by Emily Larkin
Nicholas looked at her. “No.”
“Not willful and obstinate,” she said. “But strong-minded. To match you.”
Nicholas shook his head. “I want a peaceful marriage. A marriage without arguments. For that, a young bride is best.”
“Don’t you think you could have a peaceful marriage with a slightly older wife?” Her tone was diffident. “Someone whose character is formed?”
“No.” Young soldiers lacked experience, but they were more tractable, less likely to complain, to question orders, to argue. It stood to reason that a young wife would be similarly tractable.
Lady Isabella made no reply. She bit her lip and looked at the dancers again.
Nicholas followed the direction of her gaze. He watched as Clarissa Whedon stood placidly waiting for the quadrille to begin.
That is what I want.
But the wife he’d imagined—quiet and biddable, agreeing with everything he said—no longer seemed quite as ideal as he’d once thought. “You think I’m wrong.”
Lady Isabella glanced at him. “I think that you’re . . . misguided.”
Misguided? What did she mean by that? Was she telling him—politely—that she thought him a fool? He opened his mouth to ask her, but at that moment Lucas Washburne returned. “Colonel Durham’s here,” he said to Nicholas as he handed Lady Isabella a glass of champagne. “Have you seen him?”
“No.” Nicholas scanned the ballroom. I shall take care to avoid him.
“Colonel Durham?” Isabella said. “I would like to meet him.”
Nicholas turned his head to stare at her. “You would?”
“From what I’ve heard, he’s an unpleasant man.”
Very, Nicholas thought. He raised his glass and paused, looking past her shoulder. Damn. He took a long swallow and said, “You’re in luck, Lady Isabella. You’re about to meet him.”
“I am?” She turned her head, following the direction of his gaze. “Is that him?”
He wondered what she saw: the lines of bad temper etched into Colonel Durham’s face, the sour mouth, or the man’s erect carriage, forceful footsteps, and bristling, aggressive energy.
Colonel Durham halted. “Major Reynolds.”
Nicholas bowed. “Colonel Durham. May I present Lady Isabella Knox and Viscount Washburne?”
Colonel Durham favored Isabella with a bow and a glance, both equally brief, and then turned to Lucas Washburne. He doesn’t see her, Nicholas realized in disbelief.
The conversation wasn’t protracted—the colonel invited him to dine at his club the following evening and spoke a few words about the weather and London traffic. Harriet wasn’t mentioned. Another bow and he was gone.
Nicholas glanced at Lady Isabella. Had she noticed the colonel’s dismissive manner towards her? “Well? What’s your opinion of Colonel Durham?”
She glanced at him. “Truthfully? I think him a man who places no value on women.”
Lucas Washburne blinked. “You do?”
“He addressed himself entirely to you both. I may as well not have existed.”
“Really?” Lucas said, turning to stare after Colonel Durham.
Nicholas raised his glass and drained it. “The colonel isn’t the brightest of men,” he said dryly.
Lucas turned back to Lady Isabella. His expression was faintly perplexed. “Are you certain that’s what he did? Because I didn’t notice anything.”
Lady Isabella laughed. “You’re a man, Lucas. Of course you wouldn’t notice.”
Washburne didn’t venture a reply to that; he grinned, shrugged, and went in search of his wife.
“You’re correct,” Nicholas said, his eyes on Isabella’s face. “Colonel Durham places no value on women.”
She grimaced slightly. “Poor H— Miss Durham.”
The words were an unwelcome reminder. Nicholas frowned down at his empty glass. “Yes. Poor Miss Durham.”
“You’re nothing like the colonel,” Lady Isabella said.
“I should hope not.”
Her brow creased. “Then how could Harriet Durham have thought—”
“Don’t forget this.” He tapped his left cheek with one finger.
Lady Isabella’s eyes fastened on the scar for a moment, and then she shook her head. Her lips thinned. “Foolish girl!”
“Yes, I agree.” He looked at the dance floor, at the lines of dancers, at Clarissa Whedon. She didn’t appear to hold him in aversion. But then, he hadn’t noticed that Harriet had, either. He’d mistaken her dislike of him for shyness.
Lady Isabella was silent.
Nicholas glanced at her. She was watching Miss Whedon. Her expression was unreadable. “May I have the next waltz?” he asked.
“Do you even need to ask?” Her glance, her smile, her tone, were wry.
Nicholas looked down at his empty glass again. He turned the stem between his fingers. Soon there would be no more waltzes, no more kisses. He looked across at Miss Whedon.
Boring, whispered a voice in the back of his head.
He ignored it.
The waltz came after the quadrille. Nicholas enjoyed the familiar pleasure of dancing with Lady Isabella—the curve of her waist beneath his palm, the warmth of her gloved hand on his shoulder, the ease with which their steps matched. Her height, too, was a pleasure. Isabella’s chin was level with his shoulder; he didn’t have to bend his head to speak to her. It was easy to meet her eyes. Easy to kiss her.
Later, he told himself, sternly quashing a flicker of desire.
If there was a later. The Middletons’ house seemed to be depressingly without concealed corners in which to kiss.
The music finished with a flourishing final note. Nicholas escorted Lady Isabella from the dance floor, cool and elegant in the white slip and blue robe, queenly in her height. Diamonds sparkled at her ears and around her throat.
She was the perfect Society lady, polished and glittering, graceful and poised, untouchable, unkissable—until she grinned at him and he caught a glimpse of her teeth, white and charmingly crooked. “Thank you for the dance, Major.”
Desire kicked in his stomach. “The library,” he said. “Five minutes.”
Lady Isabella’s grin faded. Her eyes held his. Blue-gray eyes. Beautiful eyes.
I want her.
Nicholas clenched his hands. He was not going to kiss her in the Middletons’ ballroom in front of everyone. “The library,” he said again, his voice slightly rough, and then he bowed and turned on his heel and walked away from her.
He knew she would come. This thing that snared him, this lust, was mutual. It twisted in her gut the same as it twisted in his. We are in the grip of madness.
He studied the volumes on the shelves. Poetry. Wordsworth and Coleridge and Byron’s The Corsair.
The door opened.
Nicholas swung around. He watched Lady Isabella close the door behind her.
“Dare we?” she asked in a low voice as she came towards him.
He held out his hand. “We’ll be very careful,” he said, drawing her with him to the farthest, shadowy corner of the room. A wing-backed leather armchair loomed, the bronze studs gleaming faintly in the light of the two lamps that were lit.
“If anyone sees us—”
He took her face between his hands. “They won’t.”
She stared up at him, her eyes dark and unreadable.
“Kiss me,” he whispered.
Lady Isabella lifted her mouth to him.
Chapter Seventeen
Isabella lost all track of time. The warmth of Major Reynolds’ body, the strength of his arms, the urgency of his mouth, the sheer magic of kissing him, of being held by him, drove all thought from her mind.
Heat rose in her until she burned with it. She ached for more. This—his mouth on hers, his arms around her—wasn’t enough. She broke their kiss. “Nicholas . . .”
He rested his cheek against her temple. His breath was ragged. “What?”
A sound at the door made them
break apart.
“Down!” The major whispered fiercely, pushing her behind a winged armchair.
Isabella crouched as the door opened. She pressed her forehead against the cool leather and closed her eyes. Her heart beat rapidly. If we’re discovered . . .
Major Reynolds knelt alongside her. His arm came around her shoulders, pulling her close. She felt the pressure of his thigh against hers.
The door shut with a snick. There was a moment of silence, when she strained to hear past the beating of her heart, and then she heard a man’s low voice and an answering feminine whisper.
The minutes passed slowly. She leaned into the major’s warmth, her eyes closed, trying not to listen to the giggles and low murmurs. Is that what we sounded like?
No. She and Major Reynolds had kissed silently. There’d been no coquetry between them, no teasing, no muffled laughter.
Because ours isn’t a flirtation. It was something much more intense, exhilarating beyond anything she had ever imagined—and quite terrifying.
I could lose myself in him.
She knelt with her head bowed and her eyes closed while the lovers kissed, while they murmured farewells, while the door opened again and then shut.
Major Reynolds’ arm tightened briefly around her, and then he released her. Isabella opened her eyes and looked at him. His face was in shadow, the scar hidden. Her heart clenched in her chest. I love you.
“I apologize,” the major said. “This was not a good idea.”
Isabella shook her head mutely.
Major Reynolds was silent a moment, looking at her, his eyes a dark gleam. He uttered a shaky laugh. “My lady, don’t look at me like that, or I’ll have to kiss you again.”
Then kiss me.
He sat very still, staring at her, and then reached for her, pulling her towards him. His mouth was hot and hungry.
Isabella closed her eyes and kissed him back fiercely. I love you.
The rows of books with their leather spines, the carpet beneath her knees, the armchair casting its shadow over them, ceased to exist. Her awareness narrowed to the major’s mouth, to the grip of his hands. She was drowning in sensation, drowning in him, in his scent, his taste, his heat, in the sound of his breathing, the sound of his heartbeat.
This time it was Major Reynolds who broke their kiss. He pulled back, putting distance between them. His face was flushed, his eyes so dark they looked black. His breath was ragged, panting.
He stared at her for a long moment, and then rubbed his hands over his face. He leaned his head back against the armchair and squeezed his eyes shut. “This is madness. We’re insane.”
“Yes.”
He turned his head to look at her. “If we’re discovered . . .”
“It would be a scandal,” Isabella said quietly. She clasped her hands in her lap. “A scandal of such proportions that—”
“We’d have to marry.” His words were as quiet as her own had been. His eyes held hers, his stare intense, as if he looked inside her. He wasn’t offering, she knew he wasn’t offering, and yet, dear God, she was mad enough to want him to.
“I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry.” The words blurted from her. “Am I?”
She knew she wasn’t; he’d told her precisely what he wanted—youth, and a yielding nature. And I have neither of those.
Isabella felt a stab of jealousy for Clarissa Whedon, as sudden and intense as it was shameful. She looked down again, at her lap, at the crumpled fabric of her gown, at her hands clasped tightly together. Tell me I’m not what you want.
“I . . . uh—”
The door to the library opened again.
Major Reynolds ducked his head. He slid further back behind the armchair and reached for her, pulling her close, shielding her.
Footsteps entered the room. She heard the stealthy clink of decanters, furtive male voices, laughter. Servants stealing a little brandy.
The servants were quicker than the lovers had been. Barely two minutes passed, while she leaned into the major’s warmth and listened to his heartbeat.
More laughter came, then the sound of the door opening and closing. They were alone again.
Major Reynolds released her. He stood.
Answer my question, Major. Am I someone you could marry?
The major held out his hand. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
She let him pull her to her feet. “Nicholas—”
He tightened his grip on her hand and drew her across the library. His mouth was grim. “This was one of my more stupid ideas.”
He released her, opened the door a few inches, and glanced out. “It’s clear.”
“Nicholas . . .”
Major Reynolds reached out to touch her cheek, freezing the words on her tongue. His mouth twisted wryly. “We must stop this,” he said, as his gloved thumb moved across her skin, stroking, caressing.
Stop it?
His head dipped, his lips touched hers, and then he glanced out the door again and opened it more widely. “You first,” he said. “I’ll wait a few minutes.”
Isabella hesitated. You haven’t answered my question.
“Quickly,” the major said.
The urgency in his low voice made her obey. She slipped through the opening.
The door closed behind her.
Isabella stood for a moment in the corridor. Absurdly, she wanted to cry. She turned away from the ballroom, heading for the ladies’ dressing room.
Damn you, Major Reynolds. You didn’t answer my question.
Nicholas collected his hat and walked down the steps to the street. He stood for a moment in the light of the flambeaux. He’d kissed Lady Isabella in the library. He winced, disgusted by the depth of his stupidity. I should have known better than to take such a risk. He did know better.
Except that when it came to Lady Isabella, it appeared that he didn’t.
I look at her and my wits dribble out my ears, he thought sourly, hunching his shoulders against the cold night air and beginning to stride in the direction of Albemarle Street. The sound of his footsteps echoed flatly, thrown back at him by the tall stone façades of the houses.
He shook his head. No more. No more risks. No more kisses at balls. No more kisses at the opera.
At the opera.
He winced again in memory. He’d kissed Isabella at the opera of all places, in the back of a box, where anybody could have walked in and seen them. “I’m mad,” he muttered. “Mad!”
A pedestrian, approaching, shied away, giving him a wide berth.
Nicholas scowled at him.
I’m a fool. A smitten, besotted fool, taking appalling risks for a few kisses, a few seconds holding her.
The scowl faded as he recalled the softness of Isabella’s lips, the warmth of her mouth. Memory looped through his head: the leather-and-paper scent of the library, the dark shadows, the glimmer of diamonds in her hair, the way her lips had parted for him.
Nicholas turned into Albemarle Street. He halted outside his house and closed his eyes a moment, savoring the memory of Lady Isabella’s kiss and the wash of heat that came with it. Kiss me, he’d said. And she had.
And then, afterwards, she had said, I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
Nicholas’s eyes came open.
He stood for a moment, frowning, and then he climbed the steps slowly and let himself into the house. It was silent inside; he’d told the servants not to wait up for him. He stood for a moment in the dimness of the entrance hall. The silence and the shadows suited his mood.
I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
Nicholas grunted. Did she expect an answer?
He lit a candle from the lamp in the hall and climbed the stairs, shielding the flame with his hand. In his bedchamber he shrugged out of his coat and sat down to remove his shoes. Her question ran in his head, endlessly repeating itself as he untied his neckcloth and pulled his shirt over his head. I’m not the sort of
woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
How the hell was he supposed to answer a question like that?
He fell asleep to the sound of her voice and woke several hours later with her question still turning in his head. I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
Nicholas stared up into the darkness. Clarissa Whedon was the bride he wanted. He could mold her into the perfect wife.
Lady Isabella was merely . . .
Epiphany came then, so bright that it seemed to light up the room. The flash of it seared across his retinas, making him blink. Isabella Knox was merely perfect.
The perfect friend, the perfect lover, the perfect wife.
I’ve been so blind.
Nicholas sat up abruptly and threw back the covers. He strode across to the window and jerked the curtains back. Moonlight streamed in.
The answer to her question was Yes.
He stared down at the empty street, frowning at the pool of light cast by the gas lamp. What made him think she’d say Yes if he asked her? Isabella Knox didn’t want to marry; she had told him why, quite plainly, at the Worthingtons’ masked ball. She had turned down many offers, from men far wealthier and more highly born than he was. Why would she choose to marry a scarred ex-soldier with a modest fortune?
Nicholas chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. Her question turned in his mind. I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
Why had she asked it? Did it mean what he thought it did? And what would Lady Isabella’s answer be if he asked her that same question? Am I the sort of man you’d want to marry?
Nicholas woke to sunlight slanting in through the window—and with the sunlight, doubts. Was Isabella Knox really perfect? She was a Society lady, a darling of the ton. She enjoyed the whirl of the Season. Would she be happy on a country estate with no more excitement than being a wife and mother?
It seemed extremely unlikely.
Nicholas climbed out of bed and walked over to the window. He stared out at Albemarle Street, at the tall houses and the blank windows, the gray stone, the steep roofs, the coalsmoke smeared across the sky. Noises drifted up to him: the rattle of a hackney’s wheels, the shrill shout of a crossing-sweeper.