by Liz Carlyle
“I feel an affection for the man you are,” she said. “Or I feel . . . something. Something I don’t have words for. To myself I would call it an obsession.”
“Come back to Greenwood, Isabella,” he said. “Forgive me. I made a terrible mistake in sending you away.”
“You do not strike me, my lord, as a man who makes mistakes,” she said, “or who makes his decisions lightly.”
“Anthony,” he said. “Or just Tony—could you call me that, Isabella, when we’re alone? I don’t like this formality between us. It seems . . . cold. It seems not what we are together, you and I.”
But they would not be alone again after this evening, she thought to herself. She was not going back to Buckinghamshire. The thought flooded her with an aching sense of loss even as she acknowledged the foolishness of that emotion.
“Come back with me,” he said again, “and I will try to temper my ways if that’s what you need. I used to be . . . gentler, I suppose. I can try to be that again. Let us get to know one another better before we decide we do not suit.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I cannot.”
Something dark and unhappy passed over his face. “Is there someone else?” he demanded, the pressure on her hands tightening. “Isabella, is there?”
She felt her brow furrow. “No,” she said sharply.
But Hepplewood’s head had bowed, his eyes seemingly locked on their joined hands. “Forgive me,” he said. “I find myself unaccountably jealous. And pray do not trouble telling me I’ve no right. I know that I do not; it makes not a damned bit of difference.”
But Isabella remembered Lady Petershaw’s taunt. He did have cause, really, to wonder if she was already warming another man’s bed. But to be jealous? It seemed not at all like him. Why would a man like the Earl of Hepplewood lose a moment’s sleep over someone like her?
“There is no one else,” she said. “And there shan’t be; I’m not suited to that life. You know it as well as I.”
He lifted his gaze then. “Isabella, what are you talking about?”
She shook her head. “You sent me away for a reason,” she said. “Don’t lose sight of that now. I am . . . just a governess, no matter how pretty you think me. I must find something else I can do with my life.”
Those ice-blue eyes drilled into her. “You think you failed to please me.”
It was not a question, but she lifted her shoulders all the same.
“Oh, Isabella.”
His hands slipped away then, both settling instead around her face, lightly cupping it. Words lingered unspoken in his eyes, but he said no more. Instead, he leaned into her, lightly kissing her mouth. He murmured her name again and planted a second kiss on her cheek, and then another at the corner of one eye; kisses tender as the brush of a moth’s wing in the night.
“Oh, love,” he whispered, “you please me beyond measure.”
“Then why did you send me away?” she asked a little stridently. “With no explanation, really, save for a letter full of vague inanities? Yes, I left, my lord, and quickly—before you changed your mind. Or worse, before I did.”
To her shame, her voice wavered a little at the end, and something like sorrow softened his eyes. Then he set one hand to the back of her head and kissed her in earnest, opening his mouth over hers, tasting her deeply.
Isabella felt plunged headlong into a pool of warm, swirling water. It surged all around her, pulling her under, turning her stomach upside down. As if of their own volition, her hands left the chair arms to slide up the front of his coat, then twined about his neck as she gave herself up to the feeling.
When he came away, her hands were tangled in his hair and his breath was rough, his nostrils faintly flared.
“Let me take you to bed once more,” he rasped. “Come away with me. Tonight. To Greenwood. To anywhere. Let me show you how well you please me.”
She shook her head, her eyes widening. “I can’t. Not . . . like that.”
Gloom had steeped the room now, casting him in shadows. He cupped his hands tenderly around her face again. “Are you afraid of me, Isabella?” he whispered. “Am I too rough? Too demanding? It was wrong of me to be so harsh.”
Again, she shook her head. “I am . . . afraid of myself, perhaps,” she said. “Afraid of how I feel when I’m with you. Of the things you can make me want.”
He kissed her again, and the rush of emotion surged anew. He tasted of wine and of sin, the heat rising from his skin in waves, redolent with his familiar scent; a mingling of soap and chestnut and some kind of spice her mind but dimly recognized—sandalwood, she mused—just before he kissed her again, raking her cheek with the dark stubble of his beard.
Isabella kissed him back, twining her tongue with his, returning his thrusts in a way that, a few short weeks ago, she would not have dared. He responded with a deep, almost primitive groan and thrust deeper, fully inside, one hand sliding into the hair at her temple.
Her heartbeat pounding in her ears now, Isabella pushed him a little away. “Take me upstairs,” she murmured, her eyes dropping half shut. “Just . . . once more. Please? Will you?”
He kissed her again, swift and hard. “Will you, Anthony,” he corrected.
“Will you, Anthony,” she whispered, “take me to bed and make me feel . . .”
“Make you feel how?” He swallowed hard, the apple of his throat working beneath the silken knot of his cravat. “Tell me. How shall it be?”
“As it was at Greenwood,” she whispered, grateful for the darkness that hid her blushes. “I want to feel as if . . . dear God, don’t make me say it. I can’t even explain it.”
But she was to have no opportunity to explain it; Hepplewood had risen and scooped her up from the chair as if she were weightless.
“Where?” he demanded, starting up the stairs.
“In the back,” she said, “the middle door.”
He shouldered his way into the narrow room, so small he had to turn to keep her heels from striking the wall. Here, moonlight had begun to spill through the window, casting a shaft of milky light across Isabella’s bed.
They undressed one another in a feverish pitch, his hands rough and impatient, and nothing at all as they had been at Greenwood. There, he had been a master of control. Now he seemed different; no less in control of her, but perhaps in far less control of himself.
When she was naked before him, he turned to face her, eyes glittering in the moonlight.
“Isabella.” Now stripped to the waist, the band of his trousers hanging off his slender hips, he slid his hand behind her head and kissed her deep, pulling the long length of his body hard against hers.
She could feel the jutting weight of his erection throbbing against her belly and the softness of chest hair teasing her breasts. He let his mouth roam over her face again, infinitely more tender, his hand sliding over and over through her hair.
“How long, love?” he rasped. “How long have we?”
“I’ve sent everyone away,” she admitted, and knew on her next breath that she had done it deliberately—that she had wanted this, wanted him—“until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Wicked girl,” he murmured, nuzzling her face and then her throat. “Did you plan this, Isabella? Did you?”
She shrugged. “I want it now.” She tipped back to give him unfettered access as he nibbled his way down her neck. “That’s how I think when I’m with you—in the here and now. I want it now, Anthony. In this moment, I want the way you make me feel, and that’s all I can ever be sure of.”
He pushed her down onto the narrow bed. Holding her gaze, he whipped open the last of his trouser buttons, yanked free the tie of his drawers, and shoved them down at once.
Less anxious this time, Isabella permitted herself the luxury of watching. He was perfectly, beautifully made, well over six feet tall, his body lean and lithe. His shoulders were wide, his upper arms rounded with muscle. Dark hair dusted his chest then quickly thickened, trailing dow
n to the thatch of dark curls from which his manhood jutted, hard and thick-veined.
“Are you frightened, Isabella?”
“No.” She swallowed. “Yes. A little.”
He stepped to the edge of the bed and caught her chin a little roughly. “Don’t be. Tell me what you want this time. I want to please you, love.”
She tried to find the words. “I . . . I want you to tell me,” she whispered.
Confusion clouded his face. “Tell you what?” he murmured, still holding her chin. “You have to say it this time, Isabella. You have to say.”
She closed her eyes. “I want to be yours,” she said. “To feel, for a little while, as if I belong beneath you. I . . . I don’t want to make choices.”
“You want to submit to me?” he suggested, his voice edged now with something dangerous.
She shrugged feebly. “I want to feel safe,” she whispered.
“Ah,” he said, as if the secret to the universe had just been unveiled. “I begin to comprehend. But it is a little wicked, love, what you seem to be asking for. And I didn’t really come prepared.”
Her gaze dropped to his jutting erection. “No,” she said, her mouth going dry. “No, I think you did.”
Something inside him seemed to give way. “God, I want you, Isabella,” he whispered. “You rake up something inside me—those old-fashioned notions, I fear—and leave them to burn like hot coals in my gut.”
She held his gaze steadily. “Whatever you are,” she said, “I cannot deny my desire for you. Not in this moment. If that should alter . . . I will tell you.”
“Will you?” he replied. “If you do, Isabella, I will honor it. I will stop. Or leave. Or whatever you require. Do you believe me?”
She did believe him; he held within him great strength of will. But just now, she wished he would stop talking. Her tongue darted out, licking the corner of her mouth a little anxiously.
“Come here, Isabella,” he said gruffly, motioning to her. “On your knees, love.”
She crawled back to the end of the narrow bed to kneel before him. Slowly, he pulled what was left of the pins from her hair until it cascaded down. When he was finished, he pushed his hands through it, drawing it smooth, all the way down, until Isabella felt it tickle the soles of her feet.
He made a sound of appreciation in the back of his throat. Gathering her hair in his fist, he roped it round his hand once, and then again and again, until he held her fast at the nape of her neck. She breathed out audibly and felt him tighten his grip further.
“Lean down, love,” he said, “and take my shaft in your mouth.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “And fellate you?” she suggested.
“Hmm, someone found a dictionary,” he murmured, “and a wicked one at that. Yes, love. Suck me. Get on your knees and learn how to do it properly—and then, trust me, I’ll return the pleasure in spades.”
But Isabella had not needed a dictionary; she’d simply asked the marchioness what the word meant. The lady had laughed and taken from her private library an album of scandalous drawings, along with a beautiful book on sexual positions with a title Isabella could not pronounce.
But she did not need to pronounce it; she’d learned plenty. Now she leaned forward and felt her hair cascade over her shoulders. He gave her head a little push by way of encouragement.
Isabella bent and licked him tentatively with her tongue.
“Put your hands on me,” he ordered, tightening his grip. “Put one hand round my shaft—tight, mind you—and slowly slide your lips over me.”
Isabella did as she was told, her heart beating fast in her chest. His flesh felt like warm satin to her touch; feverish, really, and drawn tight over the swollen head of his erection.
Gingerly she drew him inside and slicked her hand hard down his length, as she’d once seen him touch himself.
“Ah . . .” The word was a sigh that seemed to run through him.
Sinuously, she stroked her tongue around the rim of his head.
He groaned, the sound rising from deep inside his chest. Fisting her hair tightly, he pushed himself deeper, all the way into her throat, then a powerful shudder seemed to rock him. He pulled her back, and obediently she went.
“Again,” he choked, urging himself deeper. “And—aah, God, Isabella—like that. Just . . . like . . . that.”
Over and over, she drew him deep, guided by the pressure of his hand fisted roughly in her hair. He thrust inside her mouth and thrust again, and in time his body became wracked with spasms.
Risking his displeasure, she drew back a fraction to glance up at him. His head was thrown back, his throat corded with tension. “Isabella, Christ,” he rasped. “Too fast, love—oh, wicked, wicked—aahh!”
She felt his erection spasm hard against her grip, again and again, and in the next instant, he jerked from her mouth, taking himself in hand as his seed gushed forth.
Isabella watched, mesmerized, until the wracking spasms waned.
His hand fell. He was still watching her, the clean blade of moonlight cutting across the flat plane of his belly.
“Good God Almighty, Isabella,” he choked.
“Was that good?” she asked a little proudly. “Have I learnt how to fellate you?”
“Perfectly, love, and just as I wished,” he murmured.
After snatching up his drawers to wipe away the evidence of his passion, he crawled fully onto the bed, a shock of hair falling forward to shadow his eyes.
She scooted nearer the pillows.
“So is that how you want it, Isabella?” he asked, still watching her as he approached. “To be told what to do? To be made to please me? And to be given what I think you need?”
“Yes.” She licked her lips, desire swamping her. Somehow she managed to hold his gaze. “Tonight, yes. Just . . . tell me. Please?”
“Then lie down,” he said, his voice strained.
“Y-yes,” she said, scrabbling backward.
He pushed her back onto the pillows and crawled over her. “I could take you now, Isabella,” he said, looking down into her eyes, “and oh, love, I will—but I’ll need a little time. In the meanwhile, let’s play a little game, hmm?”
She forced down a knot in her throat, swallowing hard. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Yes, Anthony,” he corrected. “Yes, love, I will do anything you say.”
She managed to nod. “Y-yes, Anthony,” she whispered, “I will do anything you say.”
He stroked one finger down her cheek. “Do you know, Isabella, I half believe that,” he murmured. “Now lie back and shut your eyes. And remember to do as I command.”
A little anxiously, she did so, watching warily from beneath her lashes.
“I said eyes shut,” he barked. “You are cheating.”
“Only a little,” she whispered. “ I just wanted to see if—”
In a trice, he had yanked her up round the waist and hauled her across his knee. His hand spread wide, he smacked her hard across the right buttock with his open palm.
“I think you just want to disobey, Isabella,” he growled, making warm, soft circles over her hip, soothing the burn. “I think you just want to try me—to see how serious I am.”
“I don’t know,” she managed. “Perhaps. I . . . I don’t know.”
“I think you just want a firm hand, love.” So saying, he struck her again and again, bringing her skin alive and making it burn. “You need this, Isabella. Say it.”
“I do,” she said. “Oh, I need—I need—”
“To know who’s in control?” He smacked her twice more, making her jump. “Is that it, love?”
It was.
God help her, but it was.
And she knew she should be ashamed. She could feel her hips wobble beneath his blows and she closed her eyes, sucking in her breath to steel herself to the burn. Though she lay facedown across him, she could feel him watching her behind. Anticipation went shuddering through her as she awaited the next stroke.<
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It came, sweet and stinging, her body thrumming to the touch. Hungrily, she wriggled against his thigh.
“Oh, Isabella, you really must come with me to Greenwood,” he said, his voice so soft she could barely hear it. “If we were there, my darling, I would open my little toy chest and subdue you properly.”
“And how . . . how would you do that?” she whispered.
“Firstly, I would bind your wrists to my bed.” His voice was a hoarse rasp in the gloom, his fingers stroking deep into the cleft of her buttocks. “Facedown, of course. And, oh, love, I have something that would make you utterly squirm and beg for more. A little ivory play-pretty.” He murmured soothing words, circling his palm over her buttocks. “Yes, love,—I think that you are more adventurous than either of us could dream. By the way, love, do you dream?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Of me, dare I hope?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she admitted, “—of you. Every night. It never stops.”
Cupping her cleft, he slipped his hand down and around, between her legs and his thigh, to stroke her intimately with one long finger. Already she dripped with wetness. Heat rushed to her face.
“What do you dream of, Isabella?” He stroked the finger deeper, grazing her sweet spot. “Do you dream of being beneath me? Being filled with my seed? The sting of my hand? And then, Isabella, do you touch yourself? Like this?”
For a moment, she refused to answer. He withdrew the finger and she felt his palm draw back again, felt the pain and the pleasure thrumming through her buttocks again as if he had struck her. She sucked in her breath sharply.
“Isabella?” he asked warningly. “If I ask a question, then you answer. Or I punish you for being disobedient. Or you tell me to get out. Do you understand your choices?”
“Y-yes,” she said. “But I forgot the question.”
“No, you didn’t,” he said, the words low in his chest. But he returned his hand to her wetness and stroked deep again. “Oh, so very wet and sweet, love. When I come to you in your dreams, do you touch yourself like this?”
“Yes,” she cried. “Yes, a little. Because you’ve ruined me. I wake in a fever, half-mad and aching for . . . for something. And yes—I put my hand there. But it’s not the same. It’s never the same.”