“Allow me, sweetheart. It’s broad daylight.” He opened them with one hand as she watched, freeing himself. With the other, he caressed the warm wet petals of her flesh with maddening slowness.
“Blackwood,” she whimpered again, pleading this time, rubbing against his hand.
He didn’t need a second invitation. He grasped her hips and impaled her, filling her with one hard thrust. She moaned and arched, settling him more deeply inside her, joined to him at last, filled.
He dragged her forward and kissed her, sucking her lips and her tongue, and she could taste cherries on their mingled breath. Then she was lost to the desperate friction.
“Isobel!” he groaned, coming deep within her body in a heated rush.
She clung to him, resting her forehead on his, kissing his sweat-soaked face, and felt his heart beating against her breast. Still embedded in her, he reached between their bodies and stroked her, and she gave herself up to the pleasure of what he was doing.
Phineas watched the muscles of her throat tense as her skin flushed. She cried out his name as her release claimed her. Unmasked, in daylight, she was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. He gathered her against his chest and held her, her breath warm on his neck. He stroked her hair, her back, the silk of her thighs, not wanting to let her go. Too soon, he felt the coach turn a corner and slow.
He knocked on the roof. “Drive through the park,” he ordered the coachman. “Or we could find an inn,” he murmured in her ear.
She sat up, still perched on his lap, her body still joined to his, and blushed as if she’d realized for the first time where they were.
Masculine pride swelled. In his arms, she’d forgotten everything, her pride, her stiff sense of propriety, and especially bloody Gilbert Fielding.
Isobel wriggled off his lap, her face flaming, and he let her go. She sat on the edge of the seat opposite and straightened her clothing. He had a tantalizing glimpse of white thighs before she tugged her dark skirts over them. Her bonnet was askew, and a pretty frill of displaced hair framed her flushed cheeks under the black straw. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses, her eyes still wide. She looked like a woman who’d been pleasured in the back of a coach, and he’d willingly bet it was the first time for that.
“I know an inn just outside the city,” he said. “We could spend the rest of the afternoon there. I want you again, Isobel, every lovely inch of you, naked, and in a real bed.”
She bit her lip, looked tempted for a moment, then shut her eyes, as if she could dispel desire so easily. “I am expected at home,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m very glad you did,” he drawled.
She blushed. “I meant I did not expect to see you today,” she said, watching as he buttoned his breeches. His cravat was a hopeless mess, so he pulled it off and tucked it into his pocket. “That is, I didn’t plan on this happening. I went out to take tea with Marianne and Mr. Fielding, not to—”
The sound of Fielding’s name set Phineas’s teeth on edge.
“And I did not expect to see you with Gilbert Fielding,” he said, and cursed himself for sounding like a jealous fool. She looked at him with dull surprise, as if he hadn’t the right. He recognized the simple truth that Gilbert was much more suitable for a respectable widow than a rake like him. Didn’t she deserve to be happy?
Hell, didn’t he?
“You seem to like Gilbert,” he said, striving to keep his tone even as his anger grew. “Were the two of you acquainted as children?”
“No not at all, but he is a pleasant man, and it appears we have much in common.”
Much in common? What in hell did that mean? He searched for some common ground he shared with Isobel. They shared passion and fire. She’d reduce a milksop like Fielding to ashes.
“Do you intend to take Gilbert Fielding as your next lover?” he asked bluntly, wanting her to feel a little of the pain, the frustration, that roiled in his breast. “Is that why seeing me—and this—was so unexpected?”
“What kind of woman do you think I am?” she gasped.
“I know exactly what kind of woman you are, Isobel.” His eyes scorched her mouth, her breasts, to make his point.
“Well, I doubt Mr. Fielding is that type of man,” she said in a strangled voice, looking away. A flush of color bloomed over her throat and face.
He wanted her to look at him, to see him and not think of goddamned Gilbert bloody Fielding, but he had to know. “You mean he’s the marrying kind, I suppose. You do know he wants to marry money?”
She looked confused. “Yes, I’ve been told that. Still, I think he will make a pleasant enough husband.”
The hard knot of jealousy grew like a tumor. “Good God, Isobel. Do you have hopes he will offer for you? Make you a pleasant husband?” he demanded, the question tearing itself out of his throat.
“He has not made any such offer!” she protested.
“He will. He’s desperate. He’ll propose the instant he smells money.”
Her jaw dropped at the insult. He had meant to direct it toward Gilbert, but it came out wrong.
“How dare you? What does it matter to you? You’re going to marry Lady Amelia. I hear she has plenty of money—”
Rage burned through him. “We’re talking about you, Isobel. Answer me. Do you intend to marry Fielding?” He waved a hand to indicate her dowdy, love-rumpled gown. Despite her dishevelment, she held herself with dignity. “I thought you were still grieving for Maitland. You must have loved him very much to mourn this long.” He wanted to be loved like that.
Suddenly, it mattered more than anything else.
Her eyes kindled with anger. “That is not your affair, my lord.”
“Ah, but it is, Isobel. Our lust is mutual, sweeting, every single time we meet. You offered to be my mistress, and if you intend to marry, have the courtesy to let me know. I am not above adultery, but—”
With a cry of fury she drew back her hand and struck him. It wasn’t a ladylike slap. He felt his lip smash against his teeth and burst. The iron taste of blood filled his mouth.
She pressed a hand to her own lips, anger and wounded pride at war in her eyes. “Order the coachman to stop. I wish to get out.”
“No. I won’t let you run from me again. Damn it, Isobel, ever since I met you I’ve dreamed of nothing else but you, I haven’t touched another woman. I haven’t wanted any other woman. If you want to marry again, then marry me.”
Her eyes widened in shock. “What?”
His heart thumped against his ribs. For an instant his tongue refused to move. He hadn’t meant to propose, but he knew at once that it felt right. It was what he wanted.
“Marry me, Isobel. Be my wife.”
She blinked at him, her throat working, her eyes filling with tears. He waited for them to overflow, for her to fall into his arms and say yes.
“No.”
It came out in a whisper, and he thought he’d misheard her.
His heart turned to lead.
Her eyes were wild and she fiercely dashed her tears away. “I cannot marry you! I should not even be in the same room with you, or the same coach. The price is too high.”
“Isobel, I don’t understand. I thought you knew that I’m not what I appear to be.”
“You don’t understand, Blackwood! It is I who am not what I seem!”
What the hell did that mean?
She scrabbled at the door handle, her tears flowing unchecked now, and he watched her, numb, bewildered. “Isobel, wait. Surely I deserve an explanation!” he said, trying to catch her hands, to stop her and make her look at him. She shook him off, and her attempts to open the door grew even more frenzied.
He didn’t understand. He, the man who prided himself on reading people, knowing what they were thinking, feeling, what they wanted, had no idea why she’d rejected his proposal.
“Let me go, Blackwood, please,” she begged as the door opened. He barely had time to knock on the ceiling to stop t
he coach before she half tumbled, half jumped from the vehicle and disappeared into the crowds. He pressed a knuckle to his split lip, but the pain of her parting souvenir hardly mattered.
Jane Kirk stepped out of the milliner’s shop in time to hear a savage curse as a gentleman reined his horse to avoid a woman fool enough to jump from a carriage in the middle of the street. The woman didn’t even notice, just ran on, sobbing. Jane almost dropped her parcels as she recognized Isobel. She glanced around, wondering where the countess had come from so suddenly and in such a state. Her eyes narrowed.
The Marquess of Blackwood sat in the open doorway of his coach staring after the widow. Jane smiled until her lips hurt.
She checked to see if Lord Philip’s latest letter was still tucked securely in her bodice. It wouldn’t do to lose that. Honoria was waiting for it. The paper crackled reassuringly under her fingers. She hurried on her way, looking forward to delivering the note, now that she had a most titillating tale to tell as well.
Isobel and the Marquess of Blackwood. My my.
This changed everything.
Chapter 36
Blackwood had proposed.
The incredible, unbelievable words echoed in Isobel’s head on the long walk home. It had been a horrible, wicked thing to do.
She loved him.
And she hated him.
For a moment she had felt the terrible temptation to accept, to let him take her away, to marry him and damn the consequences.
But that was what her mother had done. Had Charlotte been happy with her choice? Was she so much in love that she had not felt the pain of leaving her child? Even now the agony of Charlotte’s abandonment, and the idea of leaving her own son, was a raw ache in Isobel’s chest.
She could not abandon Robin, no matter how miserable Honoria made her life, or how much she loved—
Blackwood had proposed.
Damn him!
He had wanted an explanation, a reason why she refused him. Was it so obvious she loved him? She had tried to hide her feelings, but she’d been in love with him since the first moment she laid eyes on him.
How could she tell him her dead husband still ruled her life from the grave, that his will ensured she would never be free? She was beholden, enslaved, to Honoria, a bondage she endured willingly for Robin’s sake. Phineas could not ask her to choose between her love for him and her son. It was impossible. The pain left her breathless. She could not do it, would not.
By the time she climbed the steps of Maitland House, she knew she had to find a way to leave London. If she stayed in Blackwood’s mesmerizing, tantalizing sphere, she would be unable to resist. She would end up just like her mother. Isobel the Harlot. Robin would grow up hating her.
She would promise Honoria anything, plead on her knees if necessary, to go to Ashdown or Waterfield, or wherever they’d allow her to take Robin. Perhaps if Robin were out of sight and out of reach, Charles would forget he even existed. Away from London, she could keep her son safe.
And she could forget Blackwood.
Never, her heart whispered as Finch opened the front door for her and she handed him her bonnet and gloves.
She glanced in the mirror. Her face was tearstained, her eyes puffy. Her lips were swollen from his kisses. Her gown was rumpled from the wild lovemaking in Blackwood’s coach.
Her body still tingled.
She needed to go upstairs and change her dress, compose herself, before seeing Honoria to make her plea.
The door of the library was slightly ajar as she passed, and she winced, knowing she’d need to slip by unnoticed, or be prepared to explain her disheveled appearance if she were caught. She was too tired to think of a believable excuse.
She paused outside the door and peered at Honoria’s broad back through the crack. She wore a vivid shade of green today and was pulling on her gloves in preparation to go out.
“Is the new man in place at Waterfield?” Honoria asked Charles, who sat at the desk.
“Yes. One of Renshaw’s men.”
Isobel’s skin prickled, and she froze outside the door to listen.
“And I assume everything else will be ready on time? We cannot afford any mistakes now, Charles.”
Charles hesitated. “There are one or two minor details left to see to.”
Honoria hissed her disapproval.
“Mother, be reasonable. How was I to know Hart would prove difficult, or the innkeeper would demand a larger payment?” Charles asked peevishly. “And Renshaw’s demands have been endless.”
“Just tell me you took care of the situation at Waterfield properly,” Honoria snapped.
“I did exactly as you suggested,” Charles replied. “All anyone knows is that Hart has left Waterfield and there’s a new steward. I put about a few rumors of mismanagement so people will believe Hart was turned off for incompetence.”
Isobel pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress a gasp. She had begged them not to fire Jonathan Hart. She shut her eyes. She should not have mentioned that Hart had come to see her. She wondered where he’d gone, if he had a family.
“Does anyone suspect that he’s dead?” Honoria asked.
Isobel’s eyes widened. “Dead?” she whispered. The word was flat and dark and ugly. Her heart began to hammer painfully against her ribs.
Charles laughed. “Only the fish that ate him, I suppose.”
Horror squeezed Isobel’s throat, cutting off her air. She couldn’t have heard them correctly. Surely Honoria and Charles hadn’t killed a man. Not for incompetence.
But they had.
She felt her stomach churn. Her panicked thoughts flew up the stairs to the third floor, to the nursery, where her son was.
Children die all the time.
She picked up her skirts and flew up the stairs, fear pounding in her throat, prodding her to run. She had to get to her son. She had to take her child away, far, far away where the monsters could never touch him, never hurt him.
Children die all the time.
So did grown men like Jonathan Hart.
Half an hour later she clutched Robin’s hand as they descended the stairs. “We’re going on an adventure, Robbie, but we must be very quiet, and very quick,” she whispered.
“Will Jamie be there? Will we visit one of his papa’s ships?” her son asked, running a hand along the polished oak railing.
“I don’t know, darling.” She wished he’d hurry, but she didn’t want to frighten him.
“Lord Westlake tells me stories about the sea. Can we visit the sea?” he chirped.
“Isobel.”
Charles’s gruff voice slashed across her fragile nerves like a knife. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting for her. Jane Kirk stood behind him, a cruel imitation of a smile on her hard face. Isobel’s heart climbed her throat.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Charles asked, his piggy eyes sharp on her.
Isobel squeezed Robin’s hand to keep him still.
“I’m taking Robin to the park,” she managed.
“It’s nearly tea time,” Charles said.
“Your gown is a mess, Countess,” Jane noted. “Whatever have you been doing today?” she asked, smirking as if she knew. Charles too regarded her with odd speculation.
“Mother will want to see you when she gets home,” he said. “Go back upstairs and wait.”
Isobel’s chest tightened, her head buzzed with terror. “Come Robin, let’s go back upstairs,” she said. She would find another way.
“No, I’d like to hear his Latin,” Charles said. “Come here, boy.”
Robin shrank into her.
“Now!” Charles roared.
But Robin didn’t move, and Isobel clung to her son, unable to make her fingers let go. Charles jerked his head at Jane, and she ascended the steps, her footsteps echoing through the house like a death march. She took Robin’s free hand and dragged him away from his mother. Isobel let go, because she had to, so he wouldn’t be frightened or hurt. Jane
turned the boy over to his uncle and sent Isobel a look of triumph that chilled her blood.
Children died all the time.
Chapter 37
“Lady Marianne is in your study, my lord,” Burridge informed Phineas, waking him up.
“Probably here to see Carrington. Let him know she’s arrived,” Phineas muttered, and shut his eyes against the daggers of light trying to impale his aching eyeballs. He’d prowled the docks until dawn, looking for anyone who might know of an unusual shipment due at the Bosun’s Belle in the next few days.
There was no better way to get information than by drinking with a sailor, and usually no better way to drown the memory of a woman, but his throbbing head was still filled with visions of Isobel perched on his lap, her head thrown back in the throes of passion.
He pulled the pillow over his face, but his valet nudged him again.
“Burridge, go ’way if you know what’s good for you.”
“Her ladyship asked me not to tell His Grace she was here. It’s you she wants to see. She told me if I didn’t wake you straight away, then she’d come up here and do it herself, and I believe she would, my lord. She’s a formidable lady for a countess.”
A less flattering description came to mind. He tossed the pillow aside and winced at the harsh morning light. “Then you’d better get me ready to hold court.”
Three-quarters of an hour later he found Marianne pacing his study. Judging by the empty tumbler, she had eschewed Burridge’s tea in favor of a tot of whisky.
She turned to face him, looking pointedly at the clock. “I’ve been waiting nearly an hour, Phineas. Ladies don’t take that long to dress.”
“Burridge insisted I look my best.” He gave her a mocking bow that made his head hurt.
“You still look six shades of dreadful. You really must give up your life of dissipation.”
He ignored the barb. “Fresh tea, some breakfast, perhaps?”
“Coffee,” she said, and he ordered it, and slid into the nearest chair.
“What brings you out at dawn?” he croaked, though it was nearly ten.
Secrets of a Proper Countess Page 24