Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord by Sara MacLean (16)

The next morning, Isabel found Nick in the statuary, working.

She had gone looking for him after breakfast, telling herself that she was doing the gracious thing by seeking him out to inform him that the roads were once more passable after the rain. The excitement she felt when she saw him bent over his notebook in the brightly lit statuary, however, indicated a slightly different motivation for her coming to find him.

His hands flew across the paper, strong and sure, and she felt a fleeting envy at the complete attention he was giving his work. She watched as a lock of midnight hair fell, catching in the frame of his spectacles, and her breath hitched.

He was really very handsome.

And she was becoming an utter ninny.

The thought brought her back to reality, and Isabel cleared her throat delicately, gaining his attention. He turned his gaze on her, and she felt his scrutiny; she clasped her hands in front of her skirts to refrain from smoothing either her dress or her hair.

“I did not want to bother you, but I thought you might like to know that Rock has returned to town—to fetch your belongings. We are happy to host you here … at Townsend Park … for as long as you need lodging.”

He removed his eyeglasses, and Isabel felt a pang of remorse. There was something about the spectacles that she found compelling—something that underscored the intelligent, honest man beneath the handsome, overwhelming façade.

He smiled, a warm, welcoming smile that weakened her knees. Yes. She much preferred him with the buffer of the eyeglasses.

“That is very generous of you, Isabel. Thank you.”

She did not know what to say at that point, so she hovered in the doorway, her uncertainty clear.

One of his brows rose in obvious amusement. He knew she was nervous. He was enjoying it. “Would you like to come in? ”

She took one step into the room, keenly aware of the fact that only yesterday, he had kissed her here. More than kissed her.

Perhaps she should close the door.

Her pulse sped at the thought. Surely, if she did, he would take it as an invitation to repeat the events of the prior afternoon.

Close the door, Isabel.

She couldn’t. What would he think?

Did it matter?

Surely it was too early for such activities.

They had only just had breakfast.

She met his glittering blue eyes, and saw that he knew precisely what she was thinking. There was a dare in the way he looked at her, as though he were willing her to close the door and take that which she had been unable to stop thinking of since yesterday.

She moved further into the room, leaving the door open, ignoring the pang of disappointment that flared. Her attention flickered to a nearby statue. She grasped for a safe topic. “How did you become so interested in antiquities? ”

He hesitated before answering, as though choosing his words, and in that moment’s pause, she found herself desperately curious. “I have always liked statues,” he said, “from when I was a boy. In school, I found myself fascinated by mythology. I suppose that it is no surprise that when I left school and headed for the Continent—I was drawn to the ancient cultures.”

Isabel perched on a pedestal nearby. “So you spent your time in Italy and Greece?”

He looked away briefly. “Italy was difficult to get to, considering there was a war on. It was easier to go east, and so I did, through the Ottoman Empire and deep into the Orient. The art there is unparalleled; their history is more ancient than anything on the Continent. You would never imagine such paintings, such ceramics … the art they have passed down through generations is like nothing I have ever seen. And not just painting or sculpture. Their whole bodies are their art, their spirits.”

She was transfixed by the reverence in his voice. “How so?”

He met her gaze, and the excitement in his eyes set her pulse to racing. “Things are sacred in the cultures of the East—those who study music and dance and theatre do so with their entire being. In China, there are warriors who spend years learning the art of their combat. In India, dance is a ritual, the beginning and end of the world is held in a single movement of the female form.”

His words had grown softer, drawing her in. “It sounds wonderful.”

“It is. It’s exponentially more sensual than the dance we shared last night.”

Isabel found it difficult to believe that anything could be more sensual than their waltz the night before. There was something dark and liquid in his eyes when he continued, “I would like to teach you the things I learned in India.”

She wanted to learn them. “What kinds of things? ”

“Unfortunately, things that good English ladies do not learn.”

“I find I have never been very good at being a good English lady.”

There was a long silence then, during which she was flooded with embarrassment—where had those words come from? Should she apologize?

“I—”

“If you are going to apologize, I would prefer you not. I find I like this bold Isabel quite a bit.”

Her gaze skidded to his, and the flash of his wicked grin transfixed her.

She could not help but match it, enjoying the feeling of sharing a secret with this intriguing man. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted to know everything about him. “How did you come to learn about Greek and Roman antiquities if you were whiling away your days in the Orient?”

He thought for a moment, then said, simply, “After a few years in the East, I returned to Europe.” “To Turkey.”

He did not answer. He did not have to. “My recovery took place in Greece. I had months to learn about Greek antiquities … to learn their secrets. The Romans came last, before I returned to London.”

She wanted to ask more about his time in Greece. In Turkey. But she knew instinctively that he would not share more than he already had. She searched for a new topic—something that could return them to the friendly conversation they had shared earlier, before she had resurrected his dark memories. Her gaze settled on the statue that he had been scribbling notes on when she had entered. “You are still working on Voluptas?”

“I find myself unable to leave her.”

“She is beautiful.”

“Indeed, she is.” He indicated the statue. “Do you see how she is different from the others? ”

Isabel considered the face of the goddess, the half-closed eyes, the full lips just barely parted. She recognized the emotion on the goddess’s face—one she had always considered somnolence. She knew better now. She felt her skin heat.

“Ah. I see you do.” His voice had changed; it was liquid now, warm and soft and private—sending a thrill up her spine. “It is not just her face, however. What makes this statue different from the others is the care the sculptor took to make every part of her so clearly Voluptas.”

She was mesmerized by his voice, and when he moved his hands to the statue, she could not look away. “You can see her passion in every inch of her … in the angle of her neck, in the way that her chin is lifted, as though she cannot deepen her breath for the sensation coursing through her.”

Isabel watched, transfixed, as his strong, tanned hands caressed the angle of the statue’s jaw, his fingertips tracing the line of her neck. He kept talking, his hands following his dark, lush words. “Her pleasure is articulated in the way her shoulders are thrown back, the way one arm reaches up to absently touch her hair, the way the other crosses her rounded stomach, as though to still the trembling there.”

Without thinking, Isabel’s hand mirrored the action of the statue. His words, the way his hands stroked softly across the marble, it was enough to shake her to her core. She looked to him then, meeting his fiery blue gaze, seeing the knowledge in his eyes, the passion there. He knew what he was doing. He was seducing her.

When he turned back to the statue, Isabel sucked in a long breath. “But perhaps the most telling indicator of her emotion is here.” He ran a hand across the smooth white marble to cup one of the statue’s breasts in his hand. “Her breasts are fuller than those of other Roman statues of the time …”

How could he remain so unmoved?

“And she is anatomically perfect. You will note the hint of a hardened nipple …” Isabel bit her lip as she watched the circling of his thumb, resisting the urge to mimic his motions.

She wanted his hands on her.

She released the breath she had been holding on a long, shaking sigh, barely audible. But he heard it. His head snapped toward her, and he released Voluptas. He met Isabel’s gaze, and she noted that his eyes had darkened to a lovely, promising blue. “Shall I continue?”

She took a step toward him, coming as close as she could without touching him. She noted the tension in his shoulders then, the muscle that twitched in his cheek in a motion that she was learning to recognize as restraint. He wanted to touch her, but was waiting for her move.

Well, she was through restraining herself.

Isabel set her hands to his chest, then used him as leverage to stand up on her toes, to get as close to him as possible. When she answered, she was not certain where the words came from. “Not with the statue.”

She kissed him.

There was an exhilaration that came from taking one’s own pleasure, Isabel discovered. He remained still under her kiss, not touching her, not moving against her lips, and Isabel realized that he was allowing her to take the reins.

She found she liked that idea very much.

She wanted to laugh at the heady sensation of her newfound power. But that did not seem at all appropriate.

She slid her hands up, wrapping them around his neck, pressing her body fully against his. He set his hands to her hips, holding her steady, and the feel of his warmth there through the layers of her dress sent a heady wanting through her. She opened her lips against his, softening, making it known that she was willing to be here, in this room, in his arms. When he did not take her mouth, she ran her tongue tentatively along his full, firm bottom lip.

And discovered the key that unlocked the lion.

He groaned against her, parting his lips and allowing her access to his dark, wicked mouth. She was nervous at first, unwilling to take what it was that she had asked for, but when his arms wrapped around her, all warm steel, and pulled her tight against him, caution was lost. Their tongues met, stroked, tangled, and it was long moments before he broke the kiss and lifted her to stand on the low pedestal with Voluptas.

Breaking the kiss, he commanded, “Stay,” and moved away to close the door that she had agonizingly left open. When the task was completed, he approached her, and she was struck by the way he stalked her, like a lean, powerful predator. Her heart was pounding in her ears as he came closer, finally stopping in front of her, appraising her as he had the statue.

Her position made her several inches taller than he was, and when she could no longer resist, she reached out to run her fingers through his hair, tilting his face up so she could look at him. His eyes glittered with unspoken promise, and she watched as his scar turned white under her gaze. She placed one lingering kiss on the end of the mark, just at the corner of his eyebrow, then took his mouth again in a heady kiss.

His hands spread over her body, encouraging her boldness, running up the side of her bodice to the place where fabric gave way to skin. Pulling away, briefly, he set his mouth to her neck, scraping his teeth along the rigid tendons there as she tilted her head back from the pleasure of the caress. He tugged at the top of her bodice, pulling until one breast came free of its bindings, and he paused, marveling at the straining tip, in line with his mouth. “My real-life Voluptas,” he whispered, the heat of his breath causing her nipple to harden even more before he set his lips and tongue and teeth to her breast and feasted upon her.

She clutched his head to her with a cry of pleasure, and lost herself to the powerful sensations that coursed through her at every knowing stroke, every magnificent tug. When he finally lifted his head, they were both breathing heavily, and she was leaning on his shoulders to remain upright.

“Before we go further,” he said, his words coming in harsh breaths, “I think we should discuss the matter of our marriage.”

She did not want him to stop. Could they not discuss this later? She reached for him. “Yes.”

He kissed her again, tugging her head down for a drugging caress that left her barely able to think. “Yes, what?”

What had they been discussing?

“What?”

He smiled, and the full force of his pleasure twisted something deep inside her. “Isabel. I think we should marry.”

She smiled back at him. “I agree.”

“Good girl.” He rewarded her with another long kiss before lifting her arms above her head placing her hands around the neck of the statue, her back bare and elongated against the cool marble goddess. Once he had positioned her to his liking, he returned his attention to her breasts. She gasped when his teeth scraped along the edge of her nipple before his tongue soothed the ache there, and again when she felt cool air beneath her skirts, his hands chasing up her legs to find the place where she ached for his touch. He lifted his head. “Shall we do it soon?”

If he did not touch her soon, she was going to perish.

Isabel opened her eyes at the question. Utterly distracted by the path of his hands, caressing her thighs in the most maddening of ways. “Yes. Let’s.” He made quick work of the tapes on her pantaloons and slid one hand inside, widening her legs and brushing his fingers over the heated core of her.

“Good. I do not think that I can wait much longer to have you here.”

“No—” The word was exhaled on a breath as he slid one finger into her.

“I am so glad you feel the same way.” The words, so innocuous, coursed through her like liquid fire on the heels of a long, stroking caress that robbed her of intelligent thought. She let go of the statue and clung to him, and, without removing his hand, he lifted her in his arms and moved her to the bay window where he had shown her such pleasure the day before. This time, he did not sit, instead settling her into the seat and kneeling before her on the floor.

She was on fire. She craved his touch.

This was the emotion that marked the end of women. This was what ruined them.

She must resist it. Him.

She opened her eyes, meeting his molten gaze. “Wait.”

His fingers stroked slowly inside her. “Yes?”

She flexed against the remarkable movement, taking a deep breath and willing herself to remember what she had been about to say. “I just … you should know … I cannot love you.”

“No?” His thumb rubbed a wicked circle around the spot that she had only discovered yesterday.

She gasped. “I think I could grow very fond of you, though.”

He laughed then, low and dark, his free hand sliding her skirts up her legs. “I think I could do the same.”

“But really … I shan’t …” He spread her legs wide then, baring her flesh to the air and the room and his gaze. “Wait … what are you … you cannot!” She struggled to close her thighs, capturing his hand between them, and clasped her skirts, trying to push them down to hide herself from him. He could not possibly want to look at her there.

“Isabel.” He drawled her name in a lovely, rich caress.

She stopped. “Yes? ”

He leaned forward then, capturing her lips in a deep promise of a kiss. When she grew weak in his arms once more, he pulled back, placing a soft final kiss at the corner of her mouth before whispering, “Trust me, darling. You’re going to like me very much after this.”

He gently parted her thighs again, running his strong, knowing hands along the soft skin there. When he dipped his head and placed a soft, wet kiss at the inside of her knee, and traced a path up the smooth, pale skin of her inner thigh, Isabel covered her eyes in embarrassment that he would be so close to such a private, secret place. His fingers played at the auburn curls covering the center of her sex, sending wave after wave of temptation through her with the merest hint of a touch.

Finally, she uncovered her eyes, and met the sensual promise in his heated gaze. “That’s what I was waiting for. Never hide from me, beauty.”

He parted the slick folds of her sex then, stroking one finger down the center of her, her pulse racing from the feel of him against her.

He leaned closer, and when he spoke, the words were a wicked lash against her heated, wanting flesh. “You are so beautiful here. I want to know every inch of you. I want to feel every bit of your heat.” His finger circled the straining center of her, the perfect pressure of the caress wringing a cry from her.

“Do you know how much I want to taste you?”

Her eyes widened at the words. Surely he couldn’t mean … surely he wouldn’t…

And then he did.

His mouth was on her and her body was no longer her own, but entirely his. She gasped at the sensation, plunging her fingers into his soft sable hair, not moving, not wanting to push him away, not willing to pull him closer.

But he knew what she wanted. His mouth loved her in every possible way, his tongue stroking through the moist heat of her, licking at the very heart of her, teasing at her core in lush, brilliant circles that she was not sure she could bear. He pushed her higher and higher, opening wider, feasting upon her until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it. She lifted her hips toward him and he accepted the movement, bearing her weight as his tongue found the swollen, aching center of her pleasure in a series of firm strokes that stole her breath entirely.

She did pull him to her then, unwilling to give up this impossible, extraordinary sensation and the man who was sending it coursing through her body. The movements increased, the speed threatening her sanity as she cried his name.

He stopped then, for a long, unbearable moment, and she could not bear it. She squirmed, but his firm grip held her still, his mouth and tongue against her in excruciating stillness. He was killing her.

“Nick—” she whispered, “please … please don’t stop!”

He rewarded her begging with blessed movement, closing his lips around the tight, swollen nub of her and sucking, robbing her of thought and breath and leaving her only with sensation.

The feeling was too much to bear. “No … Nick … stop …”

But his wicked, knowing mouth spared her no quarter, instead licking faster, stroking deeper, and, finally, he thrust one, then two fingers deep into her, coaxing her closer and closer to the unknown precipice that she was hurtling toward—the one that she both feared and desired.

And then she was there, at the edge, and his mouth and hands and the satisfied growl deep in his throat were everywhere—and she tumbled over the edge on a wave of pleasure like nothing she had ever known. She cried his name as the room spun around them, clenching her fingers in his hair, clinging to the one stable thing in the maelstrom of sensation.

She collapsed against her seat, and after a long, lingering moment, Nick lifted his head, meeting her eyes. She registered the pleasure and the passion there, and she took a deep, shaking breath, attempting to compose herself as he lowered her skirts and moved to sit beside her. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, pulling her against him to recover.

She set one hand absently against him, and he hissed at the movement, capturing her hand in one of his. Her eyes widened. “Did I … Are you hurt?”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Not at all. Merely desperate for more of you.”

Understanding dawned, and Isabel said, “Would you like for me to … do something? ”

He laughed then, squeezing her hand in his. “More than anything on this earth, I want that.” He kissed her hand. “But now is neither the place, nor the time. I am, however, very happy that you have agreed to marry me. Because I fully intend to accept that request very soon.”

She blushed at that, immediately embarrassed by the way that they had discussed marriage.

He had the grace to look chagrined. “I did not propose properly.”

She shook her head. “We need not stand on ceremony. There is no one here who will have expected formalities.”

“Nevertheless, I shall make it up to you.”

She looked away from him, considering her hands in her lap. “I rather like the way you did it.”

He put one hand to her chin, turning her to look at him. He searched her eyes, as though looking for something. Something cleared in his gaze, and he kissed her, a soft, generous kiss that made her more than satisfied that she had agreed to marry this man who seemed so very easy to like.

If only she could be certain that he was not easy to love.

She was spared from having to consider the thought when a knock sounded on the door. Isabel leapt from her seat, her heart in her throat. If they had been interrupted just minutes beforehand…

The door opened, and Lara stepped into the room. “Isabel?”

For a moment, she had trouble finding them, well hidden at the far end of the room behind a collection of tall statues, but Isabel took the moment to say, more loudly than necessary, “I do believe this is a statue of Apollo, Lord Nicholas.”

Nick stood, slowly, and came around the back of Isabel to consider the marble to which she was referring. “I’m afraid you are mistaken, Lady Isabel.”

Isabel was not paying much attention—instead watching as Lara hurried through the maze of statues toward them. “Why would you say that?”

“Well,” he said dryly, “in the first place, this statue is female.”

Isabel snapped her head up to look at the marble for the first time. “Well. Obviously I don’t mean this statue. But that one over there.”

“Of course, my mistake.” He gave her a small, knowing smile. “Which one? ”

“That one over there.” She waved a hand absently, distracted by Lara. “Lara? Is all well?”

Lara came closer.

All was not well. “Isabel.”

Isabel knew at once what had happened. “Who is it? ”

Lara stopped, catching her breath; she had clearly rushed the entire way. “Georgiana.”

Isabel felt Nick stiffen beside her. She turned to him and was surprised to see the seriousness in him. Gone was the teasing charmer from earlier, replaced by a stone-faced man. “What about her?”

“She has gone missing.”

He met her gaze. “What do we do? ”

If she had had the time to consider his words, Isabel would have been happy with his use of the word we, yet more proof that they would make a sound team. But she was already heading for the exit, Lara on her heels.

“We find her.”