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.
***
Isabelle took breakfast while she packed with efficient purpose. Mary assisted. Janie remained absent, but Isabelle could not fault the girl, most especially if she was below stairs with Brooks. Goodbyes were difficult. She did not want to believe she would never see Constantine again, but so much was left unsaid, both of them unwilling to put their thoughts into words. The possibility that he would return to his normal ac
tivities and never give her a thought plagued her with such fierce persistence she could not finish her tea and toast. If his habits did not run so deep, if he were a different man, the considerations pestered her with relentless determination. Disappointment was not a stranger to her life. She would endure. She’d managed before.
How tired she was of being strong. Of pretending her father’s disregard did not leave her with scars and that she did not long for his acceptance. How lovely it would be to have someone’s adoration. Constantine’s adoration. The abundance of emotion he stirred within her healed old wounds, and also created a wealth of new ones.
Isabelle picked up her reticule as Mary entered to announce the carriage stood ready. Then she turned for one last glance of the lavish room, her eyes lingering too long on the third door. She forced her feet into motion, and moved towards the hall.
She’d just reached the foyer when Janie rushed to her side. Con entered from his study at the same time. There was no mistaking something was very wrong. Her maid’s expression looked grave.
‘Milady!’ Janie dipped into a shallow curtsey and wrung her hands with agitation.
‘What is it?’ Isabelle had no idea what might disturb her maid so deeply, but if Brooks had anything to do with it, she would demand the man flogged.
Constantine came forward and reached for Isabelle’s arm. He took his hand in his and instructed Janie to continue.
‘It is Lady Lily. She is ill. She has run a high fever for two days and asks for you in her unrest. Lady Meredith plans to return to Rossmore House as Lily begs to return home, and her mother is desperate to please her. I fear for the little one. It cannot be scarlet fever. I will not believe it so.’
Tears stung Isabelle’s eyes and she fought against them. She should be in London caring for her sister. ‘Gather your things with haste. We must go. Now.’
Janie raced to the stairs and Constantine turned to Isabelle, his hand atop hers in tight comfort.
‘Let me come with you. I can drive your carriage to Wiltshire and see you there safely.’ He summoned his butler forward, but Isabelle stopped him with a severe shake of her head.
‘No. I must go alone.’ Her voice broke as she replied. Lily meant everything to her. She could not lose the child to illness. ‘If it were for any other reason I would agree, but not now. Meredith is livid with me and I cannot ignite that anger at the same time I care for Lily.’ Tears clogged her throat and she looked away, horrified at her weak grasp of emotion. ‘Thank Brooks. I suspect he is responsible for this news. Now, I must go.’
‘Of course. I am sorry.’ He squeezed her hand, before he released his hold. ‘I’ve provided my best driver and two tigers for your safety. The additional grooms will assure you are well protected. Make haste and I will follow in a few days time to assist in any manner I am able. Business pulls me to London first, but do not doubt my intentions. I will call on you as soon as I conclude my appointment on Tuesday.’ He stared into her eyes, his gaze clear and direct. ‘Lily is young and strong.’ His voice lowered as he touched her cheek and lifted her chin in his palm. ‘Go to her and you will see. Then know I will come to you soon after. Wait for me.’
She offered him a strained smile. Emotions bombarded her heart and left her without words. Her throat strained tight. When he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, she was tempted to pull against his warmth and accept his offer of accompaniment.
‘Isabelle.’ The word whispered into her hair.
‘Yes.’ They stood in the foyer, the servants likely near, but she could not leave his embrace. Not yet.
‘I…’
When he did not finish, she opened her eyes and pulled back to view him in question. What did he struggle to say?
‘I – I will come to you in Wiltshire.’ He released her from his hold. ‘Now off with you, because if you keep Johnny Coachman waiting any longer I will believe you will have decided to allow me to drive you.’
Janie entered the foyer in a flurry of words and motion, and Isabelle did not turn back as she hurried out to the waiting carriage.
***
Constantine stood in his study and contemplated whether or not to toss the china figure he held at the brickwork mantelpiece. He doubted it would assuage his poor temper, but he was willing to try anything. Isabelle had left over four hours ago, but he’d done little besides snarl and growl at anyone that dared come near him. How useless to be bound by obligations he could not ignore. And he worried for her. He knew scarlet fever to be fickle and unpredictable, no matter how he reassured Isabelle’s concerns. Were he able to fix all the troubles in her life, no doubt she’d gift him with one of her many smiles.
He replaced the figurine on the bookshelf and combed his fingers through his hair in frustration. He’d never fallen in love and did not know the rules. Oh, when he was younger he fancied himself in love dozens of times and chased every skirt that caught his eye, but lust was far different than the feelings that churned within him now.
It was madness, how deeply she lived within him and haunted his every thought. Once he had laid eyes upon her he was taken, his heart held hostage. From the first time he saw her framed by the ballroom archway like a precious work of art, it was Isabelle, only Isabelle.
He cursed into the silence. He should have told her his feelings before letting her go. He was a coward. Their intimate discussion in his bedchamber brought the realisation to the forefront. Her honesty led to his, the rightness of it unsettling. He would go to her as soon as possible. How he yearned to be adored with the devotion that lighted Isabelle’s face whenever she spoke of Lily. When she left him, her expression pale and fearful upon hearing of Lily’s illness, a knot constricted his chest so tightly he could hardly breathe.
Were it not for his meeting four days hence with the curator of The National Gallery, he would go to her now and remedy the error of not confessing his true feelings. But too much time had passed already in regard to his works of art and an uneasy feeling washed over him while reading the curator’s letter. Somehow it possessed a forbidding tone.
Four days.
Damn it all to hell if at this late age he should suddenly have to learn patience. Flinging back the last of his brandy, Constantine summoned Brooks with a loud bellow.
***
Rossmore House became a somber place as the portentous circumstances of Lily’s illness took root and held. Desperate concern over Lily’s limp, fevered form caused both women to put aside their anger, mutually aware it would claw to the surface in due time. For now though, all attention remained with the child, her fever not lessened on this, the sixth night. The doctor came and went daily. Correspondence lingered unanswered and piled high on the hallway salver, and the butler turned away well-intended neighbours with gracious aplomb.
Meredith would not allow bloodletting and Isabelle agreed. Instead, they both were useless to help Lily. The child was sometimes awake, sometimes asleep, but always in a state of discomfort with her prickly rash and high fever. She ate little aside from clear broth. Her throat hurt to swallow or speak. Isabelle ground lobelia from her garden, mashing the blue flowers and pale green leaves with a vengeance, and mixing the dried plant with tea, in an attempt to ease her sister’s discomfort. Nothing seemed to assuage the hungry illness.
Through the day either of the two women sat bedside her, relieving each other for much needed food or rest. Isabelle’s heart ached for her sister, but there was never a day when she did not think of Constantine. Hours upon hours in a quiet sick room provided endless time for contemplation. It was a week since she’d seen him last. Why had he not reached Wiltshire? She had believed him when he had stated he would follow soon after. His vow was one of the few things that kept her strong through her worry for Lily. Was that belief further proof of her foolishness?
Uneasy doubts and familiar insecurities nipped at her subconscious. She kept the thoughts at bay with great effort, except during early dawn when the first rays of sunlight kissed the sky and she reliv
ed the enchantment of waking within his arms, their bare bodies nestled cozily in his bed. She never was so cherished as within his embrace.
Now she wondered if she hadn’t made the worst mistake.
***
When one week became three, Isabelle began to let the memory go. Wishes were for fools. She had learned that lesson as a child, many times over.
She sat in the drawing room, just awakened from a late afternoon nap and took tea to help settle her frazzled nerves. Lily remained unchanged. Everything seemed caught in a chaos of waiting. A quiet knock at the door forced her from despair.
‘Come in.’
Meredith stood in the doorway. She looked bedraggled and exhausted and no matter the disagreements that lie between them, Isabelle’s heart wept for her stepmother’s grief.
‘Is there any improvement?’
‘I believe there might be. The fever persists, but she has been sleeping for hours without incident and she managed to eat a bit more than yesterday. It is something on which to place hope.’ Meredith looked to her with tears in her eyes. ‘Had I acted more capriciously…’
‘Do not blame yourself. Scarlet fever can find anyone.’
‘Not my little girl.’ Silent tears coursed down her cheeks as she entered the room and sat beside Isabelle on the couch. ‘I am not a good mother.’ She sniffled and searched for a handkerchief in her gown pocket before she continued. ‘When we were in London after you left that first night, Lily became ill. The red rash covered her neck and shoulders and she slipped into a feverish sleep. I summoned the doctor immediately and attempted to calm her, but my sweet child, who did she call for in her unrest? You, Isabelle. She wanted you.’
‘She did not know what she was saying.’ Isabelle reached for her stepmother’s hand and pulled it to her lap.
‘Do not dismiss how meaningful you are to her. It is hard to accept, but I understand. After we argued and you left, I missed you terribly as well.’
Isabelle released Meredith’s hand and walked to the window. Dusk was falling and their front drive stood empty. The same way it appeared every time she dared look out the window and hope.
To Love a Wicked Scoundrel Page 20
