To Love a Wicked Scoundrel (25 page)

He settled between her legs and the tip of his manhood brushed exquisitely against the dampness of her femininity. He exhaled, long and loud, and breathed in her sweet rosewater scent. Then he gently pressed inside her.

She was incredibly tight, unbelievably so. Coupled with the fact he did not use a French letter, the sensation of her hot slick skin enveloping him was almost too much to bear. He moved with excruciating care, not wishing to cause her discomfort, hoping to slow time and absorb every detail.

‘I want you. All of you.’ He might have said more, but she reached up and traced his jaw with her fingertips.

‘Take me then. All of me.’

‘Isabelle.’
Give me your heart.

He pushed a small degree deeper and sheathed himself in her heat. He closed his eyes to temper his movements. When he glanced to her face, her eyes glittered in the fractured light.

‘Am I hurting you? There are tears in your eyes.’

‘No.’ She offered him a tight smile. ‘It is not that. I – ’ She fell silent and lifted her hips in a slight movement of encouragement.

He eased himself deeper. ‘Do you like this? Me inside you.’

‘Yes.’ She whispered and her smile bloomed. ‘I do.’

She encircled his neck and brought his mouth to hers, and as their kiss became hungry, greedy, he knew he could wait no longer. He had to have her. He broke away from her lips, his breathing fast.

‘Love, do you think you can accept – ’

She smiled at him, a bewitching grin, and raised her hips in an impatient gesture. He slid inside fully.

‘ – more of me.’

He reached the barrier of her virginity and aware of the consequences, no
, the possibilities
, he sank inside, overcome with the exquisite harmony of their bodies joined. He groaned aloud, the weak grasp on his control snapped, and when Isabelle moaned in pleasure, he could no longer temper his desire.

She met him thrust for thrust, her body perfectly matched in rhythm, and when she hooked one leg around his hip and bowed to meet him, he lost himself in the hot pleasure of their passion. From the start he knew he would never last long, and everything concerning Isabelle ensured that he wouldn’t: her breathy whimpers of need and want, her hands at his shoulders drawing him down for one kiss after another, their tongues as twined as their bodies.

He never had the thought to leave her, and spilled himself deep inside in an explosion of beautiful colour and unbearable pleasure. In that moment, he finally found his heart.

Chapter Seventeen

Sanity returned slowly. Isabelle lay against Con’s chest with his heartbeat at her ear, listening to the cadence of his breathing. She inhaled his male scent, the wondrous mixture of spice and sex, and dared to dream. She would not allow tears. Not while her heart overflowed. Good Lord, she’d almost confessed her true emotions when he moved above her. But it was too late for self reprimands. She loved him desperately and there would be no returning from the sentiment of this adventure. Regardless, she haboured no regret.

She dared a look at his face and noticed his eyes, heavy lidded, an irresistible sensuality in their depths, as his fingers played in her hair and swept it softly against her back in a delicious display of affection. She smiled, unable to put her joy into words.

‘Your skin…’ His words were nothing more than a sleepy rumble.

A self-conscious worry creased her brow before she forced it away.

‘Feels like satin. I told you earlier, I’d won the attention of the loveliest woman in England this evening and I did not lie.’

She lifted her head and offered him a skeptical glance. ‘I would cherish your compliment more so if I did not suspect you’d flattered a scandalous number of women before me.’

He cleared his throat and the timbre of his voice dropped a notch. ‘What kind of man do you believe me to be? You’ve given me a most precious gift, and now you insult me.’

There was a vague mocking gleam in his eyes and she looked away, and resettled her head against his chest unbothered by his past. She accepted they could share no future between them. Tonight was hers to cherish and the memories of their intimacy would be for ever in her heart. It was the way of things and would it would suffice.

When he spoke again, his admission caught her by surprise. ‘Who I am inside is opposite to what people assume. At times, the expectations terrify me.’

He paused, and Isabelle was unsure he would continue.

‘Somehow you have seen me with more clarity than others who have kept my company for decades.’

She pressed a kiss to his chest and did not turn. Some things were best left alone. His confession was an eye opening truth. Her earl was lonely. She promptly changed the subject. ‘How did you get that scar?’

His entire body went rigid before he regained his ease.

‘The one over your left eyebrow.’ Isabelle continued flawlessly, as if he hadn’t just revealed volumes with his reaction. She twisted in his hold so she could better view him. ‘This one.’ She traced a short line above his brow with her fingertip before she looked into his eyes. Anger and pain reflected, although his words were curt.

‘An accident of sorts. Years ago.’

He might have thought his explanation sufficient, but she waited, expecting more.

‘A glass vase shattered. I stood too close to the scattering shards.’ He exhaled a long breath. ‘My father threw it at me when I attempted to leave the room without his permission.’

‘I am sorry. That is horrible.’ She pressed closer and folded her hand into his as if she somehow could absolve the painful memory.

‘Thank you, but that is the least of it.’

‘The other scars then, behind your neck, he inflicted them as well?’

She could not mistake the tightening of his body now.

‘Yes.’ Reluctance punctuated the single word. ‘He carried a cane with a sterling knob. He did not use it for walking.’

She stifled her gasp and allowed the silence to envelope them for a long span before she darted her eyes to his, with hope she’d disguised her sorrowful horror on his behalf.

Constantine saw acceptance in Isabelle’s grey gaze, however he could not tell her the details of his past.

So enchanted had he been that he had not guarded her hands from the series of scars that ruined the back of his head. He never knew she’d discovered them. Hiding their ugliness was the reason he grew his hair longer than fashionable. It would be difficult for him to habour the details if she pressed the point. One look at her stormy eyes and he was good for nothing anyway.

In the past, his profligate habits allowed him the luxury of detachment, to exist as an intriguing enigma of the ton. Isabelle’s innocent questions awakened memories of the past he preferred to keep locked away. If he dreamed of a future with her, how would he ever confess the horrid details of his past and the shame he haboured because of it? Somewhere, buried below his hatred of his father, resentment of his mother and isolating sadness, he needed her to know every aspect of his horrific upbringing, but tonight was not for such things.

‘It is of no matter. That wound healed long ago.’ He threaded his fingers through her hair and rested his palm on her bare shoulder.

‘The wounds one can see are rarely those that cut deepest.’

When he made no reply, she continued.

‘Whatever happened. It wasn’t your fault.’

Her whispered observation arrested him. How easily she saw through his detached façade with her uncanny ability to read his heart. Was that the reason he’d confessed secrets ordinarily buried beneath layers of contempt, for once governed by true emotion and not the impatient whim of another organ further below?

‘I wished my father dead many times but when it happened it did not bring me the peace I sought.’ He kissed the top of her head and she nestled skin to skin, two lovers in bed. The thought pleased him. How easily he could envision many nights spent the same way. Damn the current course of their conversation, as it hardly cultivated heartwarming sentiments.

‘Let your anger go. You must overcome it or your father will have won.’

The distraction of a long, lingering kiss was in order. ‘I hope I have not hurt you. Shall I fetch warm water?’

‘No.’ She moved, barely. ‘I am fine. Very fine.’ And he felt her smile against his skin.

They remained like that, in silence, until sleep overtook them. When he awakened, Isabelle had moved to the left side of the bed and lay on her stomach, her hair strewn across the pillows, her lips gently parted in sleep, an image from his fantasies. He glanced to the clock on his armoire, but could not decipher the hands in the shallow firelight. A sliver of moon cast a shimmer through the window, otherwise the room remained dark. Dawn slept outside, the new day hours away.

He had no intention of waking his precious lover, yet his fingers itched to touch her skin bathed in the sallow glow of the waning fire. An ember sizzled and hissed and she stirred, the slightest movement, her body angled so the creamy swell of one delicious breast pressed firm against the mattress and tempted, begged him. He swallowed and fought his body’s insistence to trail his fingers down her spine, across her velvet soft skin, to follow the smooth slope of her derriere.

Temperance evaporated, leaving him no resolve. He wanted to taste her again, savour and devour her, keep the sweetness of her on his tongue for ever. He moved forward and the sheets rustled, tangling with his legs as he fought to keep his hands from reaching for her. The noise and movement were too much and Isabelle sighed, as if lost in the blissfulness of dreams. She turned to her back, her lashes pressed to her cheeks, her lush lips parted, her beautiful breasts displayed. He watched the pulse at the hollow of her throat and his breathing learned the rhythm. Her lashes fluttered and he gathered her in to his arms, her body soft and yielding as her arms encircled him and he rolled her beneath.

She sighed again. Did she continue to sleep? Caught in a dream of sensual arousal? The idea made him harder, and he reached between their bodies and gently touched her. She was wet and ready, her core hot and tight around his fingers, and he whispered kisses across her cheek, the new growth of whiskers on his jaw startling her awake. She smiled then captured his mouth in a kiss that spoke loudly of what she wanted.

He pulled back, and pushed into her tight heat. Isabelle made a delicious little sound and he pressed further. This time there was nothing unhurried about their joining. He wanted to make it last. He measured his strokes with desperate determination, but all attempt at stamina was futile. When she raised her hips to meet his thrusts, he groaned with pleasure, lost to her fiery passion. Blood drummed in his veins. His heart pounded. Never had he experienced such raw desire and aching need. Breathless, he raced with her towards completion, relishing the waves of pleasure that consumed her and the pure exhilaration found as he buried himself with a final stroke and poured himself into her. He collapsed beside her, and pulled her close. He was utterly spent, and never happier.

***

Morning awoke them with intrusive sunlight that illuminated more than the bedchamber.

‘I should return to my room. Janie will be looking for me.’ With palpable reluctance, Isabelle slipped from the sheets and shyly gathered her cotton night rail from the floor.

‘I should have tossed that in the fire.’ He forced a smile and watched her every movement. His body responded with immediate enthusiasm.

‘I suppose you’d prefer me in a little nothing from France, even while I must return to my bedchamber and explain.’

Humour laced her voice and this time, his smile came easy. ‘I would prefer you did not return at all.’

She finished dressing and moved to stand before his bureau, busy in a hopeless attempt to arrange her hair.

‘Stay with me.’ Her hands froze. He could not see her face. ‘I take full responsibility for last night. Stay with me. Give me more time.’

She glanced over her shoulder and her lovely eyes narrowed.

‘Do not talk of blame or responsibility. Last night was my choice, the best decision I have ever made, but I cannot stay. We both know I must return to Wiltshire. My life is there.’

Build your life with me.

She turned to the mirror and a painful silence enveloped the room. How could he let her go? She might leave this afternoon, but he would soon follow after her. Besides, there could be consequences from their coupling. He released a deep exhale. He’d never foregone the use of a French letter. Ever.

But everything was different with Isabelle.

The desire to be joined with her, to make love, was more powerful than any decision he’d ever made in his life. He shook his head in disbelief. His emotions rarely offered him reliable advice. It was too much to consider all at once.

‘What are you thinking about? Your expression is absolutely wretched.’ Isabelle tilted the small looking glass so she could view his reflection.

‘Nothing.’ He spoke softly. ‘Nothing of importance.’ She portrayed a romantic vision as she arranged her hair in the mirror of
his
bedchamber.
As if she belonged there and nowhere
else
. An overwhelming possessiveness seized him and his fingers itched to grab her and toss her back into bed.

‘You kept my dance card?’ She turned from his bureau, the rumpled token from Lord Rochester’s social displayed across her palm.

He didn’t meet her eyes. ‘It held the scent of your perfume.’

‘And my hair comb?’ Her incredulous expression softened.

He watched, mesmerised, as she traced her fingertip over the metal soldiers, all part of the odd collection of keepsakes tossed in the antique glass bowl on his bureau. She pulled back with an abrupt jerk of the wrist.

‘I should go.’

You take my heart with you.

She walked to the bed and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. He rose to meet her and took her face in his hands for a kiss of aching possessiveness meant to steal her breath away. Would she understand all the words he could not say? She offered him a tremulous smile then hurried from the room, and Constantine fell back against the pillows. The lightest rosewater scent lingered as he lay staring at the ceiling.