Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord (26 page)

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?”