Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord by Sara MacLean (21)

It had not been the kind of wedding one imagined.

Nick had returned sometime in the early morning after traveling through the night to York for a special license, then back via Dunscroft to wake the town vicar and drag him to Townsend Park to perform the ceremony. He’d barely had time to change his clothes. If Isabel was to judge from his harried appearance, the deep circles under his eyes indicated that he had not slept since they had last seen each other—the graveled voice with which he spoke his vows serving as further proof.

They had married in her father’s study, with Lara and Rock as witnesses. The ceremony had been quick and perfunctory, explained to the minister as a way they could marry without desecrating the memory of her father.

The minister had not protested, so impressed had he been at the special license inked by the hand of the Archbishop of York himself.

Isabel had not protested, either.

It was, after all, the only solution.

So they had sworn to love and honor; they had pledged their mutual troth. And when he had bent to kiss her, she had turned just enough for the caress to land slightly off-center, a blessed relief, for she did not think she could bear the feel of his lips on hers in that moment when they were marrying for all the wrong reasons.

She’d left the house as soon as the vicar had, sneaking out into the western fields of the Park. She had been walking for some time—hours, perhaps—thinking.

She had seen the many faces of marriage in her life: marriage for love that dissolved into desolate isolation; marriage for escape that had become a marriage of desperation; marriage of duty that never blossomed into anything more.

In those rare moments when Isabel had allowed herself to fantasize about marriage, however, she had dreamed of a marriage that was more than isolation and desperation and duty. It was ironic, she supposed, that hers was born of all three.

But if she was honest with herself, two days earlier she had believed her marriage to Lord Nicholas might blossom into love.

His name was Nicholas Raphael Dorian St. John.

It was the most she could claim to know with certainty about her new husband.

The wind had picked up on the heath, and the long grass lashed at Isabel’s legs as she walked in a long, straight line out to the edge of the Townsend land—land that had been in her family for generations.

Land that would be saved for future generations because of what she had done that morning.

Not so selfish now.

She closed her eyes against the thought. When she opened them, the broken rails of the fence that marked the western edge of the property were in her field of vision. Another thing that would now be fixed.

She hadn’t wanted to marry him for money. Or for protection. Or because the Duke of Leighton willed it.

But, of course, she had, in part.

Hadn’t she?

”No.” She whispered the word, and it was carried away on the wind, lost in the sway of the reeds.

She had wanted to marry him because she cared for him. And because he cared for her.

But it was too late for that.

A vision flashed from yesterday, long ago now—a distant past. She had refused his suit, and he had made it seem as though she desperately needed him. As though they would not survive if he had not come and saved them. As though their time was up.

And he had been right.

She brushed a tear from her cheek. She could no longer hold it all together.

And she was terrified of what that meant.

Who was she if she was not this? If she was not the mistress of Townsend Park, the keeper of Minerva House, the one with the answers, the one to whom everyone else turned?

Who would she become?

”Isabel!” The shout, punctuated by hoofbeats, pulled her from her thoughts, and she whirled to face Nick, high atop his gray, bearing down on her. She froze as he pulled up on the reins, leaping down before the horse came to a stop. He held her gaze as he advanced, his voice raised above the wind. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

She shrugged. “I took a walk.”

“Rather a long walk for a bride on her wedding day,” he pointed out. “Were you attempting an escape? ”

She did not smile at the jest. “No, my lord.”

There was silence as he searched her face. “You are unhappy.”

She shook her head, tears welling. “No, my lord.”

“I have heard tell of brides weeping on their wedding day, Isabel, but I had always considered them tears of joy.” He paused, watching her carefully before pulling her to him in a warm embrace. “Call me my lord one more time and I shall not fix your fence. Which has something of a hole in it, if you had not noticed.”

“I noticed,” she said, the words muffled against his chest.

“Isabel. I am sorry. For the things I said. For the way I said them.” He spoke the words against her hair, the warm breath of them a promise. “Forgive me.”

Oh, how she wanted to.

She did not reply, instead wrapping her arms tightly around him. It was all she could give him right now. She let him hold her for a long time, enjoying the feel of his strong arms around her, the warmth of his chest against her cheek. For a moment, she imagined that this was a different kind of wedding day. That they had married for any reason but the one for which they had married.

That they had married for love.

She pulled back at the thought, and he watched as she smoothed her skirts and looked anywhere but at him. “Isabel.” At the sound of her name on his lips, soft and lush, she looked up and met his eyes—saw the emotion there. “I am sorry you did not have the kind of wedding of which you dreamed. I wish we could have done it another way, with a church … and a dress … and your girls.”

She shook her head, emotion making it difficult for her to speak.

He took her hand. “We left out an important part of the ceremony this morning. I assume the vicar thought that we could not fulfill its requirements, so he skipped over it.”

Confusion marred her brow. “I don’t understand.”

He opened his hand, revealing a simple gold band that lay in his palm, “It’s not what you deserve—I woke the first jeweler I saw last night in York. He did not have much of a selection. The first chance I get, I shall buy you something gorgeous. With rubies. I like you in red.”

He spoke quickly, as though she might refuse him if he gave her the opportunity to speak. It was fine, though. She did not want to interrupt. Taking her hand, he placed the ring on her finger. With a crooked smile, he said, “I do not remember the exact words …”

She shook her head. “Neither do I.”

“Good.” He took a deep breath. “I am not perfect, and I realize that I have a long way to go to earning your trust once more. But I want you to know that I am extraordinarily happy that you are my wife. And I shall do my very best to make you an excellent husband. Let this ring bear the proof of my words.”

He cupped her cheeks in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the stray tears that fell at the words. “Don’t cry, darling.” He sipped at her lips in soft, lingering kisses, so tender and caring that, for a moment, she forgot that they had married for a host of wrong reasons.

He lifted his head and met her eyes once more, and said, “For the rest of the afternoon … for today … can we forget everything else? Can we simply have a wedding day? ”

He was buying them a day before they had to remember all those wrong reasons.

Perhaps to discover a right reason.

And, God help her, she wanted it.

She nodded. “I think that is an excellent idea.”

He grinned and offered her his arm. When she took it, he said, “The day is yours, Lady Nicholas. What shall you do with it?”

Lady Nicholas.

What a strange thing to be this new, different person. Isabel played the name over in her head, her earlier concern resurfacing. Who was Lady Nicholas? What had become of Lady Isabel?

“Isabel?” Nick’s question interrupted her thoughts.

Tomorrow. She would worry about Lady Isabel tomorrow.

She smiled. “I should like to show you the Park.”

Within minutes, they were on his horse, Isabel seated in front of him, clinging to him as he trotted the gray across the heath toward the house. As they traveled, Isabel pointed out places that had mattered to her as a child—the copse of trees where she had hidden whenever she wanted to get away, the pond where she had learned to swim, the crumbled remains of the old keep where she had pretended to be a princess.

“A princess?”

She kept her eyes on the stone structure, set on the highest point of the property. “Yes, well, pretending to be a queen seemed too much. A girl must know her limitations.”

He laughed, and stopped the horse. “Shall we tour your castle, Your Highness?”

She looked back at him, noting the teasing interest in his eyes. “By all means.”

He lifted her down in an instant, offering her his hand and leading the way up the little hill to the piles of rubble that were left. Isabel took the lead then, running her hands across the worn stones. “It’s been years since I’ve been up here.”

Nick gave her room to explore, leaning against a low stone wall that marked a room of the long-destroyed building, watching as she wandered through the crumbled pillars. “Tell me what you used to pretend.”

She smiled to herself. “The same things all little girls pretend, I would think …”

"I did not have the privilege of knowing many little girls,” he said. “Elaborate, if you please.”

She paused at a stone archway that might have been a window long ago. Looking out to the bold, sweeping landscape beyond, she answered. “Oh, that I was a princess in a tower, waiting for my knight … perhaps I was under a magic spell, or guarded by an evil dragon, or something equally fantastic. But it was not always so elaborate; sometimes I just came here to …” She turned, and noticed that he had disappeared from his place.

“Came here to …?” He was at the other side of the archway now, leaning his forearms on the wide stone wall. She laughed in surprise at the picture he made, mussed sable hair and crooked grin in his formal wedding attire.

She matched his pose, her arms touching his on the sill. “Came here to imagine what my future might be.”

“And what was that? ”

She looked away. “The normal things, I suppose … marriage, children … I certainly was not planning for Minerva House.” She paused, thinking for a long time. “It is funny how those things push their way into little girls’ dreams. I did not have a very good example of a marriage. I did not have proof that such a thing was worth having. And yet …” The words trailed off.

“And yet there was a time when Lady Isabel dreamed of becoming a wife,” he said, his voice light, teasing. Precisely what she needed it to be.

She smiled, meeting his blue eyes. “I suppose so. Of course”—her tone turned impish—“she certainly never expected to marry one of London’s most eligible bachelors. She was lucky, indeed, to secure such an eminently landable lord.”

His brows shot up at the words, his jaw dropping in surprise, and she dissolved into giggles at the picture he made, so comical and clownish.

“You knew!”

She placed a hand dramatically to her breast. “My lord, how could you have imagined that there was a woman in this great land who did not know? Why, we need not have a subscription to Pearls and Pelisses to recognize such a “—she paused with great emphasis—“paragon of manhood … when we see one.”

He scowled at the silly description. “You think you are very funny, Lady Nicholas.”

She grinned. “I know I am exceedingly funny, Lord Nicholas.”

He laughed and reached out to brush away an auburn curl that had come loose in the wind and landed against her cheek. When the task was completed, their laughter died, and with the barest of pauses he continued the caress, cupping the back of her head in his large hand and pulling her toward him, kissing her thoroughly on her warm, smiling lips. The kiss was deep and thoughtful, sending a river of pleasure straight to the core of her. She sighed into his mouth, and he moved to settle little, soft kisses on her cheek, the tip of her nose, and her forehead before pulling back.

“So you thought you might land me,” he teased.

She shook her head with a laugh. “No. The girls thought I might land you. They urged me to use the lessons from the magazine to do so.” She smiled at his groan of disbelief. “Needless to say, I was never very good at following instructions.”

He chuckled. “And so? What was your plan?”

“I thought I might land your expertise in antiquities.”

“Well … you seem to have received more than you had bargained for.”

She made a show of considering him with a critical eye. “Indeed, it seems I have.”

He barked in laughter. “Minx.”

She laughed, too, and he left the window then. She leaned through to watch him make his way to a nearby entryway, her heart quickening as she realized that he was coming to be closer to her. Wanting to retain her illusion of calm, she hopped up to sit on the low sill, waiting for him to come to her. Excitement pooled in her belly as he approached, carefully navigating the stones that littered the inside of the keep, his blue eyes trained on her.

The magazine had been right. He was a remarkable specimen of a man.

And he was her husband.

The thought rocked her to her core.

He did not stop a discreet distance from her, instead coming as close as he could, his legs brushing her skirts, his body blocking the sun from her face. He lifted his hand, running the backs of his fingers along her cheek, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His eyes roamed over her face, and there was something there that she could not identify.

“What are you thinking?”

Were they at any other moment in their time together, she would not have asked … but they were here, in this magical place, the rest of the world and the rest of their lives far away. Today, they were simply husband and wife.

As if there were anything simple about it.

His gaze found hers, and her pulse raced as she recognized the passion there. She held her breath, waiting for his answer.

“I am thinking that you are the most magnificent woman I have ever known.”

Her jaw went slack at the words, so unexpected, and he pressed on, his hands cradling her face. “You are strong and beautiful and brilliant, and so passionate—it makes me ache to be near you.” He placed his forehead to hers as he continued, “I don’t know how it happened … but I seem to have fallen quite impossibly in love with you.”

The words rendered Isabel speechless.

Was it possible that such a thing could be true?

He loved her.

The words echoed in her mind, making it impossible to think of anything else.

And then he was kissing her. And she could not think at all.

Professing his love to Isabel had unlocked something raw and powerful in Nick, and without removing his lips from hers, he lifted her from the low stone wall to move to a patch of soft green grass in a small square footprint of the keep. They stood there for a long while, their mouths and hands exploring, and Nick was keenly aware of the difference this moment had from all others … of the powerful, heady nature of making love to his wife.

To a woman he so thoroughly loved.

When her hands fell to the buttons of his coat and his waistcoat, Nick tore his mouth from hers, gasping for breath as she searched for skin. He shucked his layers as they kissed madly and Isabel tugged on his shirt, making space for her hands to explore the wide, warm expanse of skin beneath the linen. The feel of her fingers against him was torture, and he broke the kiss, pulling the shirt over his head and letting it flutter on the wind to land outside the walls of their sanctuary.

He reached for her, eager to resume their kiss, but she danced away from his grasp, eyes locked on his chest. “No,” she said, her voice filled with a feminine power that made him ache to have her, “I want to see you.”

She came closer, blocking his hands from pulling her to him, instead running her palms over his chest and down his arms. “You’re so broad … so bronzed … how does that happen? ”

He struggled for words, mad for her touch. “I have an estate outside of London … I like to work in the fields.”

Her heavy-lidded gaze met his, and he clenched his fists to keep from pulling her to him and taking her mouth. “You do not wear a shirt?”

He shook his head. “Not always.”

“How wicked,” she whispered, setting her lips to him and tracing moist, wet kisses along the rigid planes of his chest until he could no longer bear it.

He took control for sanity’s sake, capturing her lips, then turning her to make quick work of the long line of buttons at the back her dress, loving the nape of her neck as she sighed her pleasure on the wind. When the fabric loosened, Isabel caught it to her breasts and turned, her brown eyes filled with a siren’s promise as she let it go, the lavender fabric pooling at her feet.

Nick took a deep, steadying breath, reaching for her again, whirling her around, and tearing at the ribbons of her stays. “I loathe the woman who invented the corset,” he growled.

Isabel laughed, looking over her shoulder at him. “What makes you think a woman invented the corset? ”

“Because a man would never have made it so difficult to get to you.” The undergarment fell away from her then, and he swung her back around, brushing the straps of her chemise from her shoulders until she was bared to him and the sky and the keep. His gaze raked over her beautiful body, flushed with a mix of excitement and embarrassment. “There you are,” he said, his voice made barely recognizable by the wanting in it. “Come here.”

He pulled her to him, her bare breasts pressing against his chest, and he took her mouth in a thunderous kiss, stroking deep as his hands cupped her breasts, teasing their tips until they were hard, desperate points of flesh. She cried her wanting against his lips, and he rewarded the sound by setting his mouth to one tip, worrying the flesh with teeth and tongue and a gentle, maddening sucking that set her writhing against him. With one hand, he reached down to stroke the eager core of her, parting the soft curls that shielded her sex with one finger, finding the place where her passion pooled and circling there, pressing until her gasps became too much for him.

He shifted them, laying her down on the soft grass like a sacrifice, parting her legs to bare her to the sun and the wind and the sky as he added a second finger to the first, driving her to the edge of pleasure, watching her eyes glaze with passion.

He wanted to watch her come apart in his arms.

She arched her back against the ground, her hips circling, lifting, showing him where—how—to touch, to stroke, to circle. He leaned down and whispered in her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth, “That’s it, my love. Take your pleasure.”

He gave her that for which she did not know to ask … faster, harder, stronger, deeper … until she cried her pleasure to the ancient stones and clung to him as she spiraled out of control.

Afterward, she lay still for long minutes, and Nick drank his fill of her, naked and willing and his. When she finally opened her eyes, his breath caught at the wanton gleam there. She ran one hand down the length of his chest, sliding one finger beneath the waistband of his breeches, where he was hard and hungry for her.

“It is my turn,” she whispered, plucking at the buttons of his breeches altogether too slowly.

He stepped in, disposing of his boots and breeches quickly, until he was as naked as she, hard and hot and desperate for her. He took her mouth in a long kiss before saying, “I would hate to be thought of as unfair.”

She laughed, the sound low and wanton, and he hardened even more as she cupped him in her hand, stroking until he closed his eyes against the pleasure. What she lacked in skill, she made up for in eagerness; Nick opened his eyes to slits and watched her as she looked at him, fascinated as he grew in her hands, harder and longer than he had ever been.

As he watched, she leaned down to settle a soft, moist kiss on the tip of him, and he thought he might die from the pleasure of it.

At his groan, she stopped, lifting her head, concern flooding her face. “Did I hurt you? ”

He closed his eyes at the innocent question, unable to stop his hips from moving, desperate for more of her touch. “No, love. No …”

She looked down at him again, skeptical. “Shall I stop?”

His voice shook. “Do it again.”

She did, her lips soft and torturous against him. He held his breath, waiting for her next move, and when he felt the soft, tentative lick of her tongue there, he sighed his pleasure, “Yes … like that … God, Isabel.”

The words spurred her on, and in moments, her innocent caresses, the soft sucking of her mouth, were threatening to kill him. If she did not stop—she must stop.

He lifted her from him then, his strong arms moving her to straddle him, and he pulled her down to take her mouth. She lifted from the kiss and he met the uncertainty in her gaze. “Did you not enjoy it?”

He gave a harsh laugh. “It was the most incredible thing I have ever experienced, love. I enjoyed it too much.”

Her brow furrowed, and he realized that she did not understand. He took her mouth once more, long and deep and powerful until they were both panting, then set his mouth to the tip of one of her breasts, suckling until it was hard and aching and she was crying out. “I do not want to take my pleasure without you with me. Not today.”

He moved her then, guiding her until the tip of him was settled against her. Her eyes widened at the sensation. “Can we? Like this?”

He raised a brow. “Let’s find out.”

He lifted her, lowering her onto him until he was seated to the hilt. “Is this all right?”

“Yes,” she whispered with reverence. “Yes—” She rocked against him, testing their fit and his sanity. “It feels wonderful.”

“Good.” He lifted her again, showing her the movements, encouraging her to take control of their lovemaking—of their pleasure. She took to it immediately, as he had known she would, rocking against him, testing her movements, seeking her pleasure.

He watched, his hands stroking her lean, strong thighs, running up her torso, cupping her breasts, letting her find the rhythm that brought her to the edge.

It was torture.

She finally found the movement that brought her pleasure, rocking hard and fast against him, crying out as the wave of ecstasy threatened to break. He watched as surprise and passion passed across her face, as she looked down at him and spoke his name over and over—a litany of pleasure.

He reached down to where they were joined, setting his thumb to the peak of her sex, rubbing small tight circles there as he felt her tighten around him, about to shatter. Her eyes widened then, and he commanded, “Look at me, Isabel. Look into my eyes as it comes.”

She put her hands to his shoulders, her eyes locked with his, blue against brown. “I cannot …” she panted. “Nick!“

“I know.” He clasped her hips to his, the wave crashing over them, sweeping them both up in a maelstrom of passion and they were both crying out, the sounds echoing on the ancient walls as they found their pleasure together.

Isabel collapsed against his chest, and he held her there until their labored breathing had calmed, and all that was left was the sound of the wind rustling through the stones.

He placed his lips to her temple and whispered his love again. She shivered at the words, pressing closer to him, and he wrapped his arms around her.

Perhaps there was a chance for them after all.

Isabel sat at her dressing table, wrapped in a linen towel, preparing for her wedding night, which was an odd sort of thing considering that she and her husband had spent much of the day outdoors, naked, having their wedding afternoon.

Of course, no one inside the house could know that, and so when Lara had forced her into a hot bath, she had said nothing—not unhappy to have some time alone with her thoughts before she had to face her husband again.

Her husband.

Who loved her.

Or who said he loved her, at least.

Oh, how tempting those words were. She understood how weak her sex could be, now, how—with mere syllables—a woman could be laid low with excitement and breathless anticipation.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and Isabel’s heart immediately jumped into her throat with the thought that it might be Nick there before she realized that the sound had come from the wrong door. Earlier in the day, he had been moved into the adjoining chamber, their rooms now connected by an interior door. This knock had come from the hallway.

“Yes?”

The door opened, and Gwen and Jane entered. Isabel sat up immediately. “Is everything all right?”

Jane smiled. “It seems you are wound rather tight this evening, Isabel. Is there something on your mind? ”

Isabel scowled. “No. What would be?”

Gwen laughed, sitting on a low stool by the bed. “Oh, Isabel. It’s finally happened!“

“What has?”

Jane perched on the far edge of the copper tub. “You’ve gone and found yourself a husband.”

“It’s not as though I went searching, Jane. The whole thing happened somewhat without my consent.”

“But you’re not unhappy about it, are you?” Gwen asked.

Isabel considered the question for a long while. “Not exactly. He seems like a good man.”

“Despite the confusion yesterday? ”

Isabel nodded. “Yes. He’s made it more than clear that he’s willing to help to keep Minerva House safe.” The women nodded, and she added dryly, “He doesn’t have much of a choice if he’s marrying me.”

Gwen grinned. “Married. Past tense.”

Isabel shook her head. “I am a wife.”

“Indeed, you are,” Jane said. “And may it bring you much happiness.”

Isabel could not ignore the nervousness that came at the words. She did not know marriage as a happy thing. And there was no small part of her that believed that it was an impossibility.

But what a remarkable feeling it was to be loved.

And how terrifying. For it brought her one step closer to losing herself … if she were to reciprocate his feelings, who would she be then? She took a deep, stabilizing breath, and Gwen and Jane shared a knowing look.

“What is it?”

“Well, we’ve been sent here … to speak to you …”

Dread flared. “Oh, no. About what?”

Gwen smiled. “About your wedding night.”

Isabel’s brows snapped together. “Whatever for? ”

Jane shifted to face her more fully. Lowering her voice, she said, “We think you should be prepared. That is, you should know what to expect.”

“And since your mother is no longer with us—” Gwen added.

Understanding dawned, and the purpose of their visit was so different than the myriad of other reasons she had been imagining that she began to laugh. Rather hysterically.

The two women looked at each other, each more dumbfounded than the other, and Isabel kept laughing, unable to stop herself. She set down the comb she had been using and attempted to breathe. “I’m sorry!” She raised a hand, waving it frantically. “I’m sorry! I just …” and she began to laugh again.

Perhaps she should tell them that she did not need any advice about the events of the evening … but their awkwardness was amusing, and there was a little part of Isabel that wanted to lead them along for a bit—if for nothing else than to distract from her earlier thoughts.

“I am sorry. Please, go on.” She turned to face them. “What should I know?”

Gwen began. “Well, you have already mentioned that Lord Nicholas is a satisfactory kisser …”

"More than satisfactory.”

A blush began to rise on the cook’s cheeks. “Excellent. Then we have hopes that he will be an equally acceptable …” She paused, looking to Jane.

“Lover,” Jane said bluntly.

Isabel turned back to the mirror and lifted her comb once more. “I certainly hope so.”

“Yes, well,” Gwen pressed on. “You might be surprised by the way that … things … happen.”

Isabel grinned, trying to keep the laughter from her voice. “Things?”

There was a pause. Jane spoke first. “Well, as you know from your statues, Isabel, you have different … features … than does your husband.”

“Yes …”

"We are not going to get into too much detail,” Jane said, frustration edging into her voice.

Isabel willed herself not to smile. “But how will I know how to do it? ”

“We feel confident that Lord Nicholas will know, Isabel.”

It was too much. Isabel snickered. “Yes. I’m fairly confident of the same.”

Both women’s eyes grew wide. “You already know!” Gwen cried.

Isabel grinned, moving behind her dressing screen to don the night rail that she had selected for the evening—a deep rose silk that she hoped her new husband would enjoy. “I do. But thank you very much for your concern.”

“You are a horrid, horrid woman,” Jane said, laughter in her voice, “and he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Apparently he hasn’t a choice, considering she’s only been married for twelve hours and she’s already had her wedding night,” Gwen said, dryly. “So are we right? ”

Isabel peeked out from behind the screen. “Right? About what?”

“Is he an acceptable lover? ”

“Gwen!” Isabel blushed, slipping back behind the screen.

“Ah. It seems he is.” Gwen teased.

When their laughter died down, Jane asked, serious, “Do you love him? ”

Isabel paused at the question that had been playing over and over in her mind since that afternoon. Since before then, if she were truly honest. She caught a glimpse of herself in a long looking glass, noting her shape silhouetted beneath the silk negligee she had selected for him.

To make him happy.

To make him want her.

To make him love her more.

The truth was, she did love him.

And there was nothing more terrifying. She was terrified that, if she admitted it, she would somehow turn into her mother; that their marriage would somehow become that of her parents. How long had her mother pined for her father, how long had she waited at the window for a sign of his horses? How had she doted upon him when he was there … and told fairy tales about him when he was gone?

And hated her children for his desertion?

How could Isabel possibly risk repeating that terrifyingly desolate, despairing life?

No. Love had brought nothing but pain to this house, to her life.

She would not let love destroy her the way it had done her mother.

She would not live half a life.

And so, even as she admitted the truth of her feelings for Nick, she refused to speak them aloud.

“Isabel,” Jane called from the room beyond, shaking her from her thoughts.

She took a deep breath and spoke to her image, ignoring the sadness in her face, the pain that tore through her at the lie. “I do not love him,” she announced, willing her voice to stay light, to convince her friends that she was still as strong as she ever had been. To convince herself of it. “I married him for duty—for James and Minerva House and Townsend Park. I see no need to bring love into the scenario.”

She pasted a bright smile on her face—one she did not feel—and came out from behind the dressing screen, only to find Gwen and Jane standing, eyes fixed on a different part of the room.

She followed their gaze, and her heart sank.

For there, in the adjoining doorway, stood her husband.

He had heard everything.

Her smile faltered as he bowed stiffly. “My apologies. I did not know that you had company.”

“I—” She stopped. What could she say?

”We were just leaving, my lord,” Jane said, and she and Gwen were gone faster than Isabel had ever seen anyone exit a room.

She was alone with the man who loved her.

And she had cheapened that love with her stupid words.

He turned away, retreating into the other room. She followed without thinking, crossing the threshold as he poured himself two fingers of brandy from a decanter that had been set out for him. He stared into the glass for a long moment before he drank deep, then sat in a large, low chair and turned his attention to her. His gaze was cool and devoid of emotion.

She stepped toward him, desperate to fix what she had broken. “Nick.”

“You are wearing red.”

She stopped, the words strange to her ears. “I—” She looked down at herself. “I thought you would like it.”

There was silence as he stared at her, eyes shuttered from emotion. “I do.”

She did not like this Nick. His stillness was unsettling. “I—“

I lied. I love you.

Fear stifled the words. She willed him to hear them anyway.

“Come here.”

The command was imperious and dark—like nothing that she had ever heard from him—and there was a part of her that wanted to run from it. To close and lock the door between their chambers and hide from him until he had returned to normal.

At the same time, she wanted to submit to it.

He drank again, his blue eyes not straying from her.

Daring her to refuse.

Daring her to accept.

She wanted him.

The thought propelled her forward. Once by his side, she was transfixed by his gaze, by the cool gleam there. She wanted to shake him, to bring back the vibrancy that had been there all afternoon. The love that had been there.

He did not move for long moments, and she wondered if he might reject her, ultimately, sending her away and refusing to touch her again. The silence stretched into an eternity, devastating. And just as she was about to turn and leave on her own, he moved.

He leaned forward, reaching for her and pulling her to him until she stood between his thighs. He put his face to the soft roundness of her belly, breathing deep, pressing his open mouth to the silk there. His hands stroked up along the outside of her thighs, around to cup her bottom, pulling her to him as he moved his mouth to the place where the core of her was covered by the fabric.

The feel of his hot breath was too much; she put her hands to his head, threading her fingers into the thick sable strands, and curved her body toward him, cradling him with her whole being.

He lifted his head then, running his hands up to cup her breasts, finding the darkened tips beneath the fabric, teasing them with his thumbs and fingers until they were hard and aching for him. And only then, when her breath was coming in harsh, shaking pants, did he give her what she wanted—taking one hard nipple between his lips and suckling through the fabric, alternately worrying with his teeth and licking with his tongue until the fabric was wet and plastered to her breast. He repeated the process with the other breast until she cried her pleasure.

The sound spurred him on. He stood, bringing the hem of her gown with him, lifting it up over her head, baring her to his pale blue gaze. He lifted her, and she wrapped herself around him as he carried her back to her bedroom. He dropped her onto her bed, following her down, covering her with his warm body. She clawed at his shirt, eager to have it gone, to have him against her, and he let her pull it from him as he slid down her body, placing hot, moist kisses along the center line of her, at the indentation at the base of her neck, between her breasts, down her torso and across her soft stomach.

He eased her legs apart and she did not protest, instead moving to accommodate his wide shoulders as he pressed her against the bed and spread the downy folds that protected the heart of her. When he set his lips to her, he gave no quarter, working his tongue and teeth in a rhythm that pulled her off the bed with the pleasure of it, and she was crying out within seconds. His tongue was wicked against her, fast and furious, unwilling to accept anything but all she could give.

She shattered beneath him, screaming his name as he thrust one, then two fingers deep within her, reaching a spot that she had not known existed, that sent her over the edge once more.

He was above her then and, with a single thrust, inside her, taking her, leaving nothing, his movements deeper and more intense than anything she had felt before. He pushed her to the edge again almost instantly, and she was begging for release, begging for the climax that only he could provide. He held her there for an eternity, until she was crying his name, pleading with him for resolution.

He took her mouth in a scorching kiss, deeper and more passionate than anything they had shared before, and he reached between them, setting his thumb to the place where everything seemed to begin and end. He thrust deep, spilling inside her, and she was lost, flooded with emotion, able to think only of him.

She whispered his name as she came apart in his arms.

After a long moment, he lifted himself from her. She reached for him as he moved to the side, wanting to share the aftermath of their earth-shattering event.

He was gone from the bed before she could touch him, lifting his shirt and pants from the floor and leaving the room.

She sat up, calling out to him as he closed the connecting door firmly, shutting her out.

Regret came quick and painful, and she realized that he had not spoken once during their lovemaking.