To Love a Wicked Scoundrel (21 page)

She clung to his shoulders, no longer able to trust her legs for support, the column behind her long forgotten. The contours of his muscles, hard and powerful beneath his thin lawn shirt, flexed against her fingertips, and enticed her to explore. His fingers tightened in her hair encouraging the idea. Isabelle responded with open-mouthed kisses that dared to mimic his caresses. In a bold move, she sucked on his tongue and Con pulled her closer, a low appreciative sound deep in his throat shooting a jolt of triumph straight to her core.

She told herself to stop her wanton madness, but her sensible self would not listen, her heart and other lower parts making decisions with assertive clarity. Unable to discipline the scorching desire that drove her, she pushed closer and matched her body against his by rising to her toes. Their bodies fit in all the right places and his heat enveloped her with pleasure beyond bearing. She ached in glorifying bliss as her muscles melted against his.

He lifted his head to change the angle before he deepened the kiss. His palms coasted over her shoulders. Lower. He trailed his fingertips with tantalising skill down her back. Lower. He cupped her bottom and rubbed her body against his, the extent of his ardour hard against her belly.

She gasped.

He released her with such unsettling force she swayed, unsure of her footing, and looked to him in confusion.

Before her stood a man comfortable not just in the company of the fairer sex, but fortified with an attractive arrogance most women found difficult to resist. He could not possibly feel the same shiver of sensual exhilaration that resonated in her core, as if she’d discovered the power of her innate sexuality for the very first time. It was just not possible.

‘Why?’

Finally the troubling word made its appearance, but Constantine just stared at her, a series of unidentifiable emotions flickering in his eyes.

***

Things had gotten out of hand. Without a word, he gathered Isabelle’s hair, its vibrant disarray splayed across her shoulders as wild and inviting as if they’d tumbled headfirst into sin. He tucked the lengths behind her and searched her face in answer. Her eyes, their velvet grey depths filled with question, appeared on the verge of tears.

‘Why? That is a silly question from such a sensible thinker.’ That she had had to ask was the very crux of the situation. He couldn’t tell her that if he did not stop now he would not stop at all. Instead he dropped his hands and stepped backward, her flushed skin and kiss-swollen mouth too tempting. ‘We should return.’ He offered her a vague smile.

She blinked several times and looked away before she replied. ‘I do not understand.’

He shook his head to discourage another word. He should explain, or at least, make amends. But how could he confess that in another breath he would have lowered her to a nearby bench, lifted her skirts, and taken her in an effort to satisfy the unrelenting desire that coursed through him. He
was
the man Giddy perceived him to be and the ugly idea rankled.

They walked in silence and his mind worked to sort his conflicted emotions. He did not seduce innocents. His sexual experiences lay with lush widows, eager to share their skill in the art of pleasure. Yet their response to his attention paled greatly to Isabelle’s unpractised caresses. Her honest gracefulness and untutored ardour aroused his heart and spoke to his soul. Isabelle offered everything he had longed for years ago, before he stopped searching for happiness and closed his heart, the disappointment too overwhelming.

Isabelle, with her rosebud lips and skin as pale as moonlight, answered a long forgotten prayer. One made by a young boy who escaped to the folly to weep. He could never hurt her. The solitary vow superseded any selfish notion of satisfying his sexual interest.

The realisation shook him to the core.

She asked
why
.

That was why.

He would let her go, before he ruined all the good she embodied.

He allowed her to take the lead and only paused to glance over his shoulder at the structure that now represented a fresh memory, hopeful the exquisiteness of Isabelle in his arms would vanquish his bitter memories once and for all. He picked up a stone near his boot and arched it through the air, but he did not wait and watch it, so he never saw it land in the lion’s crown.

Neither of them spoke and the quiet was a comfort. Con struggled to understand the onslaught of emotions that waged war on his better sense. Isabelle made him believe happiness was a possibility. Her stark honesty urged him to confess why he’d become who he was now and how he had become jaded with his life. He remained silent and the estate came into view. He hurried his steps. They approached the back gate of the grounds and Brooks appeared, ready to show them to a light lunch on the rear verandah.

‘Milord, I have brought correspondence of interest.’

The valet greeted Isabelle with a curt nod and led her to the waiting table. Con did not miss her raised brow and tolerant smirk. His lips twitched at the reaction.

‘Thank you, Brooks.’ He did not take his eyes from her, now seated for luncheon. Servants bustled forward to offer different dishes and Isabelle waved them away, seemingly not accustomed to being fussed over.

When Brooks cleared his throat, Con dropped his eyes to the envelope in hand and broke the seal. The letter, written by the curator at The National Gallery, requested he come to London as soon as possible. Information concerning the paintings of which he inquired,
his paintings
, awaited him.

‘Tuesday. Four-thirty in the afternoon.’ Annoyance coloured his answer. ‘Brooks. Am I available?’

Isabelle lifted her head in his direction. She smiled slightly and repeated the words he’d just muttered, along with some other utterance. He focused on her lips and read them with ease.

‘I will consult your schedule, milord.’ He accepted the envelope offered. ‘Will there be anything else?’

‘Not for now, but inform a groom I will need a gig later this afternoon. I have long neglected a visit to Gillie and I have no doubt my arrival at Highborough House is already known. Gillie has a way of discovering everything I do once I am in residence.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Con walked towards the table as Brooks departed. He could never take Isabelle with him to visit Gillie. He was sure she would enjoy exploring his library. Then after the evening meal, he would occupy himself in another part of the estate entirely, before sending her home to Wiltshire in the morning. He was every kind of fool to bring her here and expect himself to behave. His entire life consisted of indulgence and pleasure seeking. What ridiculous notion deluded him into believing he’d resist temptation within reach? His lightning fast decisions last evening in the middle of the roadway were prompted by his basest needs; Isabelle’s skin aglow in the moonlight as if she were a figment of his imagination, a sensual goddess conjured in a dream.

A sharp stab of conscience intruded and obliterated the path of his erotic imagery. This time he needed to do the right thing. With determined strides, he crossed the lawn.

Too unsettled to eat, he accepted a glass of wine and flicked his eyes to Isabelle. He would have to go hungry in more ways than one. He lifted his wine and drank. The flavour lingered on his tongue and he calmed, pleased with his steward’s excellent selection. Isabelle raised her glass, the contents almost emptied and his mood eased. She captivated him. Here, in his ancestral home, where he’d never allowed another woman. The beguiling little minx.

‘Who is Lord Lutts?’

She almost dropped her wine, surprised he had read her lips.

‘Lord Lutts is an acquaintance of mine in Wiltshire. He visits at Rossmore House every Tuesday at four-thirty. We have enjoyed the arrangement for a number of years. He is a very kind man.’

Her smooth recovery gave nothing away, although her eyes clouded with an undecipherable emotion.

‘Kind? Such a bland descriptor to label the man.’ Was that jealousy scratching at his soul?

‘An essential quality in a companion nonetheless.’

He’d be damned if he returned her to Wiltshire now. No one knew Isabelle remained his willing captive at Highborough House, therefore the circumstances encouraged no haste, especially if Lord Kindness waited for her there.

‘I see.’ A current of unsettled emotion charged the air and he scowled when Isabelle’s brow rose in question of his tone. Sunlight played in the waves of her hair, vermillion, auburn, and carnelian. He’d become addled if he continued to prevaricate.
Have her stay or send her home.
All he wanted to do was bury himself inside her and make her his own. The careless thought caused his groin to tighten. He refilled his wine glass in a quick motion that splashed red to the white linen tablecloth.

‘Are you enjoying your time here?’ He tossed his napkin over the stain, refusing to look at it.

‘It is an adventure, a grand one, at that.’

‘A practical way to view these two days.’

She might seek adventure, but the ache in his groin and the unexpected possessiveness that goaded his ego equaled something all together different. Seduction. There was no other word for it. If Isabelle wanted adventure, he was more than ready to lead the expedition.

At his silence she raised her eyes to his, a quiet intensity hidden in their depths. Then she broke contact and resumed her meal. He watched the tip of her pink tongue flick out to recover an errant crumb and he reached for his wine glass again, decision made.

Soon after lunch Isabelle returned to her chambers to change her gown. Once again she found Janie absent.

‘Mary, how is my maid fairing? Is she over her fright from last evening?’ Isabelle tilted her head in consternation. Should she demand Mary take her to her maid? Now that Brooks had arrived at Highborough House she held no doubt the two conspired to spend time together. Isabelle did not wish her confidences shared concerning her hasty decision last night. Better to give Janie a little time to pursue her desires if it also bought the maid’s silence.

‘She continues to recover, milady.’ Mary opened the wardrobe and extended her hand to indicate the selection.

‘I will wear the teal.’ Minutes ticked by while clothing was removed and replaced. ‘But Janie isn’t ill, is she? I mean, I would be terribly remiss if I neglected her needs.’

‘She claimed fatigue when I opened her door this morning.’ Mary finished with the last of the buttons and picked up the ivory hairbrush, her expression revealing little.

Isabelle sat at the vanity and a half smile twisted her lips. No doubt, Janie considered herself on holiday. Very well. She would enjoy an afternoon spent in the estate’s extensive library. Con mentioned he would not return from his errand until the dinner hour and that offered her a full afternoon. Afterward she would explore the grounds more thoroughly. The sun shone brightly despite the scattered clouds and she hadn’t missed how Con’s shoulders tightened when she’d asked about the patch of land to the west of the walking path.

‘Do not bother to arrange my hair.’ She chose a wide ribbon from the basket on the vanity and handed it to Mary. No sense losing another set of hairpins.

The house sprawled in several directions, but she found the library with little trouble. The interior of Highborough House was decorated impeccably with fine furniture and exquisite artwork and the library did not disappoint. Shelves overflowed with books on every topic: literature, poetry, and reference volumes. With a surge of delight, she stood in the centre of the room on the lush Persian carpet with arms extended, twirling in a childlike circle of glee, reminiscent of Lily’s exuberance.

‘If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.’ She voiced the words as if chanting a spell and allowed the magic to spiral through her as she viewed the expansive collections that lined the walls.

When a male voice disrupted her pleasure, she stilled.

‘You quote Cicero? Surprising, indeed.’

Isabelle dropped her arms and her attention snapped to Brooks’ solemn gaze. Seated behind a walnut desk in the corner of the room, he’d witnessed her gleeful discovery of the library. Embarrassment matched the peak of her anger and the dueling emotions brought colour to cheeks.

‘It is I who should be more surprised you recognise the quote. Manners dictate you make yourself known once someone enters a room.’ She affected her frostiest tone in hope the servant would leave. Instead the odious little man forced a tolerant smile, as if to remind her he belonged here and she did not.

‘His lordship recites the masters by verse. Scored double firsts at Oxford for high intellect, he did. Although it is a rarity when he shares his bookish knowledge.’

Isabelle remained quiet in hope Brooks would leave if she declined to further their conversation, but he made no move to do so, content to perpetuate her unease.

The clock chimed the hour and it sounded unnatural in the silent room. ‘I am surprised he let you in.’

Confused, Isabelle replied without thinking. ‘Into the library? Why would that alarm you? I am Lord Highborough’s guest.’

‘You misunderstand.’ Brooks glanced away and then back again. ‘I refer to his sudden interest in your company.’

‘Lord Highborough is the most popular gentleman of the ton. I doubt this invitation implies anything significant.’ A peculiar sensation settled in her stomach.

‘If you believe that then you know him not at all. It is possible I misjudged your perspicacity, although I am rarely wrong when it comes to shades of character.’

Isabelle swallowed an immediate retort and moved to the closest bookcase. The man unnerved her, as if he read her insecurities with little effort. She scanned the shelf, heedless of the books housed there. She would make her selection and leave before the situation grew more uncomfortable.

‘His lordship does not possess gothic novels.’ Again the valet’s words were designed to insult.

‘By your own admittance I quote Cicero.’
Rude man
. She’d just forgiven him the dahlia incident and now he soured her recovering opinion with his low belief women read romantic literature and little else.