by Liz Carlyle
“What?” asked Isabella coolly. “Just unhappy he cannot get his way in everything?”
“Oh, no, just . . . unhappy.” Looking truly pained, Anne set a hand on Isabella’s arm. “He really is the kindest, least selfish man imaginable—no matter what Aunt Hepplewood used to say.”
“His mother?” Isabella looked at her, puzzled.
“Yes.” Anne shook her head, as if throwing off some memory. “But never mind that,” she went on. “Did you quarrel? If you did, don’t worry. Tomorrow it will mean nothing. As I say, Tony is just . . . unhappy sometimes.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind, I’m sure,” said Isabella a little curtly. “But I cannot see he has much to be unhappy about. He has a beautiful daughter and a family who clearly adores him, and so far as I can see, he wants for nothing. So pardon me, Lady Keaton, if I have little sympathy with his so-called moods.”
An almost admiring look passed over Anne’s face. “Indeed, you would not, would you?” she murmured. “After all, you were married to Richard Aldridge. That, I daresay, would put a little buckram up anyone’s spine.”
At that, Isabella’s spine did stiffen—visibly, apparently—for Anne touched her arm again.
“Oh, good Lord, how thoughtless I am,” she said. “Forgive me, Isabella. But trust me when I say that Tony is nothing like Richard. I don’t mean those kinds of moods.”
“That’s good to hear,” said Isabella weakly.
“Tony used to give the impression of being little more than a charming rake.” Anne’s gaze had gone a little distant. “But age and life have hardened him, and underneath he possesses an almost ruthless control. People misjudge him at their peril. Yes, he has vices aplenty, but he is not mad, and his life . . . well, perhaps it has not been as easy as you think.”
Isabella lifted her gaze to Anne’s. “Thank you,” she said, more sincerely. “Lord Hepplewood has been very kind to me and to my sisters. I’m glad he has your good opinion. And I’m glad you came up to Greenwood. Thank you for agreeing to do so.”
“Agreeing?” Anne lifted one eyebrow. “I cannot think why I need be thanked for attending a pleasant house party in the countryside.”
“Lady Keaton, we are not social equals, and I know it.”
“It is Anne,” she said firmly, “and I don’t know what you mean. We’re both daughters of the aristocracy—daughters of barons, in point of fact. We came out within a year of one another, and we married into the same family—one of England’s oldest and finest.”
Isabella shook her head. “Lady Kea—Anne—I own a bookshop in Knightsbridge,” she said. “Do you know how I met your cousin? I interviewed for the post as Lissie’s governess. To be his servant. And he would not even hire me. So now I am . . . in trade, I suppose one might say—and I’m lucky it isn’t something worse.”
“The fact that you were widowed young and thrust into a life that was not what you were brought up for hardly alters the color of your blood,” said Anne. “And the fact that Uncle Fenster turned his back on you in your widowhood shames him—actually, it shames us all. Someone should have done something.”
“Lord Fenster did not turn his back on me,” said Isabella softly, “for he never so much as met me.”
“Truly?” Anne set a hand to her heart, something like pain flickering in her eyes. “I had no idea.”
Isabella flashed a tight smile. “He cut Richard from his life immediately,” she said. “And when Richard died, I asked Lord Fenster for nothing. I buried my husband next to Mamma in our village churchyard and went on with my life. You mean to be kind, Anne, I’m sure. But I do not need your sympathy—or Lord Hepplewood’s. I am making my own way now, and while I will not say it is easy, I am at least trying to be master of my own fate.”
Anne’s smile twisted, much like her cousin’s often did. “As young ladies we are taught that the wisest thing we can do is to find a good husband, and entrust to him our fate, aren’t we?” she mused. “And I have been blessed in that regard. I do not worry about anything save the health of my children. Philip worries for me. He is wise and good, and I trust him utterly to take care of us. Moreover, I am—and always have been—quite madly in love with him.”
“Then you are beyond fortunate,” said Isabella, dropping her gaze to the carpet.
“And I’m not fool enough to think otherwise,” said Anne fervently. “For all that we are taught to find such a husband, and to surrender ourselves into his care, men worthy of such trust are rare, and we must choose blindly, in many cases. It is easy to find a man to fall in love with—or to lust over, if I may be blunt—but it is hard to find a man worthy of that ultimate devotion.”
“You are very wise, Anne,” said Isabella, “and your husband is fortunate, too.”
“But you were not fortunate, Isabella,” Anne said, settling a hand on her arm, “through no fault of your own. And had I suffered through what you have, I’d likely be running a bookshop, too—or at least I hope I would. I hope I would have the courage to do what you have done.”
But the topic had grown too intimate—and too painful—for Isabella, and she fell silent. Anne did likewise, as if fearing she had said too much.
After a time, Isabella drew a deep breath. “In any case, thank you again for coming with us,” she said. “It is such a treat for my sisters to be here. To have other children to play with. Greenwood is so beautiful, and it feels so safe.”
“Safe?” Anne smiled. “What an interesting choice of words.”
Isabella lifted her gaze to Anne’s. “Did your cousin not tell you why he brought us here?”
“Not in great detail, no, but you are beautiful and charming and intelligent, Isabella,” she said, “so I think I can guess.” Anne gave Isabella’s arm another squeeze, then lifted her hand away. “Well. It is late. Shall we put the children to bed and have a sip of Tony’s sherry?”
Isabella tried to smile. “I think I will turn in, too,” she said, “but thank you.”
Nonetheless, for all her declared intentions, three hours later, Isabella still lay sleepless beneath the sheets, mulling over all that Anne had said.
Perhaps she did not know what Lord Hepplewood’s life had been like. Perhaps one never knew. Who could have guessed at what her own life had come to, or what she had suffered along the way?
It did not excuse his cold fury—if that’s what it had been—but perhaps it explained it.
And perhaps he would relent and come to her bed.
She thumped out a lump in her pillow and rolled over for the twentieth time.
Did she want him in her bed?
Yes, she decided. For good or ill, she still desired him—ached for him in a way she could never have imagined possible. Not just his touch—not just his mastery of her—but the sheer physical release of joining her body to his.
She was so desperately tired of being alone.
But he did not come, and another hour dragged by until at last she heard the longcase clock on the landing strike one. Then, perhaps a quarter hour later, there was a sound—a sort of scrape, as if the front door had opened, followed by the slow thud of heavy boots up the stairs and past her door.
She heard the creak of the door further down the hall—the small room opposite the master’s chamber, allotted to his apparently nonexistent valet—and then the house fell again into silence. Isabella held her breath and waited.
And then waited some more. She imagined him undressing. Wedging off his boots. Bathing, perhaps.
He was not coming. Too much time had passed. For an instant, she merely lay in bed, nibbling at her thumbnail, until a sense of urgency overcame her.
Later, she was unable to explain what she did, or why. It had something to do, she feared, with what Anne had said about courage. About being the master of one’s fate. Or perhaps it was just the overwhelming ache—the longing for his touch—that had begun to torment her of late. But whatever it was, Isabella got out of bed and went down the passageway.
F
or discretion’s sake, she did not knock but simply let herself in.
Later, when her head was clearer, she realized it had been a foolish thing to do—that Hepplewood might have been drunk enough to drag home Millie the tavern maid, for all she knew. But she went in anyway, and shut the door behind her to see him sitting in the faint, flickering lamplight, stripped bare to the waist but still in his boots and breeches.
Elbows propped on his wide-set knees, he sat on the edge of a narrow bed that was shoved up against the far wall. He lifted his gaze from what seemed a minute examination of his floor and looked at her with eyes both bleary and bereft.
“Isabella,” he said flatly. “I’m . . . a trifle sotted, I fear.”
He said it as if it was a rationale for something—what, she did not know.
Certainly it was not an apology. Isabella wasn’t even sure she wanted one now. Something she’d grasped during her conversation with Anne had brought to her a startling sort of clarity.
That some men were good for one thing; others for quite another. A man that was good for both things was, perhaps, a rare creature indeed. Anne, mayhap, had gotten the last one?
But Hepplewood was good for one thing—of that Isabella was quite certain.
She pushed away from the door and came to stand in front of him. “Is this all there is between us, Anthony?” she whispered, stripping the gown off over her head. “Is it just . . . sex that you want from me? Sex, but not intimacy?”
LOOKING UP FROM his valet’s narrow bed, Hepplewood wondered if he’d finally drunk himself to the point of hallucination. Isabella—beautiful, perfect Isabella—stood before him entirely naked, her large, dusky nipples already erect, her eyes almost limpid in the lamplight.
He swallowed hard and wished to heaven he were sober; that he’d not let confusion and self-loathing get a damned grip on him and had instead stayed at home, where he belonged.
Home.
Isabella was home.
Isabella was where he belonged. Looking at her now, he knew it, and knew he would not escape it. And he knew, too, that she deserved better. That he had treated her unfairly, and that she was owed . . . something. The truth, he supposed.
He did not have it in him tonight.
“Is this all?” she demanded again.
He drew in a ragged breath and looked up at her with an infinitely weary gaze. “I do not know, Isabella,” he said, opening both hands. “If it is, is it enough?”
“For tonight,” she whispered, “yes. It is enough.”
She stepped nearer; near enough to touch. “Good God in heaven,” he uttered, bracketing her slender waist with his hands. He pulled her to him and set his lips to her breastbone on a deep, openmouthed sound of surrender.
But she shoved her fingers through his hair and pushed him away, then knelt between his boots. With slow, precise motions, she slipped loose the buttons of his breeches, her clever fingers working them free with an almost deliberate languor.
Soon, however, the buttons were undone. He was undone—or damned near it—for he sucked in his breath when her hand merely brushed his belly.
She grasped his rapidly hardening shaft in her warm hand, her fingers curling around him until raw lust shot deep, his blood surging. He realized her intent.
“Isabella,” he choked, “don’t—you don’t have to do that.”
She looked at him, unblinking. “I did not ask,” she said, echoing the words he’d once spoken to her. “I have decided, I think, to suit myself tonight.”
With her other hand she shoved down the linen of his drawers, bent her head, and took him firmly into her mouth, her full lips sliding inexorably over the swollen head of his cock.
As her black tresses spilled along his thigh, he gave an almost inhuman groan and shoved his fingers into the hair at her nape, but Isabella wasn’t having it. Setting her palm to the flat of his belly, she pushed him back with some force.
Perhaps it was the ale, but he went, falling back against the wall, his elbows sinking into the softness of the narrow cot as he gave himself up to the torment of her mouth.
She rose higher onto her knees and slicked her tongue around the delicate flesh of his head, then down his length, taking him deep. Again and again she stroked him, until his legs shook with it, his hands fisting in the rough wool blanket. Until it was all he could do not to thrust himself upward and shove deep into her throat.
Isabella slid all the way up his length again, and the cold air brushed his heated flesh. Delicately, she drew the pink tip of her tongue around as if willing him to watch it, then drew him deep inside again, slicking him over the hardness of her teeth, all the way down until he begged her for more—for release—for something he wasn’t even certain of.
For herself. For her soul, perhaps.
And when at last he was near the edge, fighting for restraint, Isabella released him from the wet warmth of her mouth and left him gasping.
“Christ,” he rasped. “Oh, love.”
His body ached with the wanting, his groin heavy with it. But tonight Isabella was in control, and he fought for patience, awaiting her next move.
He was rewarded when Isabella simply climbed onto the bed and over him, setting her knees to either side of his hips, one hand flat against the wall just above his shoulders.
“Isabella,” he rasped, settling both hands at her waist, almost encircling it.
She was putting on weight, he realized, her hips growing almost lush as they curved beneath his palms. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped back with longing. “I need you inside me,” she whispered. “Now.”
Then she took his shaft in one hand, rose up on her knees, and impaled herself on it.
The sudden intrusion made her gasp, but she took every inch on one sweet, pure stroke, and he had to restrain the urge to beg her for more. To promise her anything. His lifelong fidelity. His every last penny. His undying love.
Anything, he thought dimly. Anything, if she will just forgive me. If she will just love me.
She did—physically, at least. She drew up his length, rising onto her knees and sliding down again, until his shaft was buried deep inside her welcoming, womanly passage.
“Aah—!” he choked, curling his fingers into the blanket. “Good God, woman. I tried—I tried . . . ”
Isabella chose that moment to rise up again, stroking him with such exquisite sweetness that he nearly exploded.
“Tried what—?” she whispered.
“To get drunk,” he said thickly. “So drunk . . . wouldn’t think—oh, Isabella . . .”
“Think of what?” she asked, falling forward until her hair cascaded over her arm, spilling like a silken waterfall. “This?”
“Everything,” he managed, his eyes squeezed shut. “You. Us. All of it.”
She stroked up again, and he exhaled between his teeth. Good God, he was not some grass-green schoolboy. He wouldn’t fuck like one. The burning desire to please her sobered him, and he settled his hands on her hip bones again, holding her down long enough to finally kiss her.
But she was not in a kissing sort of mood—even intoxicated as he was, he could sense it. It stung, perhaps. But the thought flew from his head, for in that moment, Isabella tightened herself around him and sunk slowly down again, her head tipped back in feminine pleasure as a soft moan escaped her.
She soon untwined her hands from his neck and set them flat to the wall again, riding him very deliberately and hungrily, drawing herself up his length. Sensing what she needed, he tightened his grip on her waist and stilled her to his thrusts, pushing himself up inside her, his mouth set to the soft skin between her breasts.
Eagerly she shifted, pressing herself against him, deepening the intimacy. He dragged in his breath, and with it her scent, warm and seductive. So achingly familiar.
With every stroke he felt himself straining for control as his flesh pulled at hers. He let his lips slide higher, up the graceful length of her throat. Through the haze of lust and ale, h
e felt himself falling. Falling deep and hard as he loved her, falling into something so perfect, so natural, that it was like the drawing of his own breath.
She made a sweet sound, a catch in the back of her throat, and her breath began to come faster. Thrusting up again, he whispered something in her ear, he hardly knew what. Words of love. Words of longing and enslavement. Words he might later regret but in that moment could scarce restrain.
Her body answered if her lips did not; her hands sliding down the wall to curl over his shoulders, her nails digging deep into his muscles as she rose up again. Sweat sheened his forehead and he felt his release near, the tendons of his neck straining. He held it in check ruthlessly and set a steady rhythm. She drew back, and his gaze captured hers.
Those eyes. Those dark and knowing eyes that seemed to drill into his soul. They burned for this now. For him. Again and again she urged herself against him, the tempo deepening, until at last Isabella shattered and began to tremble.
He drew her to him, thrust deep, and deeper still, until he was lost to all sanity, his release coming upon him with a powerful certainty. That he had fallen, yes, in a way he’d never known possible.
He had fallen into Isabella’s dark, blue-violet gaze, and he would not emerge whole. He was forged to her—she was a part of him—for good or ill. He needed her with a depth and a desperation that frightened him. When at last the spasms of pleasure relented, he opened his mouth to tell her so, but this time, words failed him.
It was as well, perhaps.
Isabella had set the heels of her hands to his shoulders very firmly and was pushing herself a little away. Their mingled scents rose up between them in a sensual cloud. He drew it in and shifted so that they might lie down on the narrow cot together.
But Isabella lifted herself off, still a little unsteady.
“Ohh, that felt good.” With the back of her hand, she pushed back a teasing tendril of her hair. “Anthony, what you can do—such physical pleasure—oh, I never knew it was possible.”
“Isabella.” He threaded a hand through the inky black hair at her temple. “I want you to know that I—”