Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord

by Sara MacLean

  She kissed him.

  There was an exhilaration that came from taking one’s own pleasure, Isabel discovered. He remained still under her kiss, not touching her, not moving against her lips, and Isabel realized that he was allowing her to take the reins.

  She found she liked that idea very much.

  She wanted to laugh at the heady sensation of her newfound power. But that did not seem at all appropriate.

  She slid her hands up, wrapping them around his neck, pressing her body fully against his. He set his hands to her hips, holding her steady, and the feel of his warmth there through the layers of her dress sent a heady wanting through her. She opened her lips against his, softening, making it known that she was willing to be here, in this room, in his arms. When he did not take her mouth, she ran her tongue tentatively along his full, firm bottom lip.

  And discovered the key that unlocked the lion.

  He groaned against her, parting his lips and allowing her access to his dark, wicked mouth. She was nervous at first, unwilling to take what it was that she had asked for, but when his arms wrapped around her, all warm steel, and pulled her tight against him, caution was lost. Their tongues met, stroked, tangled, and it was long moments before he broke the kiss and lifted her to stand on the low pedestal with Voluptas.

  Breaking the kiss, he commanded, “Stay,” and moved away to close the door that she had agonizingly left open. When the task was completed, he approached her, and she was struck by the way he stalked her, like a lean, powerful predator. Her heart was pounding in her ears as he came closer, finally stopping in front of her, appraising her as he had the statue.

  Her position made her several inches taller than he was, and when she could no longer resist, she reached out to run her fingers through his hair, tilting his face up so she could look at him. His eyes glittered with unspoken promise, and she watched as his scar turned white under her gaze. She placed one lingering kiss on the end of the mark, just at the corner of his eyebrow, then took his mouth again in a heady kiss.

  His hands spread over her body, encouraging her boldness, running up the side of her bodice to the place where fabric gave way to skin. Pulling away, briefly, he set his mouth to her neck, scraping his teeth along the rigid tendons there as she tilted her head back from the pleasure of the caress. He tugged at the top of her bodice, pulling until one breast came free of its bindings, and he paused, marveling at the straining tip, in line with his mouth. “My real-life Voluptas,” he whispered, the heat of his breath causing her nipple to harden even more before he set his lips and tongue and teeth to her breast and feasted upon her.

  She clutched his head to her with a cry of pleasure, and lost herself to the powerful sensations that coursed through her at every knowing stroke, every magnificent tug. When he finally lifted his head, they were both breathing heavily, and she was leaning on his shoulders to remain upright.

  “Before we go further,” he said, his words coming in harsh breaths, “I think we should discuss the matter of our marriage.”

  She did not want him to stop. Could they not discuss this later? She reached for him. “Yes.”

  He kissed her again, tugging her head down for a drugging caress that left her barely able to think. “Yes, what?”

  What had they been discussing?

  “What?”

  He smiled, and the full force of his pleasure twisted something deep inside her. “Isabel. I think we should marry.”

  She smiled back at him. “I agree.”

  “Good girl.” He rewarded her with another long kiss before lifting her arms above her head placing her hands around the neck of the statue, her back bare and elongated against the cool marble goddess. Once he had positioned her to his liking, he returned his attention to her breasts. She gasped when his teeth scraped along the edge of her nipple before his tongue soothed the ache there, and again when she felt cool air beneath her skirts, his hands chasing up her legs to find the place where she ached for his touch. He lifted his head. “Shall we do it soon?”

  If he did not touch her soon, she was going to perish.

  Isabel opened her eyes at the question. Utterly distracted by the path of his hands, caressing her thighs in the most maddening of ways. “Yes. Let’s.” He made quick work of the tapes on her pantaloons and slid one hand inside, widening her legs and brushing his fingers over the heated core of her.

  “Good. I do not think that I can wait much longer to have you here.”

  “No—” The word was exhaled on a breath as he slid one finger into her.

  “I am so glad you feel the same way.” The words, so innocuous, coursed through her like liquid fire on the heels of a long, stroking caress that robbed her of intelligent thought. She let go of the statue and clung to him, and, without removing his hand, he lifted her in his arms and moved her to the bay window where he had shown her such pleasure the day before. This time, he did not sit, instead settling her into the seat and kneeling before her on the floor.

  She was on fire. She craved his touch.

  This was the emotion that marked the end of women. This was what ruined them.

  She must resist it. Him.

  She opened her eyes, meeting his molten gaze. “Wait.”

  His fingers stroked slowly inside her. “Yes?”

  She flexed against the remarkable movement, taking a deep breath and willing herself to remember what she had been about to say. “I just … you should know … I cannot love you.”

  “No?” His thumb rubbed a wicked circle around the spot that she had only discovered yesterday.

  She gasped. “I think I could grow very fond of you, though.”

  He laughed then, low and dark, his free hand sliding her skirts up her legs. “I think I could do the same.”

  “But really … I shan’t …” He spread her legs wide then, baring her flesh to the air and the room and his gaze. “Wait … what are you … you cannot!” She struggled to close her thighs, capturing his hand between them, and clasped her skirts, trying to push them down to hide herself from him. He could not possibly want to look at her there.

  “Isabel.” He drawled her name in a lovely, rich caress.

  She stopped. “Yes? ”

  He leaned forward then, capturing her lips in a deep promise of a kiss. When she grew weak in his arms once more, he pulled back, placing a soft final kiss at the corner of her mouth before whispering, “Trust me, darling. You’re going to like me very much after this.”

  He gently parted her thighs again, running his strong, knowing hands along the soft skin there. When he dipped his head and placed a soft, wet kiss at the inside of her knee, and traced a path up the smooth, pale skin of her inner thigh, Isabel covered her eyes in embarrassment that he would be so close to such a private, secret place. His fingers played at the auburn curls covering the center of her sex, sending wave after wave of temptation through her with the merest hint of a touch.

  Finally, she uncovered her eyes, and met the sensual promise in his heated gaze. “That’s what I was waiting for. Never hide from me, beauty.”

  He parted the slick folds of her sex then, stroking one finger down the center of her, her pulse racing from the feel of him against her.

  He leaned closer, and when he spoke, the words were a wicked lash against her heated, wanting flesh. “You are so beautiful here. I want to know every inch of you. I want to feel every bit of your heat.” His finger circled the straining center of her, the perfect pressure of the caress wringing a cry from her.

  “Do you know how much I want to taste you?”

  Her eyes widened at the words. Surely he couldn’t mean … surely he wouldn’t…

  And then he did.

  His mouth was on her and her body was no longer her own, but entirely his. She gasped at the sensation, plunging her fingers into his soft sable hair, not moving, not wanting to push him away, not willing to pull him closer.

  But he knew what she wanted. His mouth loved her in every possible way, his t
ongue stroking through the moist heat of her, licking at the very heart of her, teasing at her core in lush, brilliant circles that she was not sure she could bear. He pushed her higher and higher, opening wider, feasting upon her until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it. She lifted her hips toward him and he accepted the movement, bearing her weight as his tongue found the swollen, aching center of her pleasure in a series of firm strokes that stole her breath entirely.

  She did pull him to her then, unwilling to give up this impossible, extraordinary sensation and the man who was sending it coursing through her body. The movements increased, the speed threatening her sanity as she cried his name.

  He stopped then, for a long, unbearable moment, and she could not bear it. She squirmed, but his firm grip held her still, his mouth and tongue against her in excruciating stillness. He was killing her.

  “Nick—” she whispered, “please … please don’t stop!”

  He rewarded her begging with blessed movement, closing his lips around the tight, swollen nub of her and sucking, robbing her of thought and breath and leaving her only with sensation.

  The feeling was too much to bear. “No … Nick … stop …”

  But his wicked, knowing mouth spared her no quarter, instead licking faster, stroking deeper, and, finally, he thrust one, then two fingers deep into her, coaxing her closer and closer to the unknown precipice that she was hurtling toward—the one that she both feared and desired.

  And then she was there, at the edge, and his mouth and hands and the satisfied growl deep in his throat were everywhere—and she tumbled over the edge on a wave of pleasure like nothing she had ever known. She cried his name as the room spun around them, clenching her fingers in his hair, clinging to the one stable thing in the maelstrom of sensation.

  She collapsed against her seat, and after a long, lingering moment, Nick lifted his head, meeting her eyes. She registered the pleasure and the passion there, and she took a deep, shaking breath, attempting to compose herself as he lowered her skirts and moved to sit beside her. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, pulling her against him to recover.

  She set one hand absently against him, and he hissed at the movement, capturing her hand in one of his. Her eyes widened. “Did I … Are you hurt?”

  He gave her a crooked smile. “Not at all. Merely desperate for more of you.”

  Understanding dawned, and Isabel said, “Would you like for me to … do something? ”

  He laughed then, squeezing her hand in his. “More than anything on this earth, I want that.” He kissed her hand. “But now is neither the place, nor the time. I am, however, very happy that you have agreed to marry me. Because I fully intend to accept that request very soon.”

  She blushed at that, immediately embarrassed by the way that they had discussed marriage.

  He had the grace to look chagrined. “I did not propose properly.”

  She shook her head. “We need not stand on ceremony. There is no one here who will have expected formalities.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall make it up to you.”

  She looked away from him, considering her hands in her lap. “I rather like the way you did it.”

  He put one hand to her chin, turning her to look at him. He searched her eyes, as though looking for something. Something cleared in his gaze, and he kissed her, a soft, generous kiss that made her more than satisfied that she had agreed to marry this man who seemed so very easy to like.

  If only she could be certain that he was not easy to love.

  She was spared from having to consider the thought when a knock sounded on the door. Isabel leapt from her seat, her heart in her throat. If they had been interrupted just minutes beforehand…

  The door opened, and Lara stepped into the room. “Isabel?”

  For a moment, she had trouble finding them, well hidden at the far end of the room behind a collection of tall statues, but Isabel took the moment to say, more loudly than necessary, “I do believe this is a statue of Apollo, Lord Nicholas.”

  Nick stood, slowly, and came around the back of Isabel to consider the marble to which she was referring. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, Lady Isabel.”

  Isabel was not paying much attention—instead watching as Lara hurried through the maze of statues toward them. “Why would you say that?”

  “Well,” he said dryly, “in the first place, this statue is female.”

  Isabel snapped her head up to look at the marble for the first time. “Well. Obviously I don’t mean this statue. But that one over there.”

  “Of course, my mistake.” He gave her a small, knowing smile. “Which one? ”

  “That one over there.” She waved a hand absently, distracted by Lara. “Lara? Is all well?”

  Lara came closer.

  All was not well. “Isabel.”

  Isabel knew at once what had happened. “Who is it? ”

  Lara stopped, catching her breath; she had clearly rushed the entire way. “Georgiana.”

  Isabel felt Nick stiffen beside her. She turned to him and was surprised to see the seriousness in him. Gone was the teasing charmer from earlier, replaced by a stone-faced man. “What about her?”

  “She has gone missing.”

  He met her gaze. “What do we do? ”

  If she had had the time to consider his words, Isabel would have been happy with his use of the word we, yet more proof that they would make a sound team. But she was already heading for the exit, Lara on her heels.

  “We find her.”

  Sixteen

  * * *

  Lesson Number Seven

  Show appropriate awe in the face of his remarkableness.

  There is nothing a lord likes better than to be reminded of his superior strength, intelligence, and power. Feign ignorance and allow your lord the right in all things, and he is yours. Give him little opportunities to support you: should you singe your fingers playing Snap Dragon, allow him to tend your wounds; encourage his superior skills in cards and other parlor games; and, when possible, laud his vast knowledge and particular might.

  Pearls and Pelisses

  June 1823

  Who saw her last?”

  Isabel’s question was short and efficient as she entered the kitchens of Minerva House, taking a large, rolled sheet of paper from Gwen and moving straight to the table at the center of the room.

  Nick noticed Rock enter from the opposite end of the room, back from his excursion to town. He met his friend’s eyes and read the urgency in them before looking away, immediately distracted by the rest of the inhabitants of the kitchen. And slightly overwhelmed by them.

  Here was Minerva House.

  There were two dozen women there, each dressed in men’s clothing, breeches, linen shirts, Hessian boots, hair tucked inside caps. They stood when Isabel entered, as though she were Wellington himself. And in that moment, she could have been. With the calm and ease of a lifelong general, Isabel unrolled the paper on the center table, holding it down with a large kitchen block, a saltcellar, and two wooden bowls. Nick took a step forward, recognizing it as a map of the manor, spread before her like a battle plan.

  This was not the first time that something like this had happened.

  “I saw her last,” Jane said, facing Isabel across the table. “She was headed for the laundry with some of James’s clothes.”

  Nick met Rock’s gaze across the room. The Turk indicated the door to the outside, a question in his eyes. Nick shook his head.

  He wanted to see her work.

  “When?”

  “A half an hour ago? Maybe forty minutes?

  “And?”

  “Meg found the clothes in a heap on the path,” Jane said, indicating a woman nearby.

  “When?” Nick stepped forward and spoke, unable to keep quiet, drawing the attention of the entire room. He might not be able to convince Isabel to trust him, but by God, he could help her find the girl.

  Who had very likely been abducted because of him.


  Damned if the woman called Meg didn’t look to Isabel for approval before answering his question. When Isabel nodded her agreement, Meg said, “Not twenty minutes ago, milord.”

  “Where are the clothes now?” Nick asked.

  Meg pointed to them in a heap on a stool nearby. “I hope I did right by bringing them in, Isabel.”

  “You did very well, Meg.” Isabel moved to take them in her hands, checking each item quickly and carefully. She looked to Nick. “They’re barely wet.”

  Admiration flared. She had understood the underlying direction of his questions. With the amount of rain that had fallen over the last two days, the fabric would have soaked water from the ground quickly. “She’s not far.”

  Isabel turned back to the map, speaking quickly. “I would guess she’s been gone twenty-five minutes, thirty at most. They must have come on foot, or Kate would have seen the horses.” She looked to her stable master, who shook her head.

  “They will not travel far with her by daylight,” Nick interjected. “Not if they do not want to be caught.”

  Isabel looked up at him, considering his words. She nodded once. “Which means she’s likely hidden on the estate.”

  Nick let out a slow breath. She was placing her trust in him.

  A mistake.

  He shoved the voice to the back of his mind as Isabel continued.

  “Our knowledge of the Park puts us in a good position to find her. Kate, Meg, Regina, check the copse of trees in the east pasture. Jane, Caroline, Frannie, you take the west gate, through to the Marbury land … be certain to check the lean-tos where Marbury will have left his hay to dry.”

  She assigned the rest of the women to groups efficiently, marking the areas they were to search on the map as she went. Nick watched as the cook opened a small cupboard and passed hunting horns to each of the groups. “Take the horns. If you see anything that looks strange, sound the alarm. Don’t do anything without the rest of us. I want you all back here right as rain. As ever, Gwen stays here. If you need anything, you tell her.”