Isoline looked at the pathetic letter before her and considered crumpling it up and tossing it into the rubbish bin. Her life was so boring and lonely she could not even invent anything interesting to say.

For fear of upsetting Bellamira, or of someone to use the trip against her, she had not gone to church that day and had sent her excuses to the vicar and his wife for missing luncheon with them. Not that Bellamira had noted her presence. She had taken all of her meals in her rooms for the past two days.

Isoline heard a bit of thunder rumble in the distance, and her curtains fluttered from a little stream of wind that came in the room through a crack in the window. She did not rush to close it. The wind was not cold, but clean and refreshing. Out of habit, she pulled her robe more tightly around herself as she took one last look at the sad epistolary before her and then shook her head before placing it into a drawer of the desk, never to be seen again. She wanted to write to her family, Eunice in particular, but until she had something more interesting to say, she would not.

She stood and walked over to the window. As she looked out into the yard, she wondered what had brought her to this sorry state. No, she no longer blamed herself, or the man in her dream, for breaking off her engagement and coming to Thornrush Manor. She had done the right thing. She could never have married Cyril. Or, if she had, she would only have been miserable. No, she was glad she had ended things with him. In fact, for the few months before that cursed newspaper article, she had been something nearing on happy. Oh, life had not been perfect. She was bored, and she was displeased with the way things had ended with Tristan. In his own words, they were cousins! Could he not accept her only as a friend and family member? In spite of that, she was enjoying her life here and getting to know her grand-auntie. She had been on the cusp of making friends in town. And, even though she knew she should not, she was enjoying Auberon’s company. She had not known if her aunt would leave her an inheritance, but she wasn’t overly concerned with that. Bellamira had seemed healthy and mentally strong and not keen on dying anytime soon. Isoline had simply been enjoying day to day life and wanted for little.

But all that changed with the arrival of the clipping from the lady’s weekly.

In one fell swoop, whoever had anonymously penned that salacious article had thrown her whole life into chaos and uncertainly. As had whoever then chose to cut it out and send it to Bellamira. It had certainly been a deliberate act. Isoline had searched the house from top to bottom and, as she had suspected, she did not find a single issue of the local lady’s journal. She asked Talbot about it, and he told her that Bellamira specifically did not subscribe to the journal because she didn’t want to be involved in whatever cat fights or chicken cluckings the ladies of the village were reveling in. Whoever sent the article must have known this, which was why they sent it. To be sure that Bellamira would see it.

But who would do such a thing? The only thing to be gained from it would be to create a rift between Isoline and Bellamira. There was only one person who would want to do that—her “dear cousin” Tristan. She had asked Talbot directly if he knew who had sent the note, but he said it had been unsigned, which she believed. No one would be foolish enough to leave a direct trail to the culprit. Besides, after Bellamira had so unceremoniously dismissed Tristan from her home the last time they had seen him, surely she wouldn’t put any credence into anything he had to say.

But he didn’t say it. He didn’t need to. Even if Bellamira ignored him, she couldn’t ignore what had been written in the newspaper. But who had written the article? Certainly not Tristan. Even though some men did write articles for ladies’ magazines, and most editors and owners of such journals were always men, the society pages were strictly the realm of women. It would be beneath a man to write about such things, especially a man such as Tristan. No, he didn’t write it. But he saw it well enough, and saw his chance to drive a wedge between his aunt and his cousin and sent it off to Bellamira immediately. The author probably didn’t know the extent of the damage she would do. It was most likely one of those gossiping women who had been behind her at church. They intentionally wrote it to make Isoline look like a scheming treasure hunter and drudge up old rumors about Bellamira in the minds of the locals. It was unlikely they had any idea that their words would cause strife between Isoline and Bellamira.

Well, their intentions didn’t matter. The damage had been done, and Isoline now lived each day on uncertain and shaky ground. Every time she heard a door open somewhere in the house she thought Bellamira was coming to announce her dismissal.

There was a light tap on her door.

“Come in,” Isoline said.

Bess entered the room with a cup of tea and some biscuits. “I thought you might like a spot of tea, miss,” she said. “Chamomile. It will help you sleep.”

“Thank you, Bess,” Isoline said. “How thoughtful.”

“Think nothing of it, miss,” Bess said. “You just seemed rather on edge today and figured you needed it.”

Isoline nodded. “I appreciate it, Bess,” she said with a smile, and Bess turned to leave the room. “Bess…” Isoline called out. Bess turned back expectantly. Isoline wanted to ask her if she knew of Bellamira’s plans. If she had heard anything. If had any inkling about whether she was to be turned out at dawn. But then she thought better of it. It was a poor mistress who involved her maid in the personal matters of the family. “I…just wanted to apologize for not going to church today and taking you with me. You seemed to enjoy it so much last week. I’m sorry.”

Bess waved her off. “I’m quite used to staying here at the house for months on end. No worries, miss.”

Isoline nodded, and Bess gave a small curtsey as she left the room. Not for the first time, Isoline wondered how old Bess was. She seemed young, younger that Isoline, but she spoke as if she had served at the house for many years. Of course, it would be rude for Isoline to directly ask Bess how old she was, but maybe she could ask someone else. James or Talbot. Surely she could inquire discreetly.

With her tea already gone, Isoline placed her teacup back on the tray and climbed into bed. It was still early, not even ten o’clock, but there was nothing to keep her awake. The sooner she fell asleep, the sooner tomorrow would come.

But sleep did not come easily. She turned this way and that, falling just to edge of sleep and then waking up again. She began to feel irritated, frustrated. There were too many questions swirling around in her head. Too much uncertainly. She was about to get up when she heard him call her name.

Isoline…

She was certain she had not fallen asleep. She sat up and saw that she was still in her bed, in her room. She looked to the window and saw the curtains fluttering. She started to get up, to go close the window, but she felt his hand on her shoulder.

Stay…he said.

She gasped at his touch. His touch. For so long he had been unable to actually touch her. He was always just beyond her skin. But now, she could clearly feel his fingers on the soft skin of her upper back. The warmth in his hand. The tiny ridges of his fingertips.

She sat back in the bed and turned to him. In the dark, she still could not see his face, but she was facing him! For the first time, when she turned to him, he was still there.

“How…how is this possible?” she asked.

He reached up and placed a finger to her lips. Shh…he said, and she nodded. He then caressed her cheek and ran a finger over her chin. Around her chin. Down her neck. Over her décolletage.

She shuddered and shrunk back. This was wrong. She couldn’t allow a man, even him, into her room. Her bed. She needed to protect her virtue. Her reputation.

Then she nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. It was only a dream. A dream she had not dared to dream before, but one she had imagined countless times. If she did allow herself a moment of fantasy, of passion, who was to know? Was there a woman alive who had not done the same in her private chambers?

She leaned forward, toward the dark outline of his shape. “Touch me,” she whispered.

Once again, he ran his fingers over her cheek, her neck, her chest, just along the edge of her nightgown. This time, she exhaled and shuddered, but she did not pull away. He reached up behind her head and pulled her to him. Gently he placed his lips on hers. They were soft and warm and sent a small shockwave through her body down to the tip of her spine.

She leaned in and kissed him back, urging him on, letting him know that he didn’t have to hold back. It was only a dream, after all. Here, she could let her desires run wild.

They both opened their mouths, teasing, nipping, tasting, sucking. It was not her first kiss, but she wondered if she could even count the innocent pecks on her lips Cyril had given her as kisses. They certainly never ignited anything in her like the kisses from this man who before now had only walked at a distance in her dreams.

She wondered what had changed. What had brought him to her now, so fully, so completely. So real. She didn’t know. Did she care?

She leaned back on her pillow and pulled him to her. He laid half on top of her, half by her side. He kissed from her mouth, to her cheek, to her neck. He lingered there, breathing in her scent. Licking her skin. Giving her small bites. She gasped and opened her mouth to warn him not to leave any marks her maid might see, but then she remembered that this was only a dream. She felt a tingling ache between her legs and pulled him tighter, closer. She dared to allow herself to moan as his hands explored her body, squeezing her breast through her nightdress. She fumbled at the tie at her neck, loosening it and pulling her collar down, exposing her chest to him. He let out a groan of satisfaction as he worked his way to one nipple, taking it in his mouth and flicking it with his tongue, and then other one.

She arched her back and her eyes rolled back in her head as the tingling pain between her legs turned to a warm, wet need. All thoughts of Cyril, of Tristan, even of Auberon fled her mind. She loved this man. This man she had known for so long. This man who never abandoned her or betrayed her. This man who thrilled her to the core as no other could.

She pulled his face back to hers and opened her legs to him, inviting him to settle between them. She still could not see his face clearly as his dark hair fell, blocking any light from the moon trying to seep into the room. The thunder still grumbled in the distance and rain pelted the window. The wind picked up, throwing the curtain about violently. But she didn’t care.

“Say it,” she begged.

Isoline…he whispered, and she nearly reached the precipice of pleasure at the familiar sound. She took his hand and used it to raise her gown up her thighs.

“Take me,” she said, and she felt the weight of him on her body.

He kissed her cheek, her jawline, and moved to her neck. He was taking his time, teasing her, pleasuring her, and she quivered in anticipation.

“Now, please,” she said.

Isoline…

“Yes…yes!” she panted.

Then she screamed out as she felt him bite into her neck with such a force she thought he must have drawn blood. Then she groaned as the pain melted away and the most exquisite pleasure coursed through her body. Her body convulsed of its own volition as he continued to bite and suck her neck. She fell onto her pillow and sighed in satisfaction, but satisfaction from what, she wasn’t sure. She had never been with a man before, but she was certain that she should not have achieved her pleasure from a bite to the neck.

A bite to the neck, how odd! she thought as her senses returned to her. She turned to him and he slid away from her and stood up from the bed.

“Wait,” she called as she reached out to him.

At that, a clap of thunder sounded, causing her to shrink back and close her eyes. When she reopened them, he was gone.

She flew from her bed and looked out the window. In the yard, she saw him walking away in the rain. She tried to open the window fully so she could call out to him, but it was shut and locked! How was that possible? She knew she had left it open.

She went to her side table and lit a candle. She then returned to the window and worked the clasp free. When she was finally able to throw the window open, there was no one in the yard.

She collapsed in the chair in front of her vanity and shook her head. What had just happened? Had it all been a dream? Or something more? Was she still sleeping now? She was so confused. She looked at herself in the mirror and laughed at the disheveled state of her hair. As she pulled it aside, she saw two puncture marks in her neck and she gasped.

She reached up to touch them, but she felt nothing. Her skin was perfectly smooth. She ran to her wash basin and dipped a cloth into the water, then ran it over her neck. She went back to the mirror and sighed when she saw that the marks were gone. She slumped back into the chair. She must have simply imagined something was there a moment ago. Her mind was spinning, swimming with thoughts of him and what they had just done. If they had done anything.

It had only been a dream…right?