It echoed what he wanted.
“But?” she asked.
He dropped his head down, closer and closer to hers. He felt her breath against his lips, and it drove him mad. “He can’t hurt me,” he whispered. Then he took her mouth.
She lifted into him at once, her arms coming around his neck as she opened herself to his kiss. And he took. Took like a man starved because he was. He had not kissed her since the ball almost a week before, and then it had been angry and out of control. A punishment rather than a pleasure.
Tonight it was pleasure. It was a memory of steamy nights in that forbidden club when he had lost himself in a stranger. But now she wasn’t a stranger, and if anything he wanted more. He wanted to see her whole face as he took her, wanted to feel her body flutter around him in release and whisper her true name against her skin.
He wanted her. Isabel Hayes. And nothing else mattered in that moment except for that one fact.
“Please,” she whimpered against his lips. He wasn’t certain she meant to say it out loud, or if it was a plea to herself or to him. But it turned his body rock-hard and he found himself backing her toward the wall.
She gasped as her back hit the hard surface, and tilted her head as he started to kiss along her jaw, down her throat, to the low neckline of her pretty gown. She dragged her fingers into his hair, making incoherent sounds of pleasure as he cupped both breasts in his hands, pushing them together, licking the valley that peeked up from her gown.
He ground against her as he did so, hard, circular thrusts of his hips that she met in kind as she gasped and groaned and begged him to keep going. He had no intention of doing anything else. He pushed aside doubt and guilt and recrimination and cupped her backside, lifting her up against him, letting her feel the reminder of what they had shared in secret.
“Yes,” she grunted, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she drove her tongue into his mouth and showed him, in no uncertain terms, how much she wanted what he offered.
It would have happened. He had no doubt that it would have. Except in that moment, the door to the parlor opened. He released her, setting her down before he swiveled to face the intruders.
And there, standing in the doorway was her uncle, and he wasn’t alone. With him was the host of their party, Lord Hasselbreck, Hugh, and at least three others who were leaning all over themselves to see the wicked, heated scene before them.
Chapter Fourteen
Isabel gasped in horror at the gaggle of people now staring into the room, looking at Matthew, looking at her. Even half-hidden behind him, she knew her identity was obvious. Especially when her uncle pointed a finger across the room and shouted, “You see! I told you that bastard was up to no good. He is attacking my niece.”
Matthew made a sound of utter horror deep in his throat. He cast her one look, and it was no longer the one of desire. The one of need and passion. No, he glanced at her with…uncertainty.
As if he thought she might be part of her uncle’s attack.
“No!” she cried out without thinking of the consequences as she hurried around Matthew. “That is not what is happening.”
That only seemed to make it worse, for the stares of those in the hall became accusatory. She could read the slurs in their eyes. The judgments that she would offer herself so easily.
And from the glare of Matthew’s friend, the Duke of Brighthollow, she guessed she would find no friends amongst those who had intruded on this scene between them.
“His Grace was just…I was…we were…” she stammered.
She looked at her uncle then, in some way hoping for help, for support. But he met her stare, then looked past her toward Matthew, and he…smiled. A smug expression of triumph. And she knew in that moment. She knew.
When he’d spoken of hurting Matthew, when he’d talked to her about her future…those two things were linked in his mind. He had planned to use her in this very way. To destroy her if it meant destroying Matthew, too.
“I suggest that everyone leave the room right now,” Brighthollow said, spearing those in the hall with a dark glare that could have frozen Hell itself. “Lord Hasselbreck, take them, please. I will remain behind with Mr. Winter and His Grace to ensure they do not come to blows.”
Isabel flinched, for at that moment it looked like Brighthollow would not mind raining a few blows down on Uncle Fenton, himself.
“This is my home, Your Grace,” Hasselbreck began.
Brighthollow turned his ire on him and snapped, “And I suggest you manage it.”
With that he gave Hasselbreck a shove and closed the door behind him, leaving the four of them alone.
Isabel’s hands were shaking as she approached her uncle. His gaze, which had been so firm, so celebratory, now fluttered away from hers. A sign of guilt, perhaps, but not so much that he didn’t use her as a pawn in this game of his.
“You did this,” she whispered, hating how her voice cracked. “You arranged this intrusion, didn’t you? For how long?”
Matthew caught his breath and she looked to see him staring at her and her uncle. Both of them with the same expression. Betrayal. Distrust. Her eyes swelled with tears, but she blinked them back. It was too late for that now.
“Answer me!” she shouted.
Uncle Fenton shrugged. “How could I arrange what this person, this thing, brought to bear on himself? Did I tell him to pin you against a wall and practically rut with you in public?”
She turned her face at the coarse description. Her stomach turned.
“You have hated me for years,” Matthew said at last, his eyes narrowing on Fenton. “What is the purpose of this…manipulation?”
Isabel held her breath as she awaited that answer. Wishing it would be something that didn’t break her heart. Knowing it would.
“You are seen as such a paragon of virtue, aren’t you, Tyndale?” Fenton hissed, spittle flying from his lips as he sneered in contempt. “Well, they see you for what you are now. They’re talking about it in that hall. How the great, good, decent Duke of Tyndale just flattened a girl half his status against the wall and nearly fucked her. Without benefit of marriage. Without thought to how it would destroy her reputation. No matter what you do now, that will follow you, won’t it?”
Matthew wrinkled his brow. “And her. It will follow her—does that not matter to you?”
Isabel stared at him, the uncle she had loved all her life. A man she had mourned with and trusted. A man she had tried to save from his darkest impulses.
And walked into a trap where she was bait.
“He doesn’t care,” she whispered, and frowned as a tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away and turned her back on all three men. She could not face them. Not when they all thought so little of her.
The room was silent, heavy, and then Matthew let out a sigh. “You must have known more than what you say.”
Brighthollow stepped forward. “Matthew,” he began.
Matthew held up a hand to silence him, his gaze still fully focused on her uncle. “Being caught in such a compromising position would tarnish my reputation, of course,” he said. “You win on that score. But you must have also known what I would be forced to do next.”
“What’s that?” Fenton’s tone was sing-song. Mocking. Isabel gripped her fists against her legs, leaning over slightly as she was overcome by dizziness and nausea.
“I’ll arrange a special license,” Matthew said, his voice flat and dark.
She spun around, her eyes wide, her heart throbbing so hard she feared it could be heard by all in the room.
“Tyndale!” Brighthollow shouted, crossing the distance between them in a few long strides. He caught Matthew’s lapels and shook him. “What the hell are you doing?”
Matthew shrugged away, smoothing his coat as he looked not as his friend, but at her. His expression was utterly blank. Utterly distant, like she was someone he didn’t know.
“What I must,
” Matthew said softly. “You saw their looks, Brighthollow. By the time we leave this room, this story will have spread to every corner of that chamber and out into the world. It will multiply and change until what we were caught doing was far worse than the truth. There’s no other choice but to do what is honorable.”
Brighthollow lifted a finger in her direction. He did not look at her, but he pointed, his hand shaking. “She does not deserve to be saved by you. She was likely part of his plot from the first moment it was hatched.”
Isabel turned her face, but she didn’t respond to the accusation. At this point, there was no reason to do so. Matthew would believe what he did. Thanks to her uncle’s deception, why would he think anything but exactly what his friend accused?
And if that kept him from making a mistake she knew full well he would regret, then so be it.
“You are looking out for my best interests,” Matthew said at last. “And I love you for that. But I will not base the level of my behavior on the wrongs of someone else. That is not how a man of honor behaves.”
“As if you would know anything about honor,” Fenton muttered.
Matthew glared at him, and then he said, “The special license will be arranged. I will tell you when it is done and we will choose a date right away for the wedding. Come, Hugh, I’ll need your help.”
Isabel stared as the two men moved toward the door. He was saying he would…marry her. Marry her as soon as possible. For honor, if nothing else. For honor, even though he suspected her of a betrayal far deeper than when she’d merely kept the truth of her identity from him.
Brighthollow stepped from the room, but at the door, Matthew stopped. He looked over his shoulder, his gaze meeting hers. Then he shook his head and walked out without so much as another word for her.
As soon as he was gone, she buckled against the back of the closest chair. Fenton had the gall to look pleased.
“You knew?” she whispered. “You knew, or else why would you arrange for us to be found in such a manner?”
He glanced at her and some of his glee faded. Under it was now at least a flash of guilt. But also anger. Directed at her.
“I knew you were sneaking out,” he said. “Doing something I guessed you ought not. But you were a widow, not an innocent, and I had no energy to chase after you and force you to guard what you would not protect of your own volition. But it was not until the night of the Callis ball that I understood the depth of your secrets.”
Her lips parted. “The Callis ball.”
He nodded and took a step toward her. “I didn’t know that bastard was there. I avoid his company whenever I can, but he must have been a late addition to the party.”
She folded her arms, trying not to go back to that night when Matthew had uncovered the truth and confronted her. And kissed her. And made her want him all the more. Just like he had tonight.
“I turned and there he was, lurking around. Pretending to be the saint that he is not.” Fenton’s eyes went cold and blank, and it struck utter fear into the very heart of her. “I saw him approach you and I was ready to call him out. I saw him haul you from the room and I raced to your rescue. But by the time I found the parlor you were in, you were already in his arms. Kissing him like a wanton. The man who murdered your own cousin.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t believe he did any such thing, uncle. There has never been any evidence about the night Angelica died except that it was a terrible accident.”
His jaw set. “He killed her and you fell into his arms like it was nothing.”
She huffed out a breath of frustration and pain and fear, mixed together in the worst possible combination. She stared at him, trying to find the man she’d known all her life beneath this thing he had become after years of festering grief.
“Are you saying you hatched this plan of yours that night?” she asked.
He jerked out a nod. “The seed of it was planted, yes. And it grew as I realized you two were more connected than even I realized.”
She shook her head. “What are you talking about?”
“That day at the bookshop. I followed you. I know you met with him. I saw you talking, heads so close, through the window.”
Her stomach turned. “You were following me?”
He shrugged. “You have very little call for outrage, my dear. After all, I was only a concerned chaperone, wasn’t I? Looking out for my dear charge as I should. At least that is how the world will see it.”
“You look out for me by exposing me to the gossip that will follow. By revealing me in the worst light possible.”
“It is what I must do. In fact, I will encourage the worst of the rumors, remind people of my old suspicions that have been dismissed all this time. I will make that man a pariah, I will make him a scandal.”
He looked so pleased, he looked so satisfied, and Isabel couldn’t keep the tears from her eyes this time. One slid down her cheek as she stepped up closer to him.
“And me,” she whispered. “You would destroy me to hurt him. You would put me in the path of a man who you truly believe killed your daughter.”
His face fell a fraction and he turned it away from her. “Sacrifices must be made, my dear. But don’t worry. This won’t go on for long.”
He turned away and she stared at his retreating back, horror gripping her at his last declaration. “What does that mean?”
“Come, there is much for us to do. A wedding to plan,” he said over his shoulder.
“Uncle!” she called out, but he ignored her, too driven by his plan to pause or consider her. “Uncle!”
He was gone, down the hall, heading back to the ballroom where he would say God knew what in order to stir the pot of rumor and scandal.
With a shudder, she sat down in the nearest chair and covered her face. When she was a girl, she had pictured getting married. Books had given her the fantasy that she could find true love and happily ever after. Reality had been very different. She’d accepted it once, she’d been ready to accept it again after this brief period where passion had reigned.
But now…now she would marry again. This time to a man who not only stoked a fire deep within her, but one who did not trust her. Probably didn’t even like her.
A man who was being forced to the church at the tip of a spear.
This was how she’d marry. And she would have to protect him against all the attacks her uncle was about to launch. Even though he didn’t want her.
Matthew sat in Ewan and Charlotte’s parlor, a drink in his hand. He could hear voices in the hall, murmuring his name. Hissing Isabel’s. And he sighed as the door opened and his friends and their spouses marched in.
“This is ridiculous,” he said, setting the drink aside as he rose to greet them. “It’s the middle of the night—no one needed to be pulled from their bed to deal with me, Hugh.”
He looked at the faces of his friends, drawn and concerned, and rolled his eyes. This was going to be a longer night than it already had been, and his head was throbbing.
“Are you going to tell them what happened or am I?” Hugh asked, his tone as dark and angry as it had been since the moment he had dragged Matthew from the party and back to Ewan and Charlotte’s home.
“I’m tired of explaining everything,” Matthew said, waving his hand at Hugh. “You might as well tell the story this time.”
“Fenton Winter has enacted some kind of revenge plot on Matthew at last,” Hugh spat. “And he arranged for him to be caught in a compromising position with that niece of his, Isabel Hayes. The two of them have hatched a plot for Matthew to wed her. And he has agreed to it.”
There was a collective gasp that moved through his friends, and Matthew flinched at the sound. Flinched as all of them started talking at once, shouting out questions. He let it go on for a moment, then raised a hand.
“Enough,” he said, and the cacophony didn’t grow quieter. “Stop!” he said louder, more firmly.
They stopped talking at once, exchanging looks with each other, pity and worry, fear and regret. He hated it all. He remembered it too well from all those years ago when these same men had rallied around him after Angelica’s passing. It was both a comfort and a vice around his heart.
“It is true that Winter arranged for a dramatic moment tonight, where Isabel and I would be caught,” he said softly. “But what was happening in that room when the door opened was no one’s fault but my own.”
He flashed back to those moments, of Isabel’s mouth on his, her body pressed between him and the wall. Her soft moans of pleasure as he treated her with an animal lack of control. That was not him. It never had been. But the moment he touched her it became…feral.
“My apologies to the ladies in the room,” Robert said, stepping forward. “But isn’t it possible this woman manipulated the scenario? To…trap you?”
Matthew bent his head. Just as it had always been from the first moment he realized who Isabel really was, his thoughts on her were complicated. Of course it was possible that she was in on the betrayals of her uncle. He knew that—he was no fool. After all, she would benefit greatly from a marriage to a duke. Many a lady had attempted the same thing in many a closed parlor.
And if she still suspected the same thing her uncle did, despite the hesitations she had expressed to Matthew in the past, she might even be willing to sacrifice her reputation to avenge the cousin she’d clearly loved.
The idea that nothing between them had ever been real turned his stomach. And yet, it wasn’t the only feeling he had. He remembered the look on her face when they’d been interrupted. The wavering shock in her voice when she confronted her uncle. The way she had thrown herself in front of Matthew and denied that she was being accosted.
“I don’t want to believe that. I want to believe that she is just as innocent a party as I am. After all, she asked me to come to the parlor to warn me.”
The Duke of Hearts Page 13