His Wicked Embrace

by Adrienne Basso

  She waited with a feeling of impending doom for the earl to join her. She could hear his deep voice outside the carriage as he gave his driver instructions, and she nervously adjusted the folds of her cloak on the cushions. Her heart began beating erratically at the thought of spending any length of time in such a close, confined space with the earl.

  He entered the carriage all too soon, and to Isabella’s dismay elected to sit by her side. The deeply padded cushions gave considerably beneath his weight, and Isabella found herself tilting precariously against the earl’s leg. She let out a small yelp of surprise but managed to keep her balance with an effort and successfully avoided brushing against his strong, muscular thigh.

  He glanced narrowly at her, and Isabella slid farther into her corner of the coach. Her body felt tense and awkward. She was aware of a growing sensation of lightheadedness, and her throat felt a little dry.

  He is trying to intimidate me with his superior physical size, she decided suddenly. She slanted him an assessing glance, but he appeared oblivious to her stares. The carriage jolted forward unexpectedly, and Isabella instinctively thrust her arm out to prevent herself from being thrown to the floor. After regaining her seat, she turned her head away from the earl and fervently prayed their trip would be a short one.

  After a mercifully quick and silent ride, the carriage drew into Grovesnor Square. Isabella viewed the impressive town house they pulled in front of from her window. It was a large building with six windows on either side of an ornate gray stone portico. A graveled courtyard set the house back from the street, and a charming fountain in its center merrily spouted clear streams of water. Due to the gloomy gray skies of the afternoon, glimmering lights could be seen in several of the downstairs windows, and the two flambeaux by the door were lit.

  The earl swung the carriage door open impatiently before the vehicle came to a complete halt and lithely jumped out. He flashed Isabella a look of cold indifference as he reached in to haul her out of the carriage. Now that he had succeeded in bringing her here, his complete attention was no longer focused on her. Instead he seemed to relish the confrontation to come.

  The earl pushed himself inside the house the moment his persistent knock was answered, dragging a reluctant Isabella behind him. They were greeted by a startled footman.

  “His lordship is not receiving callers this afternoon,” the servant said in a formal tone.

  “Oh, I do believe he will make an exception in my case,” the earl stated in a defiant voice. “Inform Lord Poole the Earl of Saunders is here.”

  An elderly man who stood very erect and aloof entered the hallway. Isabella surmised he was the butler. “Is there a problem, Taylor?”

  “No, there is not a problem,” the earl replied in an authoritative voice. “Taylor was just going to inform Lord Poole the Earl of Saunders is here to see him. Isn’t that correct, Taylor?”

  “Was he really?” The elderly butler raised a questioning eyebrow. He glanced from the uncertain expression of the footman to the firm countenance of the earl and decided it was necessary to intervene. “Lord Poole is not at home, my lord.”

  The earl clenched his jaw at the news. “Then we shall wait for him to return. We will be in the red salon.”

  Ignoring the scandalous look of outrage on the butler’s face, the earl grasped Isabella’s elbow firmly and propelled her through the hallway to the second door on the left. Without waiting for assistance from any of the servants, he opened the door and pushed Isabella into the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

  Isabella took only a passing notice of the opulent surroundings. Red and gold were predominant in the wall covering and heavy draperies. The thick, luxurious Oriental carpet echoed the same color scheme. The furniture was tasteful and elegant and very expensive. Apparently familiar with his surroundings, the earl headed directly for a Pembroke table and poured himself a hefty snifter of brandy.

  Isabella scurried away from him to the opposite side of the room and positioned herself in front of a long French window. She had an excellent view of the meticulously groomed gardens, but she paid them no heed.

  “Would you like me to ring for tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?”

  “I don’t care for any tea, thank you. And I seldom drink spirits,” Isabella responded automatically.

  “For God’s sake, stop playacting, Emmeline.”

  “I am not playacting,” Isabella insisted wearily. “And stop calling me Emmeline. It is a name I have come to heartily detest in the last few hours.”

  “As you wish, madam.”

  Damien made a mocking bow to her back and threw himself into a red brocade wing chair. He continued to drink methodically, his steely gray eyes never leaving the ramrod-straight back of the woman standing by the window.

  Damien studied the enigma that was his wife through an alcoholic haze and wondered why he had no interest in plying her with questions. What had happened out at The Grange two years ago when she disappeared? Where had she been for the past few years, and how in the world did she end up as a governess to a merchant class family like the Brauns?

  “How long will we have to wait here?” Isabella’s gently asked question broke into the earl’s thoughts.

  “As long as necessary,” he replied obscurely. “I have not come all this way to be denied.” Damien set his empty glass down on the mahogany table next to his chair and propped up his chin with one hand. He suddenly felt a restless urgency to examine Emmeline more closely. “Turn around.”

  The earl spoke softly, but something in his voice set Isabella’s teeth on edge. Yet, she obeyed him and gracefully pivoted on her heel.

  No lamps or candles had been lit in the red salon, and the lack of afternoon sun produced a gray light in the room. During his previous encounters with Isabella, Damien had focused almost exclusively on her unique violet eyes. Yet in this fading light, he could not clearly see the shade of her eyes, and she looked different to him somehow. She did not look like the wife he remembered. It disturbed him.

  “Remove your bonnet.”

  Isabella’s dark brows drew together at the earl’s strange command, but she lifted her arms and took off her hat.

  “Now take down your hair.”

  “Really, sir!” Isabella sounded outraged.

  “Just do it.” The earl’s voice was impatient.

  A flicker of emotion passed over Isabella’s lovely face, but she did not refuse his odd request. Slowly she removed the pins securing her rich chestnut hair. Once freed, it fell in long, thick waves down past her waist.

  When the earl saw her unbound hair, he rose quickly from his chair, almost knocking it over. He looked very surprised. He was certain the deep chestnut color was different from what he remembered, as were the luscious length and curls. Color could be changed and curls added—Damien knew that much about a female’s hair. But the length? In all the years of their marriage Damien had never seen Emmeline’s hair reach any farther than the tops of her shoulders. Was it possible for a woman’s hair to grow that long in two years?

  “Your hair is different,” Damien stated, his tone genuinely puzzled. “What have you done to it?”

  “I have done nothing to my hair,” Isabella replied steadily. “It is precisely as it has always been.”

  Damien took several steps toward the center of the room to gain a better view.

  “You must have changed your hair,” Damien protested. “I have never seen it as it is now.”

  The earl advanced a few steps farther until he stood only inches away. He reached out a long arm and grabbed a fistful of Isabella’s hair. It felt like heavy silk. He brought the rich chestnut curls up close to his face to examine them, and he could see the threads of gold intertwined with the red and brown.

  He tugged on the silken mass, using her hair to draw her closer to him. Positioned a scant few inches away, Isabella could not help but notice the almost terrifyingly powerful muscles of his chest and arms, the glint of determinat
ion darkening his gray eyes. He was a strong man, both physically and mentally. An immovable force.

  Isabella felt the strange tension that seemed to emanate from the earl’s solidly built body the minute she drew near him. She watched him closely with questioning eyes, unsure of what was going to happen next. Despite her inner qualms, she never moved, forcing herself to remain perfectly still.

  Damien put his free arm around her waist and pulled her against his hard body, effectively making her his prisoner. Frightened and startled by the unexpected move, Isabella tried to twist away, but he held her hair tightly and her scalp tingled with pain.

  “You are hurting me, my lord,” she cried out softly. She stared up into his darkly handsome face, her eyes beseeching him to release her hair.

  Damien saw the tears gathering in her eyes, and he let the shimmering mass escape his fingers. He moved his strong hand along her jawline and took her chin firmly in his fingers, tilting it upward. Then he increased the pressure of his other arm around her waist.

  Isabella could feel the long, hard muscular length of him pressing closer against her body and it made her feel dizzy. Her breathing became unsteady as she stood transfixed, staring into his steely gray eyes for a timeless instant. And then, without warning, he bent his dark head and brought his mouth down on hers in a crushing kiss.

  Isabella went rigid with shock. Yet the firm, insistent pressure of the earl’s surprisingly soft lips against her own made her quickly forget every rule of female modesty she had ever been taught. Her shock gave way to fascination and she found herself relaxing against him, eager to experience the mysterious pleasure he so effortlessly brought forth.

  His tongue moved delicately along the seam of her lips and Isabella heard herself whimper. Lost in her first real embrace, she felt the tide of passion sweep over her entire body as the earl’s mouth moved more insistently, more demandingly on her own. Isabella was unaware that her hands moved upward to rest on his broad chest in a subtle sign of encouragement as the glittering excitement raced through her.

  Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined a kiss could be so all encompassing. This heady mix of emotion and excitement nearly overwhelmed her.

  With a low groan, Damien broke off the kiss. He raised his head and looked down at the woman he held in his arms. Her eyes were closed and her whole body felt limp with sensation. He strongly suspected she would fall if he did not continue to hold her securely in his arms.

  More than anything, Damien felt the need to kiss her again. And again. Kiss her more deeply, caress her more passionately with his mouth and his hands.

  Her response had been genuine and passionate. She had returned his kisses with true ardor, but there had been a sweet innocence about her lips, a sort of wonder and awe in her response. She was obviously very inexperienced in making love. Her kisses had proven that.

  They also proved beyond a doubt that she was not his wife.

  Carefully, Damien disengaged Isabella from his arms and gently pushed her away from his overheated body. She staggered a bit when deprived of his strong embrace but remained on her feet. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The sleepy, dreamlike quality in her lovely violet eyes disappeared the moment she saw the earl’s rigidly controlled body and stern, unsmiling face. Her cheeks flamed with color and she hastily dropped her eyes to the carpet.

  “You are not Emmeline,” the earl stated unnecessarily.

  “I am not Emmeline,” Isabella repeated. Her breathing was still a trifle uneven, and she had not yet fully recovered from his devastating kisses.

  Damien took a few steps away from her, needing to physically distance himself from her warm body.

  “Bloody hell! What a damnable mess.”

  Damien ran his fingers through his dark hair and cursed again. How could he have been so wrong? Too little sleep and too much brandy, he admitted ruefully. “Naturally I shall accompany you back to the Brauns’ house and somehow try to explain all of this.”

  “I am afraid it has gone too far for that, my lord.”

  Damien’s apologetic expression altered slightly at Isabella’s reply. “What exactly do you want me to do, Miss . . . Miss . . ?”

  “Browning.”

  “Yes, Miss Browning.”

  Isabella shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t really know.”

  Damien’s face clouded and he felt his temper begin to rise. “It would be helpful if you could decide quickly, Miss Browning. Since my reason for confronting Lord Poole no longer exists, I prefer not to remain in his house.”

  “Need I remind you, my lord,” Isabella answered in a cool tone, “this situation was not my doing. I told you repeatedly I was not your wife. Due to your obstinacy, I no longer have a position to return to!”

  “I have already offered to make amends, Miss Browning, and you have refused my assistance. I fear you leave me no choice. My coach and driver are at your disposal. When you finally decide precisely where you wish to go, you may inform my servants.” With hands clenched into tight fists by his sides, the earl made a curt, stiff bow. “Good afternoon, Miss Browning.”

  Isabella lifted her chin in response, then watched with wide-eyed dismay as the earl turned on his heel and marched purposefully from the room. It took a few moments for the events to register in her shocked mind. That arrogant, willful man had dragged her unwillingly to this strange house and had now abandoned her here.

  Chapter Five

  The elegant coach traversed the crowded London streets in a random manner. Isabella sat alone inside, barely noticing the milling crowds and variety of hackneys, carts, and carriages clogging the road.

  The overcast skies of the early afternoon had fulfilled their promise of rain and a steady drizzle prevailed. The smell of wet pavement filled Isabella’s nostrils and she sighed. The dull, gray weather matched her mood.

  She had remained in Lord Poole’s town house only long enough to rebind her hair and secure her bonnet on her head. Then she raced out of the house, offering no explanation to the astonished servants. She escaped to the safety of the earl’s carriage, which was patiently awaiting her arrival, just as the earl had promised. As soon as she gained her seat inside the carriage, Isabella instructed the coachman to drive away. Since she gave no specific instructions as to her destination, the coach had been meandering about the city for the past hour.

  “Should I drive down Bond Street, miss?” The coachman called down to her. “It’s a bit crowded, but not impassable.”

  Isabella leaned near the half-opened window and yelled, “Bond Street would be fine.”

  She settled back against the comfortable squabs and forced herself to face reality. She could not very well continue driving around London in the earl’s carriage for the rest of the day. She needed to make some important decisions about her future, and time was running short.

  Isabella bit her lip nervously and admitted to herself that she was frightened. Her prospects for employment were dim, especially without proper references. It would most likely take her several weeks, perhaps even months, to find a suitable position. And London was an expensive city to live in given her meager savings.

  Isabella knew she would have no choice but to return to her grandfather’s estate in York while searching for a new post. Even though her mother’s family had amply demonstrated their lack of regard for her, she knew they would not deny her temporary shelter. As much as it rankled her to ask for her family’s help, Isabella knew she could ill afford to allow her pride to override her common sense in this instance.

  Her decision reached, Isabella tapped on the roof of the carriage to attract the driver’s attention.

  “Take me to the nearest posting inn, please,” she requested. “I need to catch the next available coach traveling north.”

  The coach made a sharp left turn and all too soon stopped. Isabella glanced speculatively out the window and was pleased to note that the establishment they had arrived at looked well-maintained. She sincerely hoped it would not be too lon
g a wait for the mail coach to depart. No matter how respectable an establishment appeared, a woman traveling alone was often the target of unwanted attention.

  “Thank you,” she murmured softly to the young footman. who assisted her out of the carriage. Turning around to pull out her satchel, she cast a final longing glance inside the luxurious coach. It would have been heavenly to ride to York inside this comfortable vehicle. Isabella spitefully wished it were possible, knowing it would infuriate the earl to have his carriage disappear for several days.

  It seemed a fitting revenge to take the coach the earl so rudely placed at her disposal halfway across England, and Isabella was. sorely tempted to commandeer the carriage, but her lack of funds prevented her from doing so. She did not have the necessary coin to provide food and lodging for herself, the servants, or even the horses on a journey as far as York.

  As she took her final leave, Isabella gave the three male servants a curt nod of farewell and boldly began walking toward the entrance of the inn.

  “Please wait, miss,” an anxious voice called out.

  Isabella turned around and curiously observed one of the earl’s servants scramble down from the top of the carriage. “Are you certain this is where you want us to leave you? We would be happy to take you outside the city, or anywhere else you wish to go.”

  “That is most kind of you Mr. ... ?”

  “Jenkins,” the man supplied.

  “Mr. Jenkins.” Isabella nodded politely at the introduction. “As tempting as your generous offer is, I must decline. I am traveling well beyond the city limits to York.”

  “I see,” Jenkins replied slowly. “These inns can be rather rough for a genteel lady. I must insist you at least allow me to escort you inside.”

  Isabella paused a moment, observing the servant openly while she considered his offer. She judged him to be near fifty years of age, but he was a strong-looking man, obviously in good physical condition. She thought he was rather elegantly dressed for a coachman, but she decided to accept his offer of protection.