Five days had passed since the Kingsborough Ball, and Isabella’s mind was more muddled than it had ever been before. She was being courted by Mr. Roberts, who still hadn’t proposed, and she was being pursued by a duke.
She let out a sigh of despair. She didn’t care for Mr. Roberts in the least—especially not now that he had revealed what her marriage to him would entail. But she knew that her father had done all in his power to encourage his suit and consequently feared that denying Mr. Roberts at this point would not only incur his wrath but also make a mockery of her father.
On the other hand, the man she felt drawn toward was so far above her on the social ladder that she felt such hopelessness at even considering the possibility of that working out. Besides, her mother hated his kind and everything they stood for, which would not lead to very joyous family reunions.
The duke seemed not to mind her station in life, which only endeared him to her further. He might have been a man of power, but he was good and kind, or he would have started by trying to make her his mistress instead. He had not, however, and while he seemed terribly convinced that a union between them would work, Isabella still worried.
She didn’t know him very well after all, and he didn’t know her. What if this . . . thing . . . they felt for each other wasn’t enough? What if it faded? He hadn’t called it love, much to her relief, since she would have thought him presumptuous if he had, but rather the promise of love. And yet . . . what if all it was, was a need? She’d heard of such unquenchable desire before, and judging from the way he’d kissed her at the ball, not to mention their interlude on the road three days ago . . . She felt herself grow unbearably hot at the reminder and went to open the window.
Lust.
She allowed the word to form in the privacy of her mind and took a moment to consider it. Was that what it was? A breeze swept past her face, toying with her hair, and she sighed as she looked at the piece of paper she held in her hand. Marjorie had brought it up to her in secrecy, and she’d waited for the maid to depart before tearing open the seal to read its contents—an invitation from the duke to meet him later that afternoon by the Kingsborough barn, located quite conveniently on the same road that she would have to take to go to her aunt’s house.
Isabella felt her heart flutter at the very thought of accepting such a liaison. It spelled trouble, and yet the note said that he only wished to talk to her. Instinct warned her that he would want to do a whole lot more, but the sound of her heart beating was drowning out her voice of reason.
She wanted to see him again, if only to say good-bye. The very idea of having to do so was terrifying, but unless she ran away with him, she had no choice. She didn’t want to disappoint her parents, to humiliate her father or, for that matter, to tell Mr. Roberts that he’d wasted so much time on her. It just wasn’t in her.
But just because she’d determined to sacrifice herself for the sake of others did not mean she should be denied one last afternoon of happiness with the man she . . . She decided not to finish that thought, for not only was it ridiculously romantic, even for her, but it would also lead to further heartbreak if she allowed herself to believe it to be true.
Donning a plain white cotton gown, Isabella picked a bouquet of daffodils in the garden, then announced to her mother that she would be taking them over to her aunt. Fortunately, her mother was in the middle of her correspondence and barely batted an eyelid, waving Isabella off instead as she wished her a pleasant walk.
“Can I come with you?” Jamie asked just before Isabella reached the garden gate.
“No,” Isabella said, turning to meet her sister’s inquisitive gaze with a pointed look.
Jamie smiled cheekily and whispered, “You’re going to meet him, aren’t you?”
Isabella had of course shared with her sister every detail about the Kingsborough Ball—except for the kiss—and, like the duke, Jamie was of the opinion that the two should marry, claiming that all of Isabella’s reasons against doing so were ridiculous.
“I’m going to end whatever is between us,” Isabella said, trying to sound convincing.
Her sister looked dubious, then shook her head. “It’s one thing for you to lie to everyone else, but to lie to yourself, Izzie . . .” She scrunched her mouth as if thinking how best to continue. “I never thought you such a coward.”
Filled with the kind of indignation one could feel only at receiving such a blunt appraisal from a younger sibling, Isabella opened her mouth to protest, except that her sister was already marching back toward the house. “Give my love to Aunt Rosalyn and Uncle Herbert, will you?” she called over her shoulder, stopping Isabella from saying whatever it was she’d meant to say a moment earlier.
Isabella stared after her.
Was Jamie right? Was she a coward? She wouldn’t have thought so, considering everything she was giving up for the sake of those she loved. But emotionally . . . It wasn’t a thought she wished to entertain at present, so with a brisk step, Isabella quickly left Moxley behind her and headed toward the rendezvous point, her heartbeat quickening when she spotted the brown building in the distance.
“You can do this,” she told herself, squaring her shoulders and clenching her teeth as if she’d been on the verge of facing an army in battle rather than a simple man, though she had to admit that there was nothing simple about him. In fact, nobody had ever complicated her life more.
As she came closer, she looked over her shoulder to ensure that there was nobody else on the road who might see her. Not even a stray dog could be seen, and Isabella wasn’t entirely sure if she felt worried or relieved by this, for there was no longer any excuse not to turn off the road, walk into the field and around to the back of the barn, where one of the doors stood slightly ajar.
Pushing it open just enough to squeeze through, Isabella stopped and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. It was warm inside—the sort of dry warmth one feels on a bright sunny day—and it smelled richly of hay. A fluttering sound reached her ears, and she looked up to see a bird preening its feathers up under the rafters, where narrow gaps in the wood roofing allowed beams of sunshine to pour through, bathing the hay in a golden glow.
She was just about to step further inside when a strong arm snaked its way around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest. She would have screamed in startled surprise, but a large hand covered her mouth instead. “It’s just me,” a deep, familiar voice whispered against her ear.
She relaxed, and he removed his hand. “Was that really necessary?” she asked, moving to escape his grasp. He spun her around instead so they were facing each other, and she reluctantly sucked in a breath. How was it possible for him to be handsomer than when she’d last seen him? Logic told her it wasn’t so, yet she couldn’t deny that her recollection of his appearance had been unjust—a clear sign of her own denial.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you—just surprise you a little, that’s all.” He brought his hand up and ran the inside of his thumb along her cheek. “I’ve missed you.”
Isabella felt her heart hammer against her chest at the deep sincerity that glowed in his eyes. “Your Grace, I—”
“Anthony,” he muttered, still stroking her cheek.
Isabella frowned, her mind not at all its usual alert self with him caressing her. “I beg your pardon?” she managed, the feel of his arm tightening around her waist sending a shiver down her spine.
The duke smiled, and it was the sort of smile that was filled with the promise of pleasure, sin and mischief all rolled into one. Isabella felt her legs grow weak—the man was completely irresistible with his hair all mussed and his cravat slightly askew, as if he didn’t give a damn about propriety. Isabella’s heart skipped a beat. “I have kissed you twice, Miss Chilcott, and I am about to do so again. I believe it’s time we dispensed with formality, wouldn’t you agree?” And then, before Isabella was afforded the chance to voice a response to that question, the duke lowered his mouth over hers, and it was almost as if the ground fell away beneath her feet.
It was gentle at first, with their lips just grazing, but then he captured her lower lip between his teeth, tugging at the tender flesh, and she gasped, her arms reaching around his neck and pulling him closer. She was a fool, but she couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t think of anything else—didn’t want anything but this, right here, right now, with him.
The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, and Isabella ignored the voice in her head that called for her to stop and walk away. She was powerless against him and gave herself up to the kiss instead, parting her lips and allowing him entry. His tongue swept inside her mouth without hesitation, rolling over hers as he tasted her in the most sensual way possible.
Not knowing how it happened, she suddenly found herself pressed up against the barn wall, her breasts flattened against his chest as he pushed up against her. He abandoned her mouth, kissing his way along her jaw instead, straight toward her ear, where he flicked his tongue against her lobe.
A shock of heat shot straight through her, she felt her breasts tighten and then . . . an unbearable longing between her thighs. Dear God, she had to get away from him before she started begging him to do his worst with her. What a surprise that would be for Mr. Roberts on their wedding night. She groaned at the thought of it—a reaction the duke apparently took as a welcome, for his hands slipped between them, his fingers seeking her hardened nipples, then squeezing.
She groaned again, but this time it was from complete and utter pleasure.
“Tell me your name,” the duke whispered against her neck, sending yet another wave of heat straight to her groin. “Please,” he added.
“It’s . . .” Dear Lord, he’d managed to make her forget even that. She fought for control of her wits. “Isabella,” she gasped as his head dipped and he proceeded to lick his way along the edge of her neckline.
He paused. “Beautiful,” he murmured as he gave her bodice a slight tug. “The woman as well as the name—so utterly beautiful.”
Isabella allowed her head to fall back against the barn wall. She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath, knowing what he was looking at. There was no corset, since she rarely wore the uncomfortable thing, and her chemise was loose. Anthony had no trouble pulling both it and her gown down just enough to reveal her breasts in their entirety, and she was too caught up in the moment to stop him. It was mortifying.
Common sense spoke to her from a faraway corner of her mind, and she thought to push him away—to put an end to this folly before it was too late. But then he did the unspeakable. The wicked man grazed his teeth against one of her nipples, nipping it gently, and Isabella practically buckled. “So responsive . . . ,” she heard him mutter. “So passionate.” And then he took her entire breast in his mouth and suckled.
Oh, dear Lord!
What was happening to her? Her whole body was humming with expectation, there were tingly sensations in the most unspeakable places and she felt restless—as if she wanted something but couldn’t quite put her finger on what that something might be.
Blast!
The next thing she knew, she was in his arms and he was carrying her across the floor to a large pile of hay, his gaze hot and determined, which should probably have scared her to death but didn’t. Something about this man made her feel safe and comfortable. She trusted him, and the way in which he looked at her was enough to make her want to forget about all else. This was a sacred moment they were sharing, and nobody was going to intrude on it or ruin it for them.
Sitting down in the hay, Anthony leaned back with Isabella on his lap and hugged her against his chest. He wanted her in every way imaginable, but that was not the reason he’d come here. In fact, he really had meant only to talk to her, but then he’d seen her standing there with the scattered beams of sunlight brightening her hair and skin and he’d been unable to control himself. She’d looked so divine and tempting.
His hands reached for her breasts again and she groaned as he molded the soft, pliable flesh, feeling them swell with excitement. No, he would not deflower her so primitively in a barn, though it would not be for lack of wanting but because he knew she deserved better than a tumble in the hay—literally.
She wriggled against him and he belatedly realized that the deep, guttural groan he heard, so foreign to his ears, had come from somewhere deep inside himself. Again she moved, submitting him once more to the same sweet torture he’d felt a moment earlier as her bottom had rubbed against him. “Stop,” he muttered, his hand grabbing at her thigh in an attempt to hold her still. Her thigh . . . how he’d contemplated it for endless moments since accidentally placing his hand against it in the pumpkin carriage the night of the ball; the way it had felt to his touch—so soft and curvaceous—so sensual and womanly.
He felt her tense beneath him. “What . . . what is it?” she asked, her breathing low and heavy. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, except that you’re driving me mad, and I’m not sure how much of that I can bear before I . . .” He coughed to mask his discomfort and decided to steer the conversation back to more comfortable ground, focusing on her needs instead of his own. He squeezed her thigh and kissed the side of her neck. “I wonder . . . if you’ve ever . . .” His fingers trailed up over her leg, bunching the fabric of her gown as they travelled across her hip and settled between her thighs. “Touched yourself . . . here.”
She probably would have jumped to her feet and run out the door if it hadn’t been for the fact that Anthony held her firmly in place. At least that was the indication her very loud “no” gave him. She then started prattling on about what sort of doxy he must think her to be, that she must have been mad to be there with him and what could she possibly have been thinking.
Unable to silence her with a kiss due to their present position, he decided to move his hand against her instead. “Then allow me to show you what magnificent pleasure can be found in a mere touch.”
Her hips rose to meet him, as he’d known they would, and though she sighed and groaned, she muttered, “No,” and then, “You mustn’t.”
He stilled, unable to advance unless she asked him to. Whatever people thought of him, he’d never so much as kissed a woman without her granting him permission. So he turned his attention to her shoulder instead, nibbling there as his hands found her breasts once more. “Are you quite certain?” he asked as he tugged at one of her nipples, eliciting a throaty cry of pleasure from her.
God, he was hard for her. He’d never in his life been more aroused than he was now, to the point when it was causing him actual physical pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on what mattered. This was about her—about showing her what he could give her if she’d only let him.
“No,” she murmured again, and Anthony reined in his passion and started to pull away—to do the right thing—when she grasped his hand and said, “I mean no, I’m not certain I wish you to stop.”
Anthony chuckled. “Then you wish for me to continue?”
“Yes,” she rasped.
It was all the permission he needed. Caressing the smooth surface of her belly, his hand drifted lower, over the soft curls guarding her womanhood, tickling her gently on their downward journey. She stiffened, and he sensed that she was holding her breath. “Relax, Bella, and let me show you,” he said. And then he did—his fingertips slowly skimming her tender flesh.
“Oh, God,” she moaned as her hips rose to greet him. “Please . . .”
“Please stop . . . or please continue?” Anthony asked, his words soft against her ear as he gently parted her and ran one finger along her center, reveling in the slick wetness that welcomed him.
“Don’t stop,” she murmured, arching her back and grasping his legs with her hands. “Don’t ever stop.”
She was his. Anthony was sure of it, for her passion was such that he knew Mr. Roberts would be incapable of satisfying her, and now that Anthony had unleashed her inner wanton and made her aware of her desires, she’d know that she would have no choice but to pick him over that fool.
Besides, Anthony thought as he circled the hard nub that would lead her to fruition, he had to have her for himself if he was to preserve his own sanity. No other woman would do—not anymore—and the mere thought of Isabella . . . Bella . . . left him hard and aching. Living out the remainder of his days in such an unfulfilled state would be torturous.
Self-conscious as she was of her own body, Isabella was thankful for the privacy her gown offered, for though she’d tossed her inhibitions aside a while ago and no longer cared that her breasts were bared and her skirts hiked up across her hips while the duke . . . Anthony . . . fondled and petted her, she was comfortable knowing that what he saw of her body was limited. He stroked her again, the feeling incredible—unlike anything she’d ever experienced before—and she wanted all of it.
Hoping to offer him some measure of encouragement, she raised her hips against him once more, but it wasn’t enough—he wasn’t doing enough to satisfy this crazed feeling that swept through her. Not the best at being passive and idle, she decided to do something—something that would leave him with no doubt about how exactly he was to proceed. After all, she was a country miss and not in need of coddling like she imagined some of the London ladies would be. So, lifting her legs, she swung each of them over each of his, opening herself up wider.
“I didn’t think I could possibly want you more,” he muttered against her cheek between kisses. “But seeing you like this—so free and so inviting . . .” His words trailed off as he dipped one finger inside her.
Heaven.
Sensing that this was what she’d been seeking, Isabella lifted herself toward him again.
“You want more, don’t you, Bella?” His voice sounded hoarse as he said it, and as if to add to her torment, he removed his finger just enough to leave her wanting.
“Yes,” she said on a gasp of air, and his finger returned, moving inside her, then joined by another, increasing the fullness—in and out as she moved against him.
“That’s it, Bella,” he murmured. “Take your pleasure, find your release, and imagine me joined with you—how good it would feel to have me thrusting inside you.”
Isabella couldn’t speak. It was as if her mind and body were no longer her own but belonged entirely to him—his scandalous words making her hotter and needier as she reached for something just within her grasp. “I know you want me,” she heard him say as the first tingles swept up her legs. “Marry me, Bella, and I’ll give you pleasure beyond your wildest imaginings.” He pushed his fingers inside her again and a wave of pure ecstasy crashed over her, leaving her spent and breathless.
But there was something else going on as her mind began to clear and she was able to consider her actions—his actions and his words—with greater clarity. A feeling of intense anger swept over her, so strong that she found herself leaping away from him as she did what she could to adjust her dress. How could she have been so stupid as to fall for such a backhanded trick? “You, sir, are no gentleman,” she said as she stared down at him with an accusatory finger pointed in his direction.
The man had the audacity to smile as he said, “And it would seem that you’re not much of a lady either.”
Isabella’s mouth dropped open. Was he seriously going to act so cavalier about this? “How could you?” she asked with a small shake of her head.
He frowned, got up and stepped toward her, but she edged away, determined to keep her distance. He shrugged. “How could I not when you were so willing?”
Of all the things anyone had ever said to her, this was the worst—partly due to the fact that his words rang true. She’d encouraged him in the worst possible way. Clearly she’d lost her mind somewhere between entering the barn and now. It was the only logical explanation. And then it dawned on her. “This was your plan all along, wasn’t it? You wouldn’t take no for an answer, so you decided to give me a taste of what I can have if I marry you.”
He didn’t deny it, asking instead, “Did it work?”
Staring back at him, she felt an uncontrollable urge to scream. She was furious with him for trying to force her hand this way and furious with herself for letting him. What purpose had it served? Nothing but a means by which to add to her misery. She would marry Mr. Roberts, except now, on top of everything else, she would be acutely aware of what she was missing, because there was no question that Mr. Roberts would not be willing or capable of giving her the same unparalleled bliss that Anthony had just done.
Instead, she would live out the remainder of her days knowing what she might only otherwise have suspected—that her marriage was lacking in a very key element. “This was a mistake,” she said, turning her back on Anthony and walking across to where her basket was lying crooked on the floor.
“How can you say that?” he asked. “Don’t you know how incredible this was? You cannot possibly tell me that you can walk away and forget this ever happened.”
She turned back to face him, the anger she felt coiling around her until she feared she might explode. “No. I cannot forget. That is the problem, you idiot. I will forever know what I am missing now.”
He looked back at her in disbelief. “You’re still going to marry him,” he said as if it was the most absurd thing he could think of.
“Of course I am. My parents won’t let me marry you, and even if they did, I’m not entirely sure I’d be willing to subject my father to the sort of humiliation he’d surely face at the prospect of telling Mr. Roberts that his suit is no longer wanted. And that is without considering that you just tried to force my hand by turning my own body against me.”
He came toward her in one brisk stride, grabbing her by the arms before she had a chance to pull away. Startled, she met his fiery gaze. “Don’t you dare pretend as if you didn’t like it,” he ground out.
“Of course I liked it,” she said as she clenched her jaw and balled her hands into two tight fists. “The problem is that you methodically seduced me in the most calculating way and with no thought of anyone but yourself. You knew I’d be putty in your hands. You knew that I would be unable to turn you away and that I would have allowed you to do as you wished without thought for the consequences. I didn’t, because no one has ever made me feel the way you do—as if nothing else exists but you. Except now the moment is gone and I have to face reality again, only now it’s worse thanks to you. You should have stopped when I still had the will to say no.”
“Perhaps,” he acquiesced. “And I would have if you had repeated the request or even sounded more convincing. But then you started begging for more and I . . . I’m sorry if I overstepped.”
A sad laughter erupted from Isabella’s throat.
Overstepped?
You could say that again.
“Please let me go,” she said, tugging a little at her arms. He released her slowly and with obvious reluctance, and she bent down to pick up her basket.
“I should have compromised you completely,” he muttered, taking what little calm she’d retained and snapping it in two.
Rising to her feet with her basket in hand, she resisted the urge to strike him and glared back at him with pure fury instead. “How dare you!”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“No, I don’t believe you are. You were a rake once, so I don’t believe it would be beneath you to take a woman’s innocence if it served your own agenda.” She watched as he clenched and unclenched his jaw, but he didn’t respond, so she turned away instead.
“The gown,” he suddenly said. “The one you wore to the ball. Where did you get it?”
Pausing in the doorway, she looked steadily back at him, her eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I’m just curious, considering that it did seem rather expensive and—”
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said. “My mother bought it a long time ago, from a peddler, if you must know.” She refused to allow him to see just how humiliating she found this admission, for it only served to compound how different her world was from his. Keeping her back rigid, she raised her chin before saying, “If that is all, I have some flowers that I must deliver to my aunt, and if it’s not too much trouble, I should like to ask that you refrain from contacting me again. I hope that you will respect at least that much.” And then she left.
Anthony stood there for a long moment just watching the door through which she’d departed. If he could only hang himself up under the rafters and give himself a good flogging. He’d acted abominably and completely without thought for what she would think or of what the consequences might be.
It hadn’t been his intention for it to turn out the way it had, but he’d stupidly allowed himself to get carried away. What the hell was he going to do now? He’d turned a difficult situation into an unsalvageable one. It was a mess, and he was to blame. He was the one who had taken a moment that should have been precious to both of them and used it as a means by which to prove his superiority over Mr. Roberts—and in the most primitive way possible. He was a cad—a complete and utter cad—and he loathed himself.
Grumbling a string of self-deprecating oaths, he strode across the floor, yanked the door open and stepped out into the sunshine. He didn’t even bother to look for Isabella, knowing well enough that she would be long gone by now. Christ, he needed a drink, and then he would find his mother and confess everything. That was precisely the sort of punishment he deserved after acting so despicably, though on second thought an account of his escapade would surely offend his mother’s sensibilities. Perhaps he’d talk to Winston instead. Yes, Winston would give him the proper lashing he deserved—he was absolutely certain of it.