by Sara MacLean
Isabel was at the edge of a precipice, a monumental change that would alter everything. She looked up into his blue eyes—eyes that promised everything she dreamed of, safety for her girls, support for James, security for the house.
He was a good man. She believed that.
But relinquishing her hold on the house—trusting him with everything—it would not be easy. Her doubts came on a whisper. “I don’t know …”
He sighed. “I think you should go. The sooner you do, the sooner your damned collection will be valued and the sooner I shall be out of your life.”
He turned away, dismissing her.
She didn’t want to leave him.
“You don’t understand. These are my girls.”
He exhaled a harsh breath. “Nothing about that would change if you let me help you.”
“I have nothing else!”
There. The words were out. And then she could not stop them.
“This is all I have ever had! All I have ever been! If I need you to help me keep it intact … what does that make me? What do I become, then? ”
“It’s not true.” He moved toward her, his words hypnotic. Taking her face in his hands, he flooded her with heat, with need. “I know what it is to think yourself alone in the world, Isabel. It is rarely the case.”
She hated feeling alone.
And she had been alone for so very long.
She closed her eyes against the thought, unwilling to show him her sadness.
Her weakness.
Yet, when he spoke again, she could not stop herself from meeting his firm gaze. “I’ve never met anyone like you. I’ve never met anyone—man or woman—with such strength. Such courage. You are not alone. You will never be alone.”
She didn’t know who moved first—which one of them closed the distance between them. All she knew was that when he was kissing her, she didn’t feel alone at all.
She gave herself up to the feeling.
For a long moment, he was still, his lips soft and settled against hers, underscoring his presence, his strength, his control. She reveled in those things at first, until his nearness—his scent, his heat, his size—overwhelmed her, and she thought she would go mad if he did not move.
And then he did.
His warm hands tilted her face up to his, to better align their mouths, and his lips played across hers, demanding that she meet him in kind. And she did. He took everything she offered, stroking, sucking, loving her mouth with a relentless kiss that stole her sense of balance. That stole her sense altogether. She grasped his arms, reveling in their size and their strength, and she turned herself over to him, sighing into his mouth and matching him stroke for stroke, caress for caress.
When he finally pulled back and met her heavy-lidded gaze, a ghost of a smile crossed his lips before he lifted her into his arms. She gasped at the movement, and he stole her open mouth for another quick, intoxicating kiss before he spoke, his voice a dark promise. “Shall I show you how very far from alone you are? ”
What a marvelous thing for him to say. “Yes,” she whispered, the words barely sound. “Please.”
He moved then, carrying her on a winding course through the statuary, until they reached the far end of the room, where a wide, low bench sat beneath an enormous rose window. He sat, then, and settled her into his lap, running his hands up to her hair, deliberately scattering the hairpins, bringing her hair down around them. She watched him as he took in the mass of auburn curls, closed her eyes as he ran his hands through it in long, magnificent strokes. She tilted her head back, leaning into his caresses. The movement bared her neck to his gaze, and with a low groan, he bent over her, settling his lips to her skin, sending rivers of pleasure through her with the soft strokes of his tongue. She gasped at the wicked scrape of his teeth over the delicate spot where her neck and shoulder met, felt the way his lips curved in a private smile at the sound, then softened against her pulse and sucked at the spot until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it.
She cried out, wrapping herself around him, eager to touch him, to kiss him, wherever she could. Her lips met the corner of his eye and, without thinking, she touched her tongue to the rough-smooth line of his scar. The caress turned him wild, and all at once, his hands were loosening the ties of her bodice, freeing more skin as he dropped hurried, wet kisses across the slope of her. He ran his tongue along the edge of the fabric in a trail of fire, pulling it low and spilling her breasts into his waiting hands.
She opened her eyes at feel of him against her, knowing that she would find him watching her—wanting to see him watching her. Lightning flashed, untamed, in the sky behind him, casting them in a wicked white flash as Nick traced one finger across the straining skin of her breast, circling the tip once, twice, with reverence. She exhaled on a shaking breath, and he looked up, his blue eyes glittering.
“So beautiful,” he said, circling her nipple again and again, watching her response as they grew hard and aching. “So passionate, so eager.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You are here, Isabel. As am I.”
She was not alone.
She saw the desire in his eyes then, and the recognition sent a wave of feminine pleasure through her. He wanted her. She did not know where the words came from when she spoke. “Touch me.”
She watched as his surprise flared in his gaze, quickly replaced by something darker, more intense. “With pleasure.” And he set his mouth to her breast, sucking gently, working the hardened tip with his mouth and tongue and teeth until she cried out and clasped his hair, holding on to the one stable thing in her existence.
She squirmed against him, unable to keep herself from pressing closer to him, and he lifted his head, staying her movements with one hand as he hissed his pleasure against her straining nipple. With a feminine knowledge that she did not know she possessed, she rocked against him again, deliberately, and he lifted his mouth from her to meet her gaze. Putting one hand to the back of her head, he whispered, “Wait …” and took her mouth in a searing kiss as he lifted her and moved her to straddle him, pulling her closer. “That’s better, don’t you think?”
She tested the position, rocking against him once more, this time with her skirts bunched between them. When he groaned at the movement, she said, “Oh, yes. Much better.”
He laughed at her words, the sound sending a jolt of pleasure to the core of her. “Shall we see what else is better in this position, my Voluptas?”
She smiled shyly. “Yes, please.”
“Well, since you asked so politely …” He settled his lips to one breast, and Isabel called his name, the sound echoing in the room. She moved in time to the lovely pull of his mouth on her, to the way his fingers played at the tip of her other breast, sending waves of pleasure pooling deep within.
He shifted, his hands were smoothing up her legs, pressing her against him, guiding her movements, sliding over her linen pantaloons and pulling at the tapes there to gain access to that place where she hadn’t known—but now knew without doubt—that she so desperately wanted him. With one hand, he cupped her gently, sending a dart of pleasure through her. She gasped at the feel of him, and he lifted his head, his smile a wicked promise in the room, their labored breathing and the rain pounding against the windows the only sounds in the room.
He took her mouth again, consuming her, making her forget everything but his hands, his lips, his body beneath her. She plunged her fingers into his heavy, soft hair and reveled in the deep, satisfied sound he made as he rocked the heel of his palm against her, giving her what she wanted but had not known to ask for. She pulled back with a little breath, unsure of the sensations he was rocking through her. “Nick …” His name came on a mix of passion and confusion.
“Yes, beautiful … I am here.” His mouth was at her ear now, his teeth playing over the lobe and scattering her thoughts. She sighed at the feel of his tongue against her sensitive skin. His hand stilled against her. She moved again, but he did not give her that for which
she had asked. “Isabel.” Her name was a dark promise. “What do you want?”
She opened her eyes and turned her face to his, meeting his glittering blue gaze—those gorgeous eyes that threatened her sanity—“I want …” She shook her head. “I need …”
“Let me …” He slid one finger through the soft curls that shielded her, parting the folds there and pushing inside her heat. “Is this what you need?”
She closed her eyes at the soft caress and let out a low moan of pleasure.
“Mmm … I think it is precisely what you need …” He began to move against her, circling the secret folds of her, his words at her ear, a soft, sinful sound that sent heat coursing through her. “Do you ever touch yourself here, Isabel?”
She bit her lip. Shook her head.
“Oh, but you should … so soft … so wet … so wanting …” He stroked against her pulsing flesh, giving her precisely what she wanted, one finger delving deep into the core of her as his thumb worked a tight circle at the center of her pleasure. She cried out at the feel of him there, and his voice grew darker, roughened with his own desire. “You are made to come apart here. Do you feel it, love? ”
She nodded, eyes tightly shut as he pushed her further and further toward the thing she so desperately wanted, but could not name. The movements of his thumb came faster and firmer, and she pressed against him, forgetting everything but the sound of his voice, the feel of his hand on the most secret part of her. “Take it, Isabel. Take your passion. I am with you.”
She tensed as it came rushing toward her, and he took her lips in a rich, soul-stealing kiss. A second finger joined the first inside her, thrusting deep, in time to the rolling of her hips, to her silent demand for everything he could give her. He pressed long and hard against the core of her, where she most ached … where she most needed him. He pulled back, meeting her unseeing gaze.
She cried his name, desperate.
“Let go, beauty. I have you.”
And because he did have her, she let go, exploding in his arms, writhing against him, begging for more even as he gave her what she wanted. And when he had wrung the last, pulsing movement from her, had captured her last, keening cries, he held her in his strong arms as she regained her senses.
Slowly, he began to right her appearance; she allowed him to refasten the tapes of her pantaloons, to lift her to restore her thoroughly wrinkled skirts to some semblance of normalcy, to deftly retie the bodice of her gown. When he was done, he held her to his chest, stroking her back and arms and legs gently.
This was what it was like not to be alone.
After several long minutes, he tightened his arms around her and placed his lips softly to her temple. “I think that it might be best if we got up before someone comes searching for us.”
The words roused her from her daze, crashing her back to reality. She sat straight up, extricating herself from his embrace and nearly leaping from his lap. She dropped to her hands and knees immediately, grasping for the hairpins that he had scattered.
He sat forward, watching her for a moment before saying, “Isabel. It is all right.”
She sat back on her heels at that, looking up at him. “It is not at all all right, my lord.”
He sighed. “We are back to my lord again? Really? ”
She had already turned away to collect more pins. When she had the last, she stood, moving to a nearby statue to set them down and restore her hair to some semblance of decorum.
In her most indignant tone, she spoke to the room at large. “I never should have … you never should have!”
“Yes, well. I am not going to apologize for it.”
She turned back to him. “That’s not very gentlemanly.”
He met her gaze with a heated one of his own. “Nevertheless, Isabel … I enjoyed myself. And I think you did, too.”
She blushed.
One brow rose. “I see I am not wrong.”
Her gaze narrowed, but she feared her censure lost some power while her hands were high above her head attempting to restore her coif. “You are an incorrigible man.”
“You can admit it to me, Isabel.”
She gave him her back and muttered, “No. I can’t.”
He laughed then, leaning back in his seat. “You just did, beauty.”
She spun back. “You mustn’t call me that!”
Even though I like it.
Too much.
“Why not?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know perfectly well why not.”
“Tell me you enjoyed yourself, and I’ll stop.”
“No.”
He straightened his jacket sleeves. “Suit yourself. I rather like calling you a beauty. Since you are.”
“All right. I enjoyed myself.”
His grin was wicked. “I know.”
She had to turn away to hide her own smile at his arrogance.
Dear Lord. What had she gotten herself into?
She looked over her shoulder at him. “This is an entirely inappropriate conversation. I must insist it end.”
He barked with laughter at her imperious tone. “Isabel, I’m sure you will agree that it is rather late for such haughtiness.”
She blushed. “You are too much!”
He leveled her with a liquid gaze. “I assure you, darling, I am just enough.”
She did not fully understand the words, but his tone was enough to give her a general sense of his meaning. Her cheeks flamed. “I must go.”
“No!” he called after her, standing finally. “Don’t go. Stay. I shall endeavor to be the perfect gentleman.”
One of Isabel’s brows rose in an imitation of the look he had so often given her. “I shall believe that when it comes to pass, my lord.”
He laughed again. “A hit, my lady.” She could not help but join him in his laughter, and when it waned, it left them in a companionable silence. Nick spoke first, filling it. “Why have I never heard of you? ”
“My lord? “ Isabel’s brow furrowed in confusion at the question.
“I did not travel in the same circles as your father, but you are the daughter of the Earl of Reddich, who cut something of a wide swath across London. Why did I not hear of you?”
Thank God you never heard of me.
Isabel swallowed once, uncertain. “My mother never wanted me to go to London—thinking back, I imagine she felt that way because she did not want me to witness the truth about my father. Perhaps she did not want to witness it herself.” She met his eyes and registered the understanding in their depths. He had a story, as well. The knowledge pushed her forward, compelling her to reveal more. “My mother spoke of my father—as though he were a marvel. Her tales of him, I know now, were mostly fabricated—memories scrubbed clean of the scarlet ink he had spilled on them, rendered anew to be something more powerful, more magnificent than any real history could have been.
“But I believed her. And, as such, I believed in him. My earliest memories of him must be some perverse combination of fantasy and reality, because I can see them smiling together, loving each other … but I am not certain that was ever true.”
Nick nodded, and she could not help but continue.
“But you asked about London,” she reminded them both.
“Yes. Your mother may not have wanted you to go—but you must have had a season.”
She stiffened at the memory. She’d been promised one, of course, on that fateful trip home, when her father had announced his intentions of using his only daughter to gain funds. Embarrassment flared. She could not tell him the story. She did not want him to think so cheaply of her. Instead, she shook her head. “No. I did not have a season.”
His gaze narrowed on her, and she recognized disbelief there. She willed him not to ask any further questions.
“You did not want to take your rightful place in society?”
One side of her mouth kicked up in a wry smile. “Tell me, Lord Nicholas, do they often clear a spot at Almack’s
for the daughter of the Wastrearl?”
His gaze darkened. “Hang Almack’s.”
“Spoken like a man who is at liberty to avoid it.”
He shook his head. “Not at all. My family is not without its fair share of scandal, Isabel. Indeed, my sister was recently denied entrance to Almack’s.”
Her eyes widened. “You jest.”
“I do not.”
“But she is the sister of the Marquess of Ralston!”
“Half-sister,” Nick said wryly, “But until mere months ago, my brother was welcome in society under severe duress. His was not the most pristine of pasts.”
“What happened to change it? ”
“He married a woman with an unimpeachable reputation and connections to the most powerful families of the ton.”
“An excellent strategy.”
Nick smiled. “It would have been if Gabriel had strategized to win her. He did not. Instead, he fell in love. Quite accidentally.”
Isabel’s brow furrowed. “Such a thing happens? ”
“Apparently. They’re rather sick over each other.”
Isabel ignored the tug of envy that came with his tale—so unfathomable. “How nice.”
He smiled. “My point is, with or without Almack’s, you could have come out. You could still take your place there.”
Isabel considered the words. It had been a long time—years—since she had even thought of the trappings of society. She would not even know where to begin to enter society, and the idea of having to learn all the rules and regulations of the ton was enough to set panic loose within.
No. London was not for her.
“I think you overestimate the skills with which women of the aristocracy are born.”
He tilted his head, a question in his eyes.
She gave a little sigh before turning away. She ran her hand along the edge of a nearby pedestal and confessed, “I would not know how to begin to be a society lady: I am certain that my conversational style is entirely wrong; I would certainly embarrass myself and everyone around me during my first social situation; while I am a competent seamstress, I have no knowledge of needlepoint; I don’t have any understanding of fashion; and I cannot dance.” She winced as the words flooded out of her. Certainly he would not find them at all flattering.