“Say it again,” he clipped, “so that I am certain.”
“I want it.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her blue eyes, as bright as the sky, bored into him.
Still, he hesitated. This was not what she’d said before. Before, she’d said the opposite.
“I can barely remember the reasons it would be so very wrong,” she said. “My survival depends on my ability to resist touching you or any man, and yet—”
“Ah, must we invoke ‘any man’?”
She laughed and ducked her head.
His heart slammed against his chest. His mouth watered. Rocks dug into his knee and searing water soaked his buckskins and he didn’t care. His body registered only his raging desire to kiss her.
“You’ve been the perfect gentleman,” she whispered, leaning in.
“Have I?”
“You’re clever and agreeable, so handsome. You listen and understand and pretend to care—”
“I do care,” he said, staring at her mouth. A scoundrel’s favorite lie, but it was true.
“I’m just a woman,” she sighed. “I can only resist so much. You know my terrible history and all the reasons for it. And you know my narrow future and all the reasons this can happen only once.”
“This?” he asked.
He was going about this all wrong, and he knew it. His oh-so-proficient powers of seduction had been swept away; only a windy cavern remained.
“Unless you don’t care to . . .” she ventured, squeezing her eyes shut. She seemed to waffle.
Jason’s reflexes took over.
“I care to,” he assured her, leaning closer. He flattened one hand on the rock beside her hip and cupped the back of her head with the other. She opened her eyes and gave a little whimper. She wrapped an arm around his neck.
He descended in the next breath, locking his mouth on hers.
He was instantly submerged, like every other time. The first contact with her lips sucked him under. He was swept from the river, and the wilderness, and the island, and the Atlantic Ocean. He existed only to taste her, to breathe her.
They could have been anywhere in the world; he lived inside the kiss.
After a torrent of lips and tongue and breath, he collapsed on the rock beside her, panting. He reached for her, pulling her into his lap.
“I’m sorry you had to tell me you needed this.”
“I prefer it,” she assured him, breathless. She hiked her knee and straddled him, tugging her skirts to her hips.
He gathered her by the bottom, molding her to him, and dug his heels into the riverbed, leveraging them.
“I typically pay closer attention to the bit when the kissing comes in,” he said.
“I like to manage things.” She dropped her mouth on his.
“I can live with that,” he said, his last words before he could no longer speak.
He couldn’t shatter her heart, she thought, if her heart was held together by spackling and patches. It would not break so much as . . . distort?
And also they would do this only once—well, once more.
And “this” would be so very fast and fleeting. Just enough to tide them over.
And anyway, how could she feel more heartsick than she already did?
The only true Worse Thing, she reasoned, would be not having this. Not having some small part of him, here and now, teetering on the top of the world, alone together.
Her justifications didn’t really matter. Every thought was dissolving; he was so very good at kissing, the best she’d ever known. She didn’t want to miss a lick or a nip or a swipe or a—
He sucked in her bottom lip, and she flicked her tongue against him. He pressed her against his erection, and she pressed back, reveling in the explosion of sensation.
He was taller and broader than any man she’d known, and the logistics were delicious. If she wanted to kiss his eyelids, or press her ear to his mouth, or scrape her throat across the roughness of his whiskers, she had to climb him.
He helped her, kneading large hands up the backs of her thighs, cupping her bottom, lifting her.
They did not speak.
They kissed as if they would never again experience human touch.
They kissed as if he were a duke and she was a Lost Boy and they’d fallen in love, but neither had the good sense to stay away.
Good sense had no part of their embrace, the very best kind.
When he fell back on the rock, she followed him down, pausing only to claw at his shirt, popping buttons until she reached bare skin. He dug his hands into her hair, flicking pins into the rocks. Her hair fell down around them like sunshine.
“So long,” he said between kisses, panting against her cheek. “I had no idea.”
“Unfashionably long,” she said. “My mother has made me swear never to cut it.”
“Beautiful.”
“You are beautiful,” she said, rising up to gaze at his chest. She spread her hands on his pectorals, fanning her fingers over the muscle. He shouldn’t be so hard and strong—he was a duke, after all; he should be soft and fragile. But he was also a spy, and although he claimed to waft about, tricking people into revealing secrets, she saw how he moved, how he stood. He was a man of action, and his body was a testament to his work. She dropped her mouth to the warm skin of his clavicle and kissed her way to his nipple.
He let out a groan and clasped her waist with both hands, squeezing, and then slid his hands up her rib cage. When he reached the hollow beneath her arm, she trembled, feeling the tickle. His fingers danced there a delicious moment before sliding around to cup her breasts.
Isobel sucked in a breath and rocked against him. He found the neckline of her dress and tucked two fingertips beneath the ribbon, sweeping downward. She rocked again and returned to his mouth.
“I want you,” he said. “I want all of you.”
She shook her head to deny him but did not break the kiss.
“You want this too,” he said. “Your eagerness has set me on fire. I’ve never wanted anyone more.”
“Kiss me,” she said, and she gave him a sensual, feather-soft kiss. “And feel me.” She found his hands and intertwined their fingers. “Enjoy this moment because I cannot risk more. I cannot risk—” She couldn’t finish. She shook her head.
“But what of—”
She kissed him, hoping for silence. Why would he squander one moment of this stolen . . . stolen heaven to discuss what they mustn’t do or what would not happen?
“I will not misuse you, Isobel,” he said, pulling back.
When she tried to kiss him again, he untangled their hands and flipped them. One moment she was leaning over him, the next he cupped her head and braced her back and rolled left. He settled her gently on the stone, protecting her spine with his hand. Now he hovered above her, staring down.
Her hair spilled across the rock. Her feet hung in the warm, rushing water. He settled on her and the hard weight was a delirious pleasure. She surged up, making a whimpering sound.
He dipped his head. “I will not misuse you,” he repeated, speaking next to her ear.
She closed her eyes to stop the tears. “You misuse me now by talking instead of kissing.”
“I cannot fully enjoy this for wanting more.”
She opened her eyes. “You can’t?”
“Well . . .” he kissed her again, “. . . I can enjoy it, but I’m terrified of making a wrong move. You are . . . uncharted.”
“Oh, I’m charted,” she teased, pulling him to her lips.
“The risk of hurting you is very high, Isobel, and I won’t do it. You must tell me what is possible.”
“I’m better equipped to tell you what is impossible.”
“What does that mean?”
His frustration was mounting; she could hear it in his voice. Instead of caressing her, he held her at the waist. His grip was tight and possessive. She loved it; who had ever held her like this? He held her as if she might, at any moment, be ripp
ed away.
But possession was never meant to be part of this encounter.
“Kiss me again,” she said, “one more time, and I will tell you what is impossible.”
He moved his hands to her face, cupping it. He teased soft circles at her temples with his thumbs. “Why don’t I kiss you again, and then I’ll tell you?”
She snaked her arms around his neck, pulling him down.
North resisted—his expression was bent on challenging her—but she licked her lips. His eyes were drawn to her mouth, and he dipped down, kissing her once, twice, and then lowering himself, muscle by muscle against her.
She could feel him holding himself off, trying to protect her smallness from his great size, but she hiked up her leg, hooking her knee on his hip, pulling him down. She wanted to feel all of him; she wanted his weight to pin her to this rock, to fossilize their embrace.
Their last kiss was hot enough to imprint on stone, a kiss for the ages. It would be forever preserved in her memory. Kissing him was like any of life’s ultimate pleasures; it gave and gave and gave while, at the same time, it was completely without effort.
In the end, he was the one who pulled away. He gave her a final kiss, ground his body against hers, and made a growling noise. He rolled up. He turned his back to her, standing in the water.
Isobel lay on the rock, breathing hard, feeling cool air move over her heated skin. She closed her eyes. She tried to remember every buzz and shimmer before it faded away. The unrequited desire—all the things they hadn’t done—felt almost like pain. He would feel the same. He’d been frustrated before, but now? Now frustration would give way to bitterness, and bitterness would make him resent her. He was too kind for that, so he would pity her instead. Poor Isobel and her pitiful history that had landed them both in misery.
Or perhaps he wouldn’t.
He’d not taxed her with any of the typically male, typically selfish reactions. She’d made near constant refusals to him, and he’d shown only compassion. It was the reason she now found herself on this rock, her body humming.
But even if he was never bitter or resentful or piteous, he would not marry her. This, she knew. And she was no man’s mistress; this she also knew.
If, by some miracle, she ever had a child, the baby would be legitimate and claimed and known. It would not bumble through life with vague advice on the back of a compass.
Isobel sat up and straightened her dress. She quickly braided her hair and tied it in a knot on top of her head. She glanced at North. He was staring at the mountains in the distance.
“Will you walk with me?” she asked. “We can wade to the place the river bends; there is a waterfall. It is worth seeing. After that, we can walk back. The time will allow some of the water to drain from these clothes.”
She began fishing the fabric and linen from the water, wringing them out, and draping them on the stone in the sun.
“Is that what you want?” he said, turning. His look was earnest; there was no bitterness or resentment. He was so handsome it bent her heart.
“Yes,” she said, flattening the boy’s vest against the rock. “It is what I want.” It was one of the many, many things that she wanted, but likely the only thing she would get.
She added one more thing. “And to talk.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jason struggled to comprehend something as complex as words.
Also in question: walking and breathing.
As a rule, he drifted through life with a casual manner and a carefree sort of easiness, but underneath it all, he prided himself on self-control. The casualness and the carefree prevailed because, at the end of the day, he was in control.
Today had felt like the ultimate test. Today, he clung to the splintering timber of self-control like a raft at sea. He was veritably drowning in desire. She was, without question, the most sensual woman he’d ever known. He wanted to swallow her whole.
“So, my father. The earl . . .” she was saying, walking beside him through the shallow river, the rushing water flashing hot and cold.
He forced himself to focus.
“The earl,” he repeated. He cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders.
“His lack of guidance or protection wasn’t his greatest fault,” she said, “not really. I can be a . . . challenge to guide.”
“I’ve noticed this about you,” he said.
He concentrated on the searing water rushing in gusts over his feet and ankles, willing the fog of lust in his brain to clear.
“To explain it, I must go further back than the compass. Honestly, I don’t even remember when he gave the bauble to me. He was a constant presence in our lives for years, and he brought frequent gifts.”
“When you were a child?”
“From infancy, really. Until I was about ten years of age. He did not live with us obviously, but he visited us often. Once a month? More when parliament was in session.”
“Oh yes, he was an outspoken member of the Lords.” Jason’s voice took on the flat, resigned tone.
Isobel glanced at him. “You did not agree with his politics?”
“I am indifferent to his politics.” Jason was shaking his head. “Forgive me, I’m spinning the conversation around to myself. Rude, I know. It’s only that your comment made me think of my own seat in the House of Lords. Another expectation of the dukedom.”
“It does not interest you?”
“Parliament is more interesting to me than farming, I suppose,” he sighed, “but to do it properly, one is expected to research taxation and write opinions and loll about in smoky clubs, convincing other researchers and writers that your view is superior. It’s so . . .”
“Established?” she guessed.
“Sedentary,” he said on a breath. “Established, certainly. It’s simply that I thrive on doing things, not . . . considering them.”
“Was school a great chore for you?”
“You have no idea.”
“If only you’d had my education,” she said.
“Indeed. I hope you do not regret that part of your history. You were very fortunate, in my view. I did more damage to Oxford, I believe, than the school did good for me.”
She chuckled. “I don’t regret my cobbled education. But I would’ve also enjoyed traditional school, I think—or at least the traditional schooling afforded to girls. I meet girls in the travel shop almost weekly. Some of them know so very little of life beyond England. Others are knowledgeable but have been taught to be afraid of the outside world. These sorts of restrictions were never part of my experience.”
“I could tell this about you from the start,” he said. “I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I can see now it was a lack of fear and an open mind.”
“So transparently fierce, was I?” she asked.
“So exciting,” he corrected. “To me. But I digress. Will you finish your story?”
She made a noise that was half sigh, half moan. “Far less exciting—that.”
“I would hear it,” he said. “If you are willing.”
“Right.” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Cranford. Well. He was a fixture in our lives, and honestly? A jolly, doting father. He was clever and sweet and full of surprises. I adored him—loved him like any girl loves her papa, I assume.
“And my mother? Goodness. His presence brought immediate delight, which is saying quite a lot. She is prone to moodiness and petulance on a good day, but not in his company. She loved him so very much. We both did.”
Jason nodded. “My parents enjoyed a love match. As a boy, I took it for granted, but as a man, I can see the foundational benefit of their harmony on my life. And I remember my shock upon witnessing the unhappy marriages of my friends’ parents. My mates from school were equally as shocked when they witnessed my father’s open affection to my mother.”
They came to a giant bolder and worked their way around it, walking their hands along the cold, damp stone.
Jason added
, “Their love is one of the many reasons I must return to Syon Hall and look after things properly. My father would be outraged, knowing how I have left his duchess adrift these last eighteen months.”
“You will go when we finish here,” she assured him.
“Yes,” he said bleakly. “I will go.”
“I cannot say for certain,” Isobel said, “but I assume my father’s actual marriage to Lady Cranford was not a love match. He was happy when he was with us, but it was more than that. Even as a child, I could see he regarded our flat as a refuge. His secret sanctuary. Of course, I was unaware of what—or from whom—exactly he was taking refuge. Well, until I became aware.”
“Isobel,” he said sadly. He was already so very sorry for whatever she would tell him.
She shot him a wan smile. “When I would ask my mother why ‘Papa’ did not stay with us always, why he did not live with us, she simply said that he was a very important man, a nobleman, and he did the important work of leading the country and advising the king, and all of this kept him terribly busy.”
“Advising the king is a stretch,” said Jason. He’d been indifferent to the Earl of Cranford before, but his opinion was rapidly sinking.
“When he visited our London flat,” she continued, “it was like Christmas morning. The best meal was prepared, Mama and I dressed in our most beautiful clothes, and the house was filled with flowers.
“Some months, he would send for us to join him in Brighton, near his seaside estate—a house that sat empty most of the year. We were never invited to this home, mind you, but he arranged for us to have a lovely suite of rooms in a hotel overlooking the sea, and he met us for meals and stayed overnight with my mother.”
Jason took her hand. He found he could not not touch her. She gathered her skirts in one hand and held to him with the other.
She said, “The only thing more delightful than receiving him in London was meeting him at the seaside.
“One day, when I was nine or ten, he’d sent for us to meet him in Brighton. We’d been there two days and he took us in his carriage to a beautiful café in the high street. He’d promised the chef did delectable lemon ices and peach tarts. Papa—”
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