‘Do you collect the artwork on the walls? It graces every room and is very well done.’
His eyes narrowed, the tiniest fraction.
‘Yes, I am a collector of sorts. I am especially fond of these paintings.’
His eyes skimmed the room.
‘Did your father also collect?’
He changed in an instant, the barest stiffening of posture. When he recovered, his eyes had lost all their earlier warmth.
‘No. My father did not recognise anything of worth.’
‘I am sorry. I should not have asked a personal question. My curiosity tends to provoke trouble. I need to learn to bite my own tongue.’
‘I can teach you.’
They stared at each other and the silver candelabra cast shadows across his face despite the distance between them. His eyes penetrated through her flimsy attempt at aloof sophistication and she lost herself in his attention. When he turned towards the sideboard, his curt order cut through the silence.
‘Out.’
An abundance of servants heeded his bidding. Isabelle’s eyes flared. Heat flushed her cheeks and warmed her all over.
‘Now I believe it is my turn.’
‘Your turn?’ She asked aloud, unable to follow the path of his thoughts.
‘To ask a question. I believe that was our agreement.’
Isabelle knew she made no such promise, but she could not fathom what he might wish to know about her person. She took another sip of wine and waited for his query.
‘Do you sleep on your back, stomach or side?’
Having not replaced her glass, she returned it to her mouth for a large sip.
‘My stomach, mostly.’ She could not help but stammer the words. ‘Although I have no idea why you would wish to know such an inane bit of information.’
He smiled and Isabelle rerouted the conversation into safer territory.
‘Will my carriage be ready tomorrow afternoon for my return to Wiltshire?’
He studied her face, as if he attempted to read her mind.
‘What a waste of a question, love. You might have asked me if I sleep in the nude. Or what lies behind the third door of your bedchamber?’ He poured himself more wine and eyed her with obvious amusement. ‘I will offer you a boon and answer the latter question anyway. The third door leads to my bedchamber. I had your things delivered to the main quarters of the house. I could not envision you anywhere else. Well, that is not accurate.’ His lips twitched as he corrected himself. ‘In any case, I remain a knock away if you find there is something you desire during the late hours of the night.’
His answer disconnected her power to speak and her thoughts slowed to a sluggish pace. How would she find sleep knowing the scoundrel’s bedchamber lay through the third door, his beautiful body and remarkably handsome face reclined in bed mere steps away from her own? What would she give to see him there, a forbidden fantasy brought to life?
As if on cue, servants entered to clear plates and serve dessert. She watched Con summon them forward to reveal an array of sweets. Isabelle had no appetite for the delicacies, her nerves unsteady.
A fluttering in her stomach to plague her as she returned to her chambers soon after. Thankfully, the dessert course proved short and she excused herself as soon as possible, her crimson blush a waving flag that signaled her unease.
She entered her rooms and found her trunk resting near the windows, her own belongings returned. She fetched her white cotton night rail and hugged it tight to her chest. An overwhelming feeling of familiarity washed through her and restored her calm. Now, where was Janie? She had given the maid specific instructions to come to her bedroom after dinner completed. At best, Janie proved a lackadaisical chaperone. Who knew what the girl was up to now?
Too unnerved to wait on her maid, Isabelle untied the ribbon at her neck and slipped from her gown. She made quick work of removing her undergarments, and while her corset presented a challenge, with determined effort she accomplished the laces and padded to the bed to don her night clothes. The temptation of the flimsy silk gown hidden in the second drawer of the dresser flittered through her mind as she lifted her plain cotton gown. What would it feel like to wear a seductive night rail? How would she look? Curiosity led to practicality. Nothing would be lost from the experience here in the privacy of her rooms. In fact, she would consider it part of her adventure. Heaven knows, she would never own such a wicked garment once she returned to Wiltshire.
Isabelle opened the wardrobe drawer with reverent trepidation and removed the sheer gown, softer than gossamer against her fingertips. She slipped it over her head in a whisper of fine silk and transparent lace, her gasp of pleasure lost in the gown’s silky caress. The negligee fell past her knees, although it somehow made her feel bare, as if it showcased her body more than concealed it. The slide of the smooth silk against her skin invigorated more than embarrassed her and she touched the thin ribbon straps and lacy bodice that pulled taut across her ample bosom. Her pulse galloped a rapid beat and she scolded her ludicrous behaviour. It was exquisitely wanton. How such a delicate piece of cloth could stir erotic and intense emotions baffled her, and the new surge of sensuality emboldened, at the same time. Did she dare look in the cheval glass?
A sharp knock sounded at the door and Isabelle panicked. She whipped her cotton gown from the counterpane, and thrust it up over her head and down over the gauzy negligee as Janie swept into the room.
‘Good heavens, you startled me. I expected you earlier.’ Isabelle’s words came out angry, although it was not her intention and she turned towards her maid with a smile meant to ease the reprimand.
‘I apologise, milady. I lost sight of the time.’
‘What were you doing?’ She eyed the maid’s disheveled appearance and took in her cheeks, high in colour even in the dim candlelight. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Milady, as I keep your secret, I ask you to please keep mine. I have been spending time below stairs with Mr. Brooks. He is a very charming man and as no one knows we are here, I dare say I thought to have some fun. There is a true sense of freedom afforded when one is tucked away from the prying eyes of society.’
Isabelle fingered the neckline of her night rail and skimmed the lacy edge of the sinful gown hidden beneath. Her pulse raced faster. ‘I suggest you tread carefully. Brooks strikes me as a man who cares solely for the person that stares back at him from the mirror.’
Janie’s lips turned in a smile, unaffected by the advice. ‘Oh, I am simply after a bit of adventure. We will be returning soon to Wiltshire. A memory or two. That is all I wish to make.’
The maid’s cheeky grin spread wider and when she picked up the hairbrush Isabelle took a seat at the vanity, no ready reply in mind.
She’d never caught a glimpse of her image in the forbiddingly baring gown, but the silk and lace caressed her skin with every movement and reminded her that under the crisp starched cotton night rail, a silken secret lingered. Janie hummed and brushed her hair to a fine gloss and Isabelle contemplated how much she would risk for her own adventure of the heart.
Anxious to be alone, she dismissed her maid once her bedtime ministrations were completed. Why couldn’t she dismiss the daring thoughts that plagued her imagination with the same assertion? She crossed the room and stalled before the third door. An image of Constantine reclined in the master chambers rose with startling clarity. Good Lord, he was handsome. A now familiar feeling unfurled and her body tightened at the remembrance of the strong planes of his chest and the muscular press of his thighs. Her body urged her to act, rather than fantasise. Her mind prevaricated.
All she need do is knock to have her fantasy, her adventure, within reach. His hot mouth pressed against hers. Isabelle swallowed a sudden rise of emotion. At what cost would her decision come? Why wouldn’t she listen to herself? Surely each desire would lead to trouble. So far her rationalisations had been left in shambles whenever she conjured images of his sin-drenched lips.
She laid
her palm flat against the wooden panel and her heart pounded a reckless beat as if it wished to break from her chest and beat on the door itself. She took a deep breath.
A sudden knock reverberated against the door and shot straight through her palm, echoing within her. Isabelle squeaked in protest. She jumped back from the panel and gasped aloud, before the knock sounded again. Her hand trembled as she turned the knob, unable to understand the complete disconnect of her better judgment and rampant curiosity.
‘Isabelle?’
Constantine stood before her, dangerously potent, the adventure she never knew she wanted until he appeared that evening in Lord Rochester’s study. He looked inordinately concerned.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded breathless. ‘You startled me. That is all.’
‘I apologise. It was not my intention.’ He took a long step backward. ‘Come in for a brandy. It will settle your nerves.’
He backed away from the door and turned to walk through a narrow passage that connected their bedchambers. Isabelle hesitated as several logical arguments crowded her mind. She peered forward and caught the flicker of candles at the end of the hall. His rooms. Heat spiraled down her spine. It was as though she stood at the precipice of a deep dark secret, a mysterious force that beckoned and pulled, and she need only take a few steps to satisfy the yearning.
She needed time to think, but all logic rebelled and the idea never got far. Instead, the insistent voice of temptation convinced her that sensibility was the last thing she needed, and so she followed Constantine down the hall.
His rooms did not surprise. She took in an eyeful while he went to the sideboard and poured a measure of brandy. Crimson curtains cloaked the tall windows in soft velvet and the crush of a thick rug beneath her feet added to the sumptuous warmth. A low fire burned between the windows and the rosewood furniture loomed massive and dark. A huge gold-leaf mirror leaned against the wall closest to where Con stood and she assessed his reflection from head to bare toes. His hair, damp from bathing, was tied with a leather queue. A silk robe covered his back and shoulders, although it was carelessly knotted and allowed her an ample view of his broad chest when he turned and offered her a glass. If this was the devil’s own bedroom, she knew exactly what lie ahead, and yet her hand shook little as she accepted the glass.
‘I did not disturb your rest, I hope.’ Con took a short sip of brandy and watched Isabelle follow his lead. She coughed. ‘Easy, my love. We have all night.’ He could not keep the smile from his voice.
She placed the glass on the tabletop and wrapped her hands around her upper arms. She might feel self conscious, but he never saw a prettier sight. He had purchased a flimsy bit of lace for her to wear, but could feel no disappointment now. There was something about Isabelle’s sensible white night rail that aroused him more than he could explain, as if he already knew the feminine perfection hidden beneath the pragmatic dressing.
‘If you are feeling chilled, you should come to the fire?’
She studied his face, her eyes glinting with golden sparks, and moved to the mantel to raise her palms to the heat. She glanced over her shoulder before returning to the flames. Con enjoyed the view. Her cotton gown, made transparent by the firelight, provided a delightful silhouette of the silken negligee hidden underneath, as if he’d only just envisioned the garment and wicked desire conjured its existence.
Blood pooled in his groin and he finished his brandy in one swallow. She made him feel green, barely able to temper his anxious emotions. He dropped his glass to the table and came up behind her to gather the lengths of her hair in his fists, wanting to bury his face in her amaranth tresses and brush the silken strands back to order after their lovemaking; then watch the first rays of morning sunshine kiss her awake as she lay strewn across his pillows.
‘Isabelle.’ He turned her, the temptation to lower her night rail a struggle that made his fingers twitch. ‘Stay with me tonight.’ He searched her stormy grey gaze, but he did not know what he saw there. He had an artist’s eye, attuned to the minutest detail, yet so callous had he been with the frequent favours women offered that he never learned to decipher genuine emotion. Now with Isabelle, everything mattered. He wanted to know her, needed to understand her.
He watched her delicate brows rise with his request.
‘Stay with you?’ She paused and he wished for the answer he wanted. ‘You know I cannot.’
He stroked her shoulders to assuage her concern, but more to keep his fingers busy. ‘No one knows you are here, save your maid, and I am led to believe she habours her own little secret.’
‘I know I am here. No matter what I might want, I cannot give you my body without also giving you my heart.’
The words caught him unaware, he glanced away as emotion and desire collided in confusion.
‘There are other things we can do that won’t leave you ruined. Other acts that will be pleasurable and satisfy your curiosity.’ He stepped nearer and trailed a fingertip across her shoulder. ‘I know what is underneath.’
She drew an unsteady breath and gathered the collar of her nightdress closer to her throat before her eyes sought his. ‘How could you?’ Her voice sounded shaky.
‘You are a vibrant, passionate woman. You may hide your true self under layers of muslin and cotton, but I have seen your sensual response. I have enjoyed it. I damn well can’t forget it. It haunts my every thought.’
Her eyes followed his fingers as he lowered the sleeve of her night rail. He traced the thin ribbon strap of the gown beneath and her shiver shot straight to his groin. ‘Tell me you want what I do. That you will give me one night.’ He traced the ribbon again and this time she leaned into his touch. ‘One night to explore our passion.’
She did not hesitate long, her whisper a granted wish. ‘There are other things we can do?’
The way her voice shook in a breathless mixture of sultry question and guarded innocence snapped the final threads of his control and his mind flooded with so many carnal images he could not speak. He forced himself to answer, although his impatience rioted.
‘Many things, my love.’ He moved closer, his lips almost touching hers. ‘Shall we begin with a kiss?’
Chapter Sixteen
Isabelle answered or at least she meant to do so. She wasn’t sure if she actually spoke the words or if her body granted Constantine permission by falling into his embrace. His mouth, his beautiful mouth, hovered a breath above hers, and she closed the distance as he whispered her name against her lips, the vibration of each syllable echoed in her soul.
He was a master of pleasure and she was barely a novice. But together their kiss became liquid fire, burning and branding, to fuel her aching desire with every silken caress of his mouth. She pushed her fingers into his hair and removed the queue, grasping the lengths as his growl of encouragement emboldened her further. He captured her hands to move to his shoulders and his kiss turned deep and delicious. His tongue swept in to rub against hers with sensual pleasure. Unguarded, she answered with her heart.
His body aligned with hers, and her breasts crushed against the wall of his chest. The exhilarating contrast of sensations heightened her excitement as her body acting of its own accord. She shifted her hips closer to his heat, lost in the magic he created. Why had she ever hesitated? The aching tenderness that swept through her and touched her soul proved the most powerful emotion of all.
His hands gently cradled her, then pushed with rough abandon through her hair, further to coast over her shoulders and sweep the cotton gown to the floor leaving her exposed in nothing but the lacy negligee she’d found too tempting to resist.
‘You little minx, playing at dressing-up games. You deserve a dressing down.’ His eyes roved over her face and his honeyed words entranced her. ‘But first things first. Do you like how you look?’
His raspy whisper gave rise to goose bumps across her skin and she swallowed hard and forced a slight nod.
He s
pun her, the affect dizzying, and she knew she would crumble if he did not hold her tight, his leg hooked like an anchor around her ankle. There she stood, wrapped in his arms, her back against his chest, her senses flooded with the scent of shaving soap, the lingering taste of their deep hot kisses, and the insistent heat of his thigh pressed firm beside her own. She glanced at their reflection in the full-length mirror and averted her gaze.
‘See yourself.’ His husky rasp caused shivers to trace down her spine. ‘I want you to see yourself as I do. As you are.’
She raised her eyes to the mirror and the perfection reflected overwhelmed.
Constantine stood behind her, holding firm to her waist as if she might flee, his handsome profile against her cheek. She watched his eyes, burning with a wicked glint, as they coasted over her reflection with unabashed desire. A rush of exhilaration caused her breath to catch.
There was no doubt the lacy French nightgown was exquisitely made, but Isabelle remained entranced by the image of the man at her shoulder, mesmerised by their intertwined bodies and the glint of moonlight and flickering fire that cast fleeting shadows across their skin. She rubbed against his warmth and the brush of his muscular chest teased the bare skin of her back, while the strength of his arousal nudged her silk covered bottom.
‘You are a masterpiece.’ His husky whisper against her ear shot an erotic tremor to her core and she turned and reached to encircle his neck, bringing his mouth downward. Her kiss was an invitation, and glory, he did not miss the mark. His palms skimmed her shoulders and lowered the ribbon straps. The gown slithered down her body, as smoothly as a raindrop on glass, until it pooled at her bare feet.
Her would-be lover remained dressed and she would have nothing of it. Her fingers found his collar and swept inside to free the robe from his shoulders. With anxious tugs, she yanked the shirttails from his trousers. A low rumble of laughter vibrated against her lips and she could not help but smile, a delicious sense of wanton abandonment motivating her every move.
To Love a Wicked Scoundrel Page 18
