His final word hung in the air between them, naughty and ever so tempting. He recalled her powerful response to their intimacy in Lady’s Stanton’s garden. A vibrant, passionate woman lived in her soul. What would it take to draw her out?
‘You are an accomplished charmer.’
Velvet grey eyes under feathery lashes held him entranced.
‘But are you as fleet as you are clever, sir?’
The folly lay ahead and he’d noticed how the structure caught her interest as soon as they turned the curve on the path. Now she eyed it with speculative interest as if she had solved a puzzle or strove to measure the distance.
‘I will race you to the folly. Do you think you can keep up?’ She laughed as she proposed the challenge, and did not allow him to answer before she hitched her skirts above her ankles and set off in a flutter of yellow.
His long strides caught her with ease although he held back and allowed her the win. She climbed the marble steps and strolled between the columns as a surge of recollection more than emotion rushed to the forefront. He remembered himself as a boy, hiding in the folly after one of his father’s frequent tirades, his tears and sobs lost in the enclosure, safely tucked away from the rest of the world. Little reason provoked his father to mete out punishment. His jaw tightened as he recalled a severe beating he’d received for ruining his leather boots. He spent hours in the folly avoiding his father that particular afternoon, although it proved a waste of time. His father waited him out, knowing he would return once darkness fell. Then the late earl punished him with zeal. Constantine smoothed his hair away from his face and used both palms to erase the image at the same time his fingers coasted over the scars of his past. Not long after that episode he had schooled himself to live in the moment, taking pleasure wherever it presented itself.
Chapter Fifteen
Isabelle set back against the smooth, marble column and watched Con approach the folly. He had allowed her to win, but that would not prevent her from celebrating the victory. The run had left her breathless and she was thankful for the extra minutes she’d gained. She pressed her fingers to her flushed cheeks aware her bun likely looked a mess, and an unexpected exhilaration coursed through her. At one turn, she confessed her most painful childhood memories and the next her heart soared with his tender compliments. Regardless, she refused to allow the scoundrel to plant hope in her heart. She knew tomorrow would come and she would return to Wiltshire. Then he would resume his usual habits and she would be nothing more than a memory, if that.
Unwanted questions pushed forth like weeds in a garden, but she refused to allow them to take root. Was this maelstrom of emotions the very essence of falling in love? Whatever the cost, it was time she stopped pursuing reason to solve every problem in her life. This moment begged for living and she would relish it for what it presented; an adventure of the heart. Con might easily forget their two days spent together, but she’d cherish the experience for ever.
‘You allowed me the win and to think I’d heard you weren’t a gentleman.’ She offered a confident smile and a sense of freedom took hold with the flirtatious words. If this was the manner in which Constantine lived, she could begrudge him little. ‘I like this place.’
He craned his neck to the domed ceiling above her and then down to where she stood, her back rigid against the marble column. His heated gaze continued over her as thoroughly as he’d examined the structure and she shifted under his scrutiny. All kinds of ridiculous feelings rioted inside. What was wrong with her?
‘Ah, the folly. My father built everything to the extreme. Including his reputation.’ A muscle jumped in his jaw before he continued. ‘He prided himself on these extensive grounds and the grandeur of Highborough House. I have refurnished the interior of the estate since his death, but I have not touched this structure. Some places are too full of memories.’ He paused then flicked his gaze upward. ‘Did you notice the lion at the peak of the dome?’ He pointed his finger towards the roof where a lion sculpted of white marble donned a king’s crown and sat atop the dome.
‘When I was a child I fancied I could land a rock inside the crown. I spent endless hours attempting the feat, although I don’t believe I ever achieved my goal.’
He bent and collected a small stone, then arched his arm and took aim. From his expression and the skittering sound against the roof, Isabelle knew he did not succeed. It would take precise skill and a good bit of luck to land a stone with such perfect accuracy.
Con brushed his palms together and entered the enclosure.
‘There’s a little pond beyond the folly.’ He indicated vaguely to his left. ‘I used to go there and swim in the nude.’ Then he smiled a slow, sensuous curve. ‘Sometimes I still do.’
‘Really?’ Isabelle pushed the words past her lips and a lick of heat unfurled as her heart answered the husky intimacy in his words. Damn her foolish imagination as it conjured his image, all smooth skin, droplets of water coasting over the hard planes of his broad chest, his golden hair glistening from the swim. She swallowed reflexively as her body responded with stunning awareness, each of her senses in tune to this man: his masculine heat, his spicy warm scent, the strong shadow of his body as he paced closer to the column where she stood. Motionless. She melted under his gaze, her heart first, her knees quick to follow.
‘I believe you owe me a kiss.’
He advanced with measured steps, although his words reached her with beguiling finesse.
‘How is it I find myself for ever in your debt?’ She tried to suppress the memory of their intimacy in Lady Stanton’s gardens. Much to her dismay, it persisted. His one kiss tempted her to abandon an entire lifetime of lessons in etiquette, virtue, and morality. That evening, she’d discovered his hot velvet mouth was a sensation born purely from sin.
How much was she willing to give and still protect her heart? She had already offered him every advantage when she poured out her innermost thoughts concerning her dismal childhood. Their discussion, one of intimacies usually shared between a husband and wife, proved her careless naivety. ‘You make up rules whenever they suit you.’
He smiled as if she had complimented him.
‘I brought you safely to Highborough House, off the dark dangerous roads of the countryside.’ His honeyed words floated to her as he took a final stride forward.
‘You ambushed my carriage. I had no choice.’ Her voice sounded breathless and the latter part of her objection lacked conviction.
Constantine dismissed her protest with a quirk of the lips and leaned in.
Isabelle pressed back against the column, but gained little, his irresistible mouth a breath away. His mouth. Sculpted by the Devil, no doubt.
Her eyes followed his hand as he tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and his fingertips lingered at the skin beneath her lobe, where her pulse thrummed in tune to her traitorous heart.
‘You behave like a child,’ she said in a vexed tone. ‘You persist and persist until you get what you want.’
‘I assure you, I am no child.’
His low murmur vibrated against her cheek to prick every nerve ending into immediate awareness. Desire, need, curiosity: all three unfurled in a flutter of insistence, deep in her chest, and lower still.
He moved his hips closer to her skirts. Why didn’t he just kiss her and have done with it? Why? That one tiny word plagued her and brought havoc to her usual intellect. Why did he wish for two days of her time? It was the logical question to ask and yet she could not voice it, fearful of the answer. He had everything, everyone, at his disposal. Why would he want her? The question begged an answer and she snapped at him with misplaced impatience.
‘You have the world on a string.’
He chuckled, a deep throaty rumble that skittered over her skin to remind her how near he stood. She didn’t bother to object when he released her hair from its bun and tossed the pins in a nearby hedgerow. His eyes searched her face and came to rest on her mouth.
‘True,
I hold the world on a string, but you, love, have me tied up in knots.’
‘I rather doubt that.’ She gasped as his head dipped, just the slightest movement. The perfect angle. ‘You can have any woman you choose.’
‘An intriguing assumption…’
His lips hovered over hers and each syllable of his husky whisper pressed warm and wonderful against her mouth.
‘I choose you.’
He captured her mouth in a rush of pure heat, a glorious mixture of possession and temptation that swept into her body and touched her soul. Each pinnacle of her body awakened. Time ceased to matter. Passion and urgency took control as he tangled his fingers in her hair. She whimpered with pure pleasure. He held her neck firmly while his thumbs stroked her cheeks as gentle as the caress of a butterfly’s wing; the contrasting pressure provoked an onslaught of delicious sensations coursing through every inch of her body. His wicked tongue allowed her no quarter and rubbed with determined finesse, intent on breaching all resistance. He succeeded with ease.
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.’
To Love a Wicked Scoundrel Page 16
