouth, which she would have called thin and a little cruel, now looked soft, his bottom lip faintly swollen.
Something like lust went shivering through her.
“Isabella,” he said huskily. “It’s Isabella, yes—?”
She nodded.
“Isabella, I want you beneath me,” he rasped. “In my bed.”
“In your bed?” Isabella echoed witlessly.
“Or wherever you prefer,” he amended, his voice dropping.
Isabella’s eyes flew wide. “I cannot,” she said, this time jerking free of his grip. “Not in Northumbria. And not here.”
He did not follow her but watched her warily instead. He had wicked eyes that glittered like shards of blue ice.
“I’m sorry.” She forced down a hard swallow and shook her head. “I’ve made a foolish, foolish mistake.”
But her foolish mistake, Isabella knew, had more to do with what she did want than with what she did not.
She wanted him. A man who was dangerous, demanding, and, unless she missed her guess, a little cruel. And she wondered, fleetingly, if she had lost her mind. If something inside her was simply not . . . normal.
“Made a mistake, have you?” he murmured. “I certainly haven’t. I find you more desirable now, my dear, than ever. And though you don’t like me a great deal, you do want me.”
“How very confident you are,” she whispered.
“But not, I think, overconfident,” he replied, studying her. “Your eyes are wide, your lips damp and slightly parted. Your gaze—and a moment ago, your hands—were drifting in directions that, strictly speaking, a lady’s do not.”
Isabella could only stare. She wanted to slap him again, but she had the most frightful realization that what he said was true; that her hands had slid down his shoulders and back, and that this time she’d even caressed—
Lord Hepplewood saved her the shame, for he was suddenly looking up at the wintry sky. “In any event, it will be dark by five,” he said with annoying calm, “and quite likely wet. You came by carriage, I assume?”
Numbly, she nodded.
He jerked his head toward the back door. “Go inside,” he said, not unkindly, “and pour yourself a brandy. The parlor is to the front. I’ll see to the bags and carriage. You cannot possibly leave here tonight.”
Fear must have flashed across her face. Lord Hepplewood caught both her arms in a strong grip. “I’ve never needed to force myself on a woman, Mrs. Aldridge—well, none save my wife—and I’ve no interest in forcing myself on you.”
She gaped at him. “And how am I supposed to trust—”
But her words broke, her face flooding with heat, for Isabella wasn’t sure which of them she trusted least.
Hepplewood knew it, too. He leaned into her again, his mouth low. This time, however, he did not quite kiss her. Instead, he captured the swell of her bottom lip, drew it between his own, and lightly suckled until her most private places throbbed.
When at last he lifted his mouth, his eyes were hot and knowing. “Yes, my dear,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over her face, “if you come to my bed, you will assuredly do it on my terms. And by God, you’ll do my bidding whilst you’re in it. But the choice to come?” He shrugged. “That will be entirely yours.”
Then he let her go, turned on his boot heel, and strode around the house.
Fingertips flying to her bruised lips, Isabella watched him go, still trembling.
Good heavens, was ever a man so insolent?
But then, a nobleman could afford to be insolent—particularly to someone like her.
Attempting to gather her wits, she smoothed her hands down her dark purple dress as if she might sweep away the evidence of his kiss. She still stood in the back garden, though it seemed surreal now.
Beyond the fence, the carriage house and stable were unchanged, even though her world had just turned topsy-turvy. A pile of large, unwieldy fieldstone lay to one side of the mounting block, and to the o
ther, a pile of smaller, more manageable pieces.
Hepplewood had been at it a while, exhausting his demons, perhaps, with a hammer and chisel. How very odd it seemed.
And how very much she needed that brandy.
Left with no better alternative and now cold to the bone, Isabella did as he had commanded and went inside the house. Both the parlor and the brandy were easily found, and with a hand that shook, Isabella sloshed out too much, tossed half of it back, and considered her prospects as the harsh, unfamiliar spirit burned through her chest.
Through her watering eyes, she watched as the earl helped Dillon heft down her trunk. She wanted to go to the door and order them to put it back. To say that she was going—and leaving Lord Hepplewood and his wicked, ice-blue gaze behind.
But Hepplewood was not wrong in what he said, was he?
What did it matter to her whose bed she warmed?
If she meant to do it as a means to an end—for security for herself and the children—why not bed a man who, at the very least, was physical perfection? She had seen that much, at least, out in the stable yard.
Moreover, what other choice was left to her? To return to London and Lady Petershaw? Yes, she might make an escape now and pass the night at one of the shabby inns back in Chesham. But what would the next gentleman be like? Better? Worse? Cruel?
That was the very trouble when one sold oneself, she thought, her mouth twisting. One lost much of the say in the transaction.
Lord Hepplewood wanted her in his bed—to do his bidding, he said. The very notion made her tremble again. But was that not the very thing Lady Petershaw had warned would be expected of her? That she must discern a man’s most intimate desires and fulfill them?
There was a darkness and a force within Hepplewood that frightened her, but he was, after all, employing a mistress to slake his needs. Perhaps all such men held such a darkness within themselves?
Isabella did not know. Richard had been the gentlest of creatures, her father much the same.
Everett was a rapist and a despoiler of children.
And that was the sum total of her experience with men. Surely there was something in between?
Her canvas portmanteau now sat in the carriage drive, and to her surprise, Hepplewood had slid her trunk onto his shoulder. Dillon tugged at his hat brim, then climbed back onto the box.
Isabella stood transfixed. She did not walk out, climb in, and order Dillon to drive on. And she knew, even then, that it was a choice she would regret. But she did nothing because she had run out of options—and a bad one, she feared, was as good as it might get.
The bad option in question had now snared the handle of the portmanteau and was carrying both up the steps as if he were the footman rather than lord of the manor. Somehow he shouldered his way through the door. He seemed not to see her standing in the depths of the parlor and instead thundered past and up the stairs.
Suddenly, it struck her as odd. Were there no servants?
No, there were not.
The knowledge came to her on a rush of certainty, and with it an understanding of the house’s odd air of abandonment. She was utterly alone here, she realized.
She was alone with the Earl of Hepplewood.
And Dillon was driving away.
Isabella threw back the rest of the brandy.
The house had back stairs, too, from the sound of it. Over the course of the next half hour, Isabella heard his heavy tread going up and down repeatedly somewhere in the depths of the house. Her hand shaking a little, she pulled the pin from her velvet hat with its saucy black feather and set both aside.
By the time the earl returned to the parlor, she’d almost finished another generous brandy—the second of her life, truth be told—and was feeling rather too warm.
“Did you order my coachman to leave?” she asked, still staring out the window.
He closed the distance between them, his expression darkening. “No, I did him the great insult of offering him accommodation,” said the earl, “but he had the oddest notion of putting up in the village.”
“Oh.” Isabella suddenly remembered Lady Petershaw’s instructions. “H-how far away is that?”
He laughed, but with little humor. “Back out the lane, turn right, and continue on another two miles,” he said, “so do take a lamp, my dear, if you decide to bolt from my little den of iniquity.”
“Kindly do not make a jest of me.” She turned too swiftly and felt the floor sway.
He flicked an appraising glance at her. “You will sit down, Isabella,” he ordered, snatching away her glass, “in that blue chair by the fire.”
“You’re very domineering,” she remarked, watching the dregs of her brandy go.
He set her glass on the sideboard with a hard thunk.
“Quite domineering,” he said, turning to cut her a dark look. “Are you going to have a problem with that? If so, I’ll fetch that lamp now, Mrs. Aldridge, and you may head on back to Virtue-upon-Boredom, or whatever little village you came from.”
Her breath caught at the unholy glint in his eyes. “No, it . . . it is your house,” she managed, “and, as you’ve so clearly stated, your rules.”
“Yes, I’ve found matters run more smoothly when a man is unwavering in his expectations.”
“More smoothly for whom?”
“For the man giving the orders,” he replied without rancor.
“Ah, and that would be Mr. William Mowbrey?”
The earl was pouring himself a brandy, his hand rock steady. He set the glass by one of the chairs, then squatted down to poke up the fire.
“I was christened Anthony Tarleton William Mowbrey Chalfont,” he said, staring into the depths of the hearth, “if it somehow matters to you.”
Strangely enough, it did. She watched as he stood with a leisurely grace and folded his rangy length into a matching chair opposite hers. His tousled gold-brown locks were damp, Isabella noticed, and he’d put on a fresh shirt, left open at the throat beneath a waistcoat of fine brocade. With his aquiline nose and harsh cheekbones, he was a shockingly handsome man—and all too aware of it, obviously.
Using one long, booted leg, Hepplewood kicked a footstool over in his direction, propped up his feet, then steepled his fingers to study her. It was a posture of utter repose, yet a commanding one all the same, leaving Isabella to wonder if everyone who came within the man’s sphere was obliged to obey him.
“You haven’t a drop of charm, have you?” she remarked.
He smiled faintly. “I used to have,” he said, “but I found it a double-edged sword. Nowadays I find it more expedient to simply order what I want—and to pay for it when I must.”
Isabella swallowed hard. “And what, exactly, do you want, Lord Hepplewood?”
“Exactly? To bend you over that chair, Mrs. Aldridge, and fuck you until you beg for mercy.” He picked up his brandy with his long, elegant fingers. “But I’m willing to wait until you’re more comfortable with the notion.”
The alcohol must have numbed Isabella, for she did not blush. “Well,” she murmured. “At least you’re honest. And along with your lack of charm, I notice you’ve no servants.”
“I haven’t any servants in the house,” he corrected.
“But there is . . . someone?” she said a little hopefully.
Again, he shrugged. “I’ve a caretaker in a cottage beyond the stable. Yardley sees to my horses and builds up the fires. His wife and daughter come in most afternoons to tidy up and take away the laundry. There are village girls when I need the house turned out.”
“You do not eat?”
A smile twitched at his thin mouth. “Oh, I’m a man of appetites,” he said. “Yes, I eat—and cook, too, when necessary. I enjoy a measure of self-sufficiency. But yes, the helpful Mrs. Yardley comes back and forth, and sometimes puts a joint on to roast.”
Isabella was mystified. “Why do you live here?” she asked more softly.
“It is my home,” he said simply. “I have
others, of course. But Greenwood is private—a sort of sanctuary—and a place where I can indulge my less civilized habits away from public scrutiny.”
“Like dressing fieldstone whilst half-naked?”
His mouth twitched again. “Amongst other things.”
“It seems an odd occupation for a gentleman,” she said.
He looked at her very directly and did not smile. “Tomorrow, my dear, perhaps you might like to watch me split firewood?” he suggested. “I assure you, I have near-inexhaustable stamina.”
Isabella felt that curious, swamping sensation in the pit of her stomach again. She looked away, refusing to hold his gaze.
But the house’s seclusion was, in fact, perfect for Isabella’s purpose. She let her eyes roam about the room, which, like the other two rooms she’d passed through, was elegantly and comfortably furnished.
Had she not wished for exactly this? To be kept in a pretty, private house away from London? So why, then, did the isolation leave her uneasy?
Because there was not enough brandy in all England, she feared, to make her entirely comfortable with the Earl of Hepplewood. And yet she had the oddest feeling he did not mind her unease; that he took an almost perverse satisfaction from it.
“This is the perfect sort of place a man might hide his mistress,” she said, almost to herself.
“I have done, yes.”
At last, she looked at him. “Mrs. Litner says you are very hard to please.”
“Without question.” Again, Hepplewood’s voice dropped to a darker tone. “But I’m quite confident, my dear, that you can be taught to please me.”
“Taught?” Isabella blinked. “I am not witless, Lord Hepplewood. I understand what sex is.”
“Oh, I very much doubt, my dear, that you do.” Calmly, he picked up his brandy and sipped. “Tell me, Isabella, how many lovers have you had?”
She felt her face warm. “I—I was married,” she said a little defensively.
He laughed. “Dear God!” he said. “One? And then you took to the nunnery, did you?”
“I became a governess, yes, if that’s what you mean.”