What Isabella Desires (9 page)

He hadn’t always been so skilled at hiding his emotions. He had gone into seclusion with his parents for two years until their deaths. She hadn’t seen him again for six years. When they had been reintroduced at one of her pre-debut outings, he had been a virtual stranger—though a very polite one. He had always made sure to dance with her. To bring her into conversations with the pinnacle of the fashionable, who had begun to court him as he gained power and grew more handsome every year. To help her bloom into a confident young member of society.

It hadn’t taken long for her to become besotted with him.

“Every word?”

“Yes.”

She had lingered for three seasons, hoping he would declare. Her infatuation had turned into love, but her girlish mind had matured as well. She had seen his unrelenting courtesy for what it was; a fondness for her—as a friend. And as one season turned to two and two into three, she had steadily realized that it wasn’t to be.

He released the curl from his fingers. “You are looking for a lover.”

She paused for a moment to recall her drunken words.

“Yes.”

“And you’ve decided on me for the moment.”

For the last decade, really, though she’d never say it aloud. “You seem the best choice.”

“Do I?” Amusement warred with something darker.

“The choicest cut, as it were.”

“Mmmm…”

“You were my favorite exploring partner when we were young.”

“This is hardly the pond in the back woods. And this isn’t a minnow you are trying to catch.”

“A minnow would not suit my purposes.”

He raised a brow. She raised one in return.

“There are half a dozen men in that ballroom that would be a better choice for a lover, for someone to explore with, than me.”

But she didn’t love any of the men inside. Why would she want to choose someone else? And there was also the teensy matter that she wasn’t really “exploring,” but it wouldn’t hurt to keep that to herself for the moment.

“I don’t trust any of them. I trust you.”

Something dark passed over his face, but it was gone too quickly.

“And what if you become too attached and get hurt?”

His saying that hurt, but she smiled instead. “I’m a mature woman, Marcus. I keep telling you that you should stop worrying. We are friends, are we not? I know what I’m getting into.”

Silver lies. Delivered with a friendly smile.

He looked away from her to a portrait on the left. The woman inside seemed to be leaning forward in her frame, but Marcus’s eyes were unfocused.

“You will just go on this foolish mission with someone else,” he said, mostly to himself. “Just like when you were eight.”

One time when she was angry with him, she had gone off with a group of children she didn’t know. It happened one time. But if she could use it…

“There is that.”

Time ticked. She rocked on her heels but didn’t look away. Let him take the bait…

He sighed. She had never heard him sigh before. “Very well.”

Overwhelming joy and relief crashed through her, before his words and tone caught up—It was as if she had just asked him to stave off death. She crossed her arms automatically. “Well you don’t have to sound so disgruntled about it.”

His eyes met hers once more, and she was relieved to see amusement overlaying the darkness. “Not very well done of me, was it?”

“No.”

She waited for him to properly rephrase his response. He reached out and ran a finger along her exposed shoulder blade instead. She stood rooted to the spot. He dipped a finger around the curl still lying there and brought the strands to his lips. “You always smell of flowers—wild and free. But that dress…you are wild and free tonight, Bella.”

She couldn’t have looked away if the building caught fire. Her heart raced, but all of a sudden the thoughts running through her head were languid and slow.

He leaned forward and the curl slipped from his fingers. Those long fingers, graceful and sure, ghosted across her cheek. The touch almost reverent. They slipped to the nape of her neck and drew her forward, slowly, gently.

“You are going to regret this,” he said softly.

“No, I won’t.”

His eyes never left hers. His lips, soft but strong, touched hers. Just a touch. Heat flamed through her and she was caught in a heady feeling of exhilaration.

He was going to kiss her.

“Yes you will,” he murmured.

And because he was moving too slowly, being too wrenchingly cautious, she kissed him instead. Just a press of her lips to his.

The texture was unbearably smooth. He pulled her closer, his lips stroking hers, opening her mouth beneath. His hand gently pressed her neck, the other softly touching her cheek in a reverent manner, as if she were delicate and beautiful and desired.

He tasted like cinnamon, deep and spicy. She was kissing Marcus, pressed against him, and nothing had ever felt so good.

He pulled her closer still and her dress flowed around his legs, as if a breeze were caressing an elm.

Cinnamon enveloped her. His hand trailed down her arm.

He pulled back slightly and traced her features. “What am I going to do with you?” he whispered. “I should let you go, but I can’t stand to see you looking at another man the way…”

…the way you look at me—She finished his sentence in her mind. Left unsaid as if it was his darkest secret.

That he would want to be with her thrilled her so much that her heart echoed a stampede. Everything should be perfect. Yet…his reserve, his obvious reluctance…shouldn’t he be happier? Shouldn’t that desire be a good thing?

She pushed the thoughts gently to the side to examine later. “I won’t.”

And if that wasn’t putting her cards on the table…

“You should. If you get involved with me, there are a few things you have to recognize.”

She pushed the pain away and touched his face. “I know.”

And she did. She knew all arrangements with Marcus were temporary. She knew that Marcus had no interest in marriage, for some reason. She also knew she wouldn’t be a standard bird in his aviary.

What that made her, she didn’t know. But she could work with it.

She’d have to work with it.

And if it made it harder to let him go in the end, she would just have to work with that too. She had already cast her lot. She had already decided exactly what she wanted. What she wanted could change in the future; that she wanted Marcus would not.

“You shouldn’t know anything of the sort, Bella. You should run as far from me as you can manage.”

“Why would I do that?” she said lightly. “You’ve always been faster.”

His face was still far too serious, and it worried her more than slightly.

“Marcus, I don’t believe you have graciously accepted this offer or presented one in return.”

He regarded her for a long moment before bowing over her hand. His lips connected with her gloved knuckles, but she could feel the heat as if he’d stripped them bare.

“Pardon me, Lady Willoughby.” His eyes locked with hers. “Would you do me the honor of becoming my companion for the unspecified near future?”

The “near future” part hurt, but the roguish look in his eyes warmed her.

“I gladly accept, Lord Roth,” she said pertly. “Now where are you going to ravish me? I seem to recall you have an aversion for settees?”

The mischievousness on his face didn’t diminish, but she caught sight of the drifting shadows.

“No settees tonight. Return to Calliope and James. I will see you tomorrow.”

“But—”

He stroked her cheek, and she cut off abruptly to lean into the gesture. “Not here. Not like this. Not with you. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She nodded slowly, half afraid if she left now, it would all turn out to be some dream from which she would awaken.

His face was growing more closed, as usual. But she had enough to hope.

“Off with you, Bella, before a demon swoops down to gobble you up in that delicious dress.”

She watched his eyes; amusement and just a trace of ferocity present.

That look would haunt her dreams all night.

Marcus watched her go and leaned against the wall. No one had interrupted them, much to his surprise.

Much to his regret?

No, right now, with the feel of her smooth skin and lips embedded in his mind, in his fingertips, he didn’t regret. In the future he knew he most definitely would.

How was he going to disentangle himself from this mess? A mess partially of his own making.

He wanted her. It wasn’t an admission he was comfortable with acknowledging yet. He had spent too long denying emotional entanglements, staying away from anyone with the ability to get close, merely taking relief as needed. But finding relief had been harder and harder, thus the string of women Stephen had annoyingly pointed out. One unsatisfying pair of legs after another.

None of the legs had been bad on their own…but he had the vaguely terrifying notion that they had just not been attached to the right woman.

Either Stephen was finally rubbing off on him or something about this current situation was subtly changing him. He didn’t know which was worse.

He pushed away from the wall. No, the latter was a hundred times worse. No matter what happened in the next few weeks, the outcome would not change.

He had promised Isabella a short-term relationship to deal with her quest—her panicky female situation. Widows tended to get restless around her age, he’d seen it before, he just had hoped it would never happen to her. It would have been kinder to let her go off with some other bloke. Someone who could take care of her and convert an affair into marriage.

He strode down the hall, boots clacking on the marble.

But he had promised her, and he never broke his promises. Not even to himself.

And that could only end badly.

Marcus had been covertly watching her all night. She was extremely nervous.

He lifted his head and reached over to refill her glass with the delicate wine he always kept on hand for her. When she had first realized he was stocking it for her a year ago, Bertie had barely been able to grab her before she had floated off into the starry night.

He preferred darker, headier wines, while the other members of their party drank their own favorites—scotch, brandy, Madeira. Fruit juice for Audrey, who had become attached to oranges somewhere in the first few months of her pregnancy and had drunk little else since. He’d ribbed Stephen about the constant shipments of citrus for months now.

Tonight’s gathering was a small affair. His affairs always were. James, Calliope, Stephen, Audrey, Calliope’s sister, Audrey’s sister, Viscount St. John, Robert Cruikshank, Peel, and a few of their cronies wandered around the game room, gabbed, and took a stab at some of the more interesting games that Marcus liked to collect.

“Still playing that mind-numbing game, you two?” Stephen chirped.

“We were just at a draw.”

“Excellent. Come away from there. We are going to play a few hands of whist.”

More than a few people chimed their interest.

“Looks like you have plenty for two separate games,” Marcus called out, then looked at her, his gold eyes challenging. “Shall we continue?”

For some reason the other guests waited for her response as well.

“Yes. I’ll dispatch you in a quick game, and then we’ll rotate in with cards.”

“Well said, Lady Willoughby,” Stephen murmured with a laugh.

Bodies shifted to the other end of the room, away from the two high-backed leather chairs and small checkered table near the fireplace.

“A quick game, Bella? So eager for defeat?”

“I’m always eager for your defeat, Lord Roth.”

Marcus smirked and leaned forward to put his black pieces back into order. Long fingers clasped the head of a pawn, tapped the body of a knight, seated a bishop. It wasn’t until he was settling his queen on the board that she realized she had been staring. She hastily moved her white pieces into position.

There was something in the air. Something that wasn’t usually present during their matches. Or at least was usually only present on her side.

He watched her from beneath hooded eyes. His forefinger absently traced a pattern in the arm of his chair.

He appeared unsure how to proceed.

She couldn’t stop a relieved smile.

He lifted an eyebrow and stopped tracing. “Yes, Bella?”

Mischievousness shot through her. “I was just thinking of what boon to ask when I win.”

A slow smile spread across his face. It started at his eyes, then cheeks, to his full lips, as the corners tipped upward.

“A challenge? For our intrepid adventurer? Fine, then, what shall it be? Or would you rather keep it secret?”

Sometimes he made things so easy for her. At other times…“A secret, I should think.”

“I figured as much.”

“And you?”

He leaned forward and his fingers brushed hers. “A kiss, I should think.”

Her breath caught, and he lifted her hand from the board. She leaned toward him without thought…and he abruptly turned the tabletop so the black pieces stopped in front of her.

She blinked at them for a second as he released her hand.

“And just to make it proper…it is my turn to make an offer, is it not, Bella?”

He moved her, his, white pawn to the opening of the king’s gambit, traditionally her favorite opening of the game.

“It would be quite unladylike of me not to accept, Roth.”

She moved the black pawn, unfamiliar in her hand, to e5 and accepted the gambit.

“To titles, is it, Bella? A game to determine the winner?”

They always played to win, but this time the stakes were for something greater.

He moved another pawn to f4, and she used her gambit piece to take it.

“Taking material so soon, Bella? How uncivilized. Your bloodthirstiness knows no bounds.”

“What can I say? I love having your pieces in my control.”

From where had that come?

“But it remains to be seen if you can stand to have your pieces in my control. Every last one of them.”

A shiver wracked her. “Mmmm…so it does. Let us then hope, for my sake, that I stay on top of the game.”

He moved his bishop and she took an early check position with her queen. But he easily moved his king out of harm’s way, and she pushed another pawn forward. His bishop took her pawn.

“Tut tut, Marcus. Taking material so early? How trite.”

“But now I have something to do with my fingers. Small, yet perfect to play with.”

He pulled the pawn through the fingers of one hand, the tips caressing the pebbled head on top.

The material of her dress, of her chemise, grew coarser.

They spent the next five turns shuffling pieces and getting into position with no further material loss or gain.

When her pawn took his kingside bishop, he smirked and tapped her already captured pawn against his lips.

They played three more turns until his queenside bishop grabbed her pawn. Up until now, the game had been one of shuffling, edging, and testing. Each feeling out new strategies by the other. Trying to see where the other stood and what they intended.

She attacked, pressing her queen up to b2 and taking a pawn.

And then he moved his bishop to d6. D6? Both rooks completely open for the taking, which would leave his king alone in the back, the queen in an unstable position to defend.

What was he thinking? She examined the board, rotating the table a bit to observe from other angles, and still…he was leaving the way wide open to her better position.

Marcus was devious. The best player she knew. But he made mistakes too, whether he cared to admit them or not. She had won her fair share of times, helped every so often by controlling white.

She toyed with the white bishop she had captured, rolling the pointy top between her fingertips. She could capture either rook—one with her bishop, the other with her queen.

“I thought you said you wanted a quick game, Bella?”

“So eager for defeat?”

She picked up her bishop and moved it a space over from his king, plucking his kingside rook from the board.

“It depends on whether it would really be defeat. I have yet to learn your boon.”

He moved a pawn to e5.

She hummed. “It could be something terrible, of course.”

She took his queenside rook with her queen, creating check, though her nerves were screaming. She was on the attack, but he wasn’t defending at all. “Check.”

“Then I should make sure to win. So sweet a reward on my side.”

He moved his king from check. Even if she laid chase to his king with her queen, he had plenty of board to maneuver, and her bishop would be rendered useless for hemming.

While she looked back to her own pieces, she tried to think of a way to verbally bait him.

She did a double take. Oh. No. Oh, no.

She looked up at him and saw that same half-mocking smile that he wore when he pulled one over on her. But the warm glow in his eyes caused her to think about forgiving him this time.

Someday.

He winked—one slow drag of long sensual eyelashes over his cheek and back up.

Forgiveness could be had in the near future, at the very least.

His next two moves saw her in check both times, and it was only with the dogged determination of the damned that she continued moving her pieces—the actual game long since over—she had gone from offensive to completely defensive in the span of a couple moves.

In one of his last moves, he left his queen open on purpose, damn man, and in a fit of doomed pique she took it before he could checkmate her. Marcus rarely if ever sacrificed his queen.

He’d lost nearly half his pieces, including both rooks and his queen, and had still destroyed her, hemmed in by his lone bishop and two knights.

“Are you two finished yet?” Stephen called from across the room.

Isabella nodded and rose. She was warm from the look in Marcus’s eyes as he surveyed her somewhat smugly, and warm from embarrassment. He was going to be smug about this win for weeks.

“I need to get my bag from the carriage,” she called out.

“Running away, Bella?” Marcus asked, dragging her queen along his lips.

She watched the piece slide across his full lower lip. “Of course not,” she said sourly, though it lacked the full tartness it would otherwise contain after such a monumental defeat. “I have our winner’s trophy in the carriage. I’ll return in a moment.”

She retreated into the hallway and leaned her forehead against the wall. A semblance of sense returned, but really, no one liked losing. And so badly!

Sure, she could be a mite competitive. Perhaps even a disgruntled loser every once in a very great while…

“Are you going to speak to me after this, Bella?” Marcus’s voice was amused.

She turned to see him leaning against the edge of the doorway just a few feet away.

She pushed away from the wall so she was standing in the middle of the hall, arms crossed. “I don’t know, Lord Roth. Speaking involves my lips moving in answer to yours.”

“Which is why I’ve come to collect my earnings right away.”

Heat traveled through her, and stupid thoughts about pride and losing at chess fled.

“Oh?”

He uncurled from the doorway and sauntered toward her. “You don’t object, do you? A kiss, I believe that was my term for winning.”

She couldn’t say anything. The connection between her brain and mouth decided it was suddenly time for a break.

He stepped in front of her and took her hand in his, softly stroking her fingers through her gloves.

She leaned forward automatically and his fingers moved up her glove, up her forearm, blazing a continual trail upward.

He stroked the soft bare underside of her arm near her elbow. The small hairs stood on end and she shivered, pressing closer to his chest. He repeated the motion and her breasts brushed against his jacket. She could feel the heat burning from him. She could almost imagine the hot skin beneath her fingertips, restrained under those clothes.

His long fingers caressed her upper arms, the tips of his fingers grazing the sides of her breasts.

The fire spread to her cheeks and her breathing grew ragged.

And still he hadn’t kissed her. Her body was running way ahead toward the end of the race. And still his lips had not touched hers.

He seemed to catch the drift of her thoughts as his hands moved over her shoulders and into the hair at the back of her neck. He tipped her head back and lowered his.

His lips hovered above hers. Just a fraction of an inch. Cinnamon and spice, heat and promise. The air between their lips swirled, drawing them closer.

“You didn’t answer my question, Bella.” The tips of his lips brushed against hers on each word. It took everything she had not to close the gap.

“Question, Marcus?” She looked up through her lashes and brushed her chest to his.

“You don’t object to a victory kiss, do you?”

His hands reached down and curled around her waist, the tips of his fingers brushing the top of her rear. He pulled her against him another inch so they were clasped together everywhere but at the lips.

“No, no, we must keep to the terms,” she said breathily, barely even remembering what they had been playing.

“Very wise of you.”

He kissed her. Deliberately. Forcefully. In a way that made her dizzy and giddy. That caused her hands to reach up and curl into the soft hair at the back of his neck. That had her arching up into him to be just an inch closer.

She kissed him with all she had and all she was. All the love and unsated passion she had been storing since she’d first fallen for him. This kiss was like eating the finest dessert or sipping the most expensive wine. A delicious heady experience that just made her want more, more, more. Nothing could compare with kissing Marcus.

He pushed her against a wall; which wall, she had no idea. She couldn’t even remember what day it was. But the wall gave her excellent leverage to push back into him. To connect them in a manner that made him groan heavily against her mouth.

The heady feeling gave way to an exhilaration unlike any she had known.

He devoured her in a way that made her feel that maybe he felt that she was the finest dessert or most expensive wine.

His fingers skimmed over her breast. She gasped and arched, the sensations spiking through her, adding to the fire that lit her cheeks and spread downward—tentacles of heat lacing throughout her body.

If she died at this very moment, in this very hallway, she would die a happy, happy woman.