by Emily Larkin
It was one step only, but awareness of him shivered over her skin, making her heart beat faster. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
Major Reynolds felt that frisson, too. She saw it in the widening of his eyes, in his stillness.
For long seconds neither of them moved or spoke. Then the major cleared his throat. “It should be enjoyable,” he said quietly. “For both participants. A kiss should bring heat to one’s senses. It should make you want more.”
More. It was what she’d wanted ever since those moments in the gazebo. She wanted it now. The heat that had spiraled in her belly was there again, the tension and the craving that had made it impossible to sleep.
Isabella dug her fingers more deeply into her arms. I am not kissing him again. She was not that weak, that foolish.
But without the punch it would be like it had been with Roland. Not repugnant, but not pleasant either. Something she could live without.
Then prove to yourself that you don’t need it. Let him kiss you again.
Isabella moistened her lips. She heard the sound of her heartbeat in her ears. “Major—”
“Lady Isabella—”
They spoke at the same time.
Major Reynolds opened his hand. “You first.”
They had been about to ask the same question. She knew it; Major Reynolds knew it, too. She saw the knowledge in his eyes, saw it in his mouth, in the smile hovering on his lips.
Her throat was suddenly too dry to speak. Her heart began to beat even faster.
Major Reynolds waited a few polite seconds, and then spoke: “Let us try again. Let me prove to you . . .”
No, let me prove to you.
Isabella swallowed. “Very well.” She uncrossed her arms. “But only once.”
“Only once,” the major agreed.
He stepped close and stood for a moment, looking at her; his eyes were vivid green, and yet somehow hot and dark, too. “As before,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “Tell me if you wish me to stop.”
Isabella nodded, her gaze fixed on his.
Major Reynolds inhaled a deep, slow breath. His hands reached to cup her face. Her skin tingled beneath that light touch. Such strong hands, so warm.
Her heart kicked in her chest as the major bent his head. She closed her eyes.
His lips touched hers. There was nothing repugnant about it, but neither was there the madness of last night, the pleasure sweeping through her, the sense that she was losing control of herself.
Isabella began to relax. I was right and he was wrong.
Major Reynolds licked her lower lip. She shivered, aware of a prickle of treacherous pleasure. He licked her lips again and murmured something against her mouth. Her ears couldn’t make out the words, but she parted her lips instinctively, wanting more.
No, this is wrong. I don’t want—
But he was inside her mouth and she couldn’t pull away, she could only kiss him back, leaning into his body, hungry for his mouth. Heat rose inside her, pleasure spiraling, and she felt alive, filled with urgency and want.
There was no punch, no Faerie music swirling around them, and yet the intoxication of last night, the arousal clouding Nicholas’s mind, were the same. He stifled a groan and drew Lady Isabella closer, sinking into desire, into bliss. The softness of her skin beneath his hands, the sweetness of her lips, the taste of her mouth . . .
Her mouth. Dear God, her mouth . . .
Nicholas lifted his head and stepped back, releasing her, dragging air into his lungs, striving for a semblance of control, of sanity.
They stared at each other. Lady Isabella’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes dark, her lips rosy. The sight of her mouth arrested his attention. He almost stepped forward again, almost kissed her again.
“We should stop,” he said. His voice was unaccountably hoarse. “Gussie will be back any moment.” The words were more for himself than for her. Stop. Stop now. While I can.
Lady Isabella didn’t answer for a moment. He thought she was trying to catch her breath. Her expression was aghast. “You said last night was an aberration. You said it wouldn’t be like that again!”
He shook his head, trying to deny what had just happened. But there was no denying it. And without the punch this time, a worried voice in his mind pointed out. Without the music. “It shouldn’t.”
“Then why—”
He shook his head again, still staring at her, at the temptation of her mouth. What had just happened? And why her? Why now? “I don’t know.”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway. “I found it.”
Nicholas turned hastily away from Lady Isabella. He reached for the first volume of Pride and Prejudice and fumbled it open. His heart was beating loudly in his ears. He heard Gussie speak again, heard Lady Isabella reply.
He swallowed and tried to slow his breathing, his heartbeat, and to concentrate on the page he was looking at. It was upside down. Hastily he turned the book the right way up.
Gussie plucked the book from his hand and ruthlessly closed it. “You may read it later,” she said.
Nicholas groped for a suitable retort and failed to find one. His mind was fogged with passion, and not a little panic. What had just happened between himself and Lady Isabella?
Mutely he followed the ladies from the library. An aberration. It had to be an aberration. But not caused by the punch. We are the aberration, the two of us.
It wasn’t love; it was a mindless, physical desire. Her mouth and mine fit together. Would their bodies fit together, too?
He hastily shoved the thought aside.
An aberration. An anomaly. Something between just the two of them.
Something not to be repeated, he told himself firmly.
Back in the drawing room, Lucas Washburne proposed riding out to Richmond on the morrow.
“A picnic!” Gussie said, clapping her hands in delight. She turned to Lady Isabella. “Do say you’ll come.”
Lady Isabella acquiesced. To his ears she still sounded shaken. Her face, flushed in the library from his kiss, was now pale. She avoided meeting his eyes.
Mrs. Westin demurred. So, too, did Harry. “I’m engaged with Lieutenant Mayhew,” he said.
Lucas turned to him. “Nicholas? Will you join us?”
“Perhaps,” he said, with a glance at Lady Isabella’s averted profile. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap. Or perhaps not.
Mrs. Westin rose to leave not long after that. He wondered if she’d sensed her cousin’s agitation.
Nicholas bowed and politely bade them good night. Lady Isabella murmured something unintelligible in return.
Nicholas resumed his seat. He frowned at the polished toe of his shoe.
Gussie came to sit beside him. “Do say you’ll come tomorrow,” she said coaxingly.
Nicholas looked past her to the empty doorway. I owe Lady Isabella an apology. He made an abrupt decision. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”
Chapter Fourteen
The room inside Isabella’s head, where the parts of herself had been neatly organized, was in chaos. The shelves had collapsed. Everything lay on the floor. Some things were broken beyond repair.
Who am I?
On the outside Isabella knew she looked the same, but on the inside everything had changed. She no longer recognized herself.
She dressed in her slate-blue riding habit with the row of buttons marching militarily down the front, bade Mrs. Westin and Harriet good-bye, and went downstairs.
“Your mount is here, ma’am,” the butler told her, opening the door.
Isabella trod down to the street, where her groom held the mare’s reins.
“Good morning, Burgess,” she said, mechanically.
Hooves clattered on the cobblestones: the Washburnes arriving. Behind them was their groom, picnic hampers strapped to his saddle.
“Nicholas is joining us, too,” Gussie said cheerfully as Isabella placed her foot in her groom’s cupped hands and swung up into
the saddle.
“I beg your pardon?” The worry that had blanketed everything like a fog evaporated abruptly.
“Nicholas,” Gussie said, as another horse and rider turned into Clarges Street. “Here he is.”
Major Reynolds sat easily in the saddle, utterly in control of his mount. It took no effort of imagination to imagine him commanding in battle.
Isabella let her gaze drop to his horse; it was easier to look at the beast—huge and glossily gray, with strong haunches and a proud neck—than its rider.
“Good morning!” Gussie said cheerfully as the major halted alongside them.
“Gussie,” he replied. “Lucas.” A brief pause, and then, “Lady Isabella.”
“Good morning, Major Reynolds.”
The major’s eyes met hers. He gave a nod of acknowledgment, but didn’t smile.
No, I don’t feel like smiling either. She looked down at her hands gripping the reins. Blue gloves, to match her blue riding habit.
“Let’s be off,” Gussie said. “What a beautiful day for a picnic!”
Isabella was heavy with exhaustion, tense with worry, but the fresh air and the exercise helped to clear her mind. By the time the brick walls surrounding Richmond Park were in sight she’d achieved something approaching calmness. She was able to enjoy the vista of grassy slopes, woods, and avenues.
She stole a glance at Major Reynolds. Sunlight fell on his scarred cheek. She saw how distorted the skin was, ridges and plains of melted flesh shining in the sunshine.
Something tightened in her chest. She looked away. Parkland lay before them, scattered with copses of trees. A herd of deer grazed in the distance.
“I have to gallop!” Gussie declared.
“A race?” her husband suggested, a glint in his eyes.
Gussie accepted the challenge.
Isabella declined, shaking her head. Her mood wasn’t light enough for racing. Neither, it appeared, was the major’s. He did, however, play marshal, holding up the white square of his handkerchief. “Ready?”
The handkerchief descended and the horses leapt forward.
When the thunder of hooves had died, Major Reynolds turned to the groom, riding a horse burdened with picnic hampers.
“Do you know King Henry’s mound?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Meet us there.”
The man nodded, touched his heels to the horse’s flanks, and trotted away.
Silence fell. The sound of the leaves rustling in the breeze, the lilt of birdsong, the humming of bees, was suddenly loud. Somewhere a squirrel chittered. A woodpecker hammered its beak against a tree trunk, tat-tat-tat-tat.
The major cleared his throat. “About last night.”
Isabella transferred her gaze from Gussie’s and Lucas’s diminishing figures to his face. His expression was sober, stern even.
The only thing she could think of saying—You promised me it was the punch!—was too much like accusation, so she kept silent.
“I must apologize,” Major Reynolds said, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “I hadn’t quite realized how things stood between us. I thought it was the punch, when really . . .” The frown deepened, becoming a furrow. “The aberration is us.”
Isabella blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s us,” he said, leaning slightly forward in the saddle, as if closing the distance between them could make her understand. “Not the punch or the music or anything else. It’s something between the two of us.”
Isabella looked at the major doubtfully. She liked him, but she didn’t think she loved him. “Love?”
“Oh, no!” Major Reynolds said, lurching backwards in his saddle, his expression so horrified that she almost smiled. “Nothing like that. Just . . . just something purely physical.”
He means lust.
She should have been appalled. Instead, she was deeply relieved. “So it wouldn’t be like that with other men.”
“No,” Major Reynolds said firmly, and then a doubtful frown creased his brow again. “At least . . . I don’t think so.” He met her eyes. “I’ve never experienced anything like that and I’ve, er . . .” Faint color rose in his lean, unscarred cheek. “I’ve kissed a number of women.”
I imagine you have, to be so skilled at it. Abruptly, shamefully, Isabella wanted to kiss him again. She wrenched her thoughts in another direction. “So, if I were to kiss another man . . .” She searched her mind for one. “Lieutenant Mayhew, for example. It wouldn’t be like that?”
“Mayhew has had a lot of practice,” the major said, his voice dry. “I’m sure he’d be good at it.”
“But it wouldn’t be as good as last night.”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
Perhaps I should kiss Lieutenant Mayhew, just to see.
Major Reynolds appeared to have the same thought. His eyes narrowed slightly and he opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it, as if he’d thought better of it.
But Isabella didn’t want to kiss Lieutenant Mayhew, however blond and laughing he was.
She looked at Major Reynolds, a frank scrutiny, taking note of the tanned skin and the startlingly green eyes, the strong bones of his face, the scar.
It was strange how one’s perception of a person could alter so drastically within such a short period of time. Last week she’d seen the major as hard-faced; now she struggled to remember why she’d ever thought that. Stern, yes, until his face relaxed into a smile, but not hard-faced. His mouth was resolute, his eyes disconcertingly clear, piercing almost, but his face was marked by laughter. The creases at his eyes and mouth told of laughter, not anger.
No, that was incorrect. Half his face was marked by laughter. The other half was marked by pain. No smile lines radiated from his left eye or bracketed the left side of his mouth. The skin there was smooth, pink, burned.
Maybe that was why she’d thought him hard-faced? When she saw his face, his whole face, with the scar so prominent, all she saw was pain. It gave a false impression of who he was—pain, hardness—instead of a man ready to laugh.
Except that she hardly noticed the scar now.
I should learn to see it as he does. Major Reynolds didn’t see pain when he looked in the mirror; he saw how lucky he was.
Isabella’s gaze drifted to his mouth. Memory of his lips on hers, of his hands on her skin, brought a flush of heat to her body. I want to kiss him again.
She had a label for that sensation now: lust.
That’s what it was. Lust. An aberration between the two of them.
The relief she felt was almost exhilaration. The room in her head was no longer in chaos. Almost everything was back on the shelves again. Some things still lay on the floor, too broken to fix. Her ignorance, her innocence—whatever one wished to call it—was one of them.
I am still a virgin, but my body knows how to crave physical pleasure.
Shocking, yes, but far better than the alternative: that her brain was addled, that she had somehow fallen in love with Major Reynolds.
She was herself again, only slightly altered. The sun was shining and the birds were singing and everything was in its place again in the world, in her world.
Elation bubbled up inside her. “Shall we race?” She narrowed her eyes against the sun, searching for Gussie and Lucas. They were tiny figures on the hillside.
“By all means.” Major Reynolds brought his horse alongside her and flashed a grin. Had he caught her mood? Her exhilaration and relief?
Isabella grinned back at him. Only lust. Nothing as terrible as love. Nothing I can’t cope with.
They were both flushed and laughing, panting, by the time they pulled up. Lady Isabella’s mount, a lively blood-bay named Firefly, had proved almost as swift as Douro.
“Congratulations, Major,” she said, laughing, catching her breath. “You won!”
“Not by much.”
Gussie and Lucas were no longer beneath the clump of trees. Nicholas glanced around, searching for
them. They were further down the avenue, their horses ambling side by side.
Nicholas nudged Douro with his knee, bringing himself and the horse around to face Lady Isabella.
“I wish I could have brought Rufus,” she said. “He would love this.”
“Then let us bring him,” Nicholas said. They were so close that their legs almost brushed. “And Tam, too. And Timothy and Grace. A barouche filled with dogs and children.”
“A splendid idea, Major.”
“But no kittens,” he added.
Lady Isabella made a moue of disappointment. “Don’t you think kittens would add a charming element of chaos to the expedition?”
Her eyes laughed at him and the temptation was suddenly and quite simply too great. Nicholas leaned over and kissed that teasing mouth.
Her hesitation lasted a mere fraction of a second, and then Lady Isabella kissed him back.
Nicholas deepened the kiss, savoring the softness of her lips, the exciting heat of her mouth. Arousal flared in his belly. He could lose himself in this, in the heat, the exquisite pleasure, the—
We’re in Richmond Park.
With a muttered oath he tore his mouth from hers. At the jerk of his hand, Douro stepped back a pace.
He stared at her, steadying his breathing. She looked as she had last night—dark eyes, flushed cheeks, well-kissed mouth—but not aghast, not dismayed.
“Lady Isabella—”
“Isabella.” Her mouth quirked up at one corner in a wry smile. “If we’re to do that, then I think we shouldn’t be so formal with each other.”
Her words made hope rise swiftly in his chest. We’ll do it again, she seemed to be saying.
But not here. Not where we can be seen.
Nicholas cleared his throat. “Very well, Isabella, . . . I think we’d best find Gussie and Lucas.”
“Yes.” The wry smile vanished. “We had better.” She gathered her reins.
Part of him was disappointed. Had he wanted her to protest? To kiss him again?
Yes, he had. But Lady Isabella—Isabella—knew as well as he did what would happen if they were seen kissing in public. They would have to marry. And as much as he enjoyed her company—and her kisses—she was not the bride he wanted.