“Will you take a seat?” Jonathan gestured toward the sofa beside him.
Isabelle ignored his invitation, instead coming forward within an arm’s length of him. She opened her mouth to speak and found that her mind had gone completely blank. Her heart was pounding. She was an actress who had forgotten her lines.
Jonathan cleared his throat awkwardly. Her disgraceful apparel had not made Jonathan crazy, as Monique had promised, it had made him uncomfortable.
“Richard told me there was some trouble with your sister. I hope she is doing well now.”
Isabelle nodded. “Yes, she is quite—”
The sudden emotion boiled up without warning, choking off her words. Tears flooded her eyes before she could stop them.
“Isabelle.” Jonathan stepped closer and grasped her wrists. “What has happened?”
She looked up at him through her tears. A strange sensation danced inside her, a tingle of danger at recalling her near nakedness beneath the robe.
“What is it? Tell me.”
The concern in his voice was so genuine, and the tenderness in his eyes so sincere, it was all too much. When his hands traveled up her arms and cupped her shoulders, Isabelle laid her head against his shoulder and began to sob in earnest.
He drew her against him, encircling her in his arms, and held her while she cried, stroking her hair and shushing her the way she used to comfort Jenny when she’d hurt herself. Jenny. The memory brought on a new wave of emotion.
Jonathan patiently held her until her tears were spent. She stirred against him, and he stepped back, probably thinking that she wanted to be free of his arms. Nothing could have been farther from the truth.
He produced a handkerchief. She took it, looking up at him with a crooked smile. “What would I do without your handkerchiefs?”
When he made a sound in his throat by way of reply, Isabelle remembered the last time he had given her a handkerchief, and the use she’d put it to. “I’m sorry, I—”
He shook his head, and she took his meaning very clearly, that he would refuse any apology.
“Can you tell me what’s troubling you?”
“It’s Jenny. We argued.” Isabelle gulped down a sob that got caught in her throat, then choked out her confession. “She called me a gelding.”
“A what?”
“A gelding.” Isabelle was embarrassed at having to repeat her confession, even more so when Jonathan started to laugh. “It isn’t funny,” she said peevishly.
“No,” he agreed, and laughed again. “But I have to wonder if Jenny is aware that a gelding has been deprived of a part of its anatomy that I’m quite certain you’ve never possessed.”
Isabelle felt herself flush. “That’s not what she meant.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain it to me, then. Her use of the word has me baffled.”
Isabelle scowled at Jonathan. She knew he was making light of Jenny’s insult in order to cheer her. And yet she was unjustifiably angry with him for not understanding.
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m not like other women. I don’t . . . ” She tried to think of a delicate way to put it. “I don’t enjoy the company of men.” She blushed at her thinly veiled euphemism, its underlying meaning crudely, patently obvious.
Jonathan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Even mine?”
“But you’re different,” Isabelle blurted out. As soon as the hurt registered in Jonathan’s eyes, she gasped at the stupidity of her remark and clapped her hand over her mouth.
“I’m not like other men,” Jonathan said bitterly. He started to turn away from her.
She caught him by the arm and forced him to face her. “No. No, you’re not, and that’s why I want your company.”
He lowered his chin and stared at her levelly. They both realized what she had just said.
Isabelle knew Jonathan was waiting for her to disown her remark. She wanted to disown her remark, yet his unflinching gaze had a strange effect on her. She felt herself blush, not simply her cheeks, but head to toe. Her stomach felt hollow, though she had eaten only a few hours earlier. The thought occurred to her, if Jonathan was the one man with whom she felt safe, maybe he was the one man who . . .
“Touch me.” Her speech was barely audible. She managed to say the words again, louder the second time, though her voice sounded hoarse, like Jonathan’s. “Touch me the way a man touches a woman.”
He staggered back a step. “You . . . ?”
Isabelle took a step forward, closing the space between them. “Yes. If you—if that would please you.” She began to tremble at her own audacity. “Or perhaps I’m not desirable to you.”
“Dear God.”
She lowered her head, too ashamed to look him in the eye. “I don’t know if I’m capable of finding pleasure with a man. Or of giving it.”
“And you want me?”
The incredulity in his voice gave her the courage to meet his gaze. She saw frank disbelief in his eyes.
“You. I can’t imagine myself with—I mean. You know? With anyone else.”
He moved closer then, so close she could feel the heat from his body.
“Are you certain, Isabelle?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“But you’re afraid. You’re trembling.”
Isabelle pleaded with her eyes, afraid of losing her nerve if she had to ask him again. If he refused, if he turned her away, she would spend the rest of her life a gelding.
“I won’t force myself on you.”
She shook her head to let him know she trusted him.
“You have only to say the word, and I’ll stop.”
“Please.”
He lifted his hand and brushed the hair away from her face, carefully smoothing it back to bare her neck. The gesture itself was innocent enough—but the way he held her eyes. His unwavering gaze held a carnal intent that sparked a dull ache low in her abdomen.
And then he touched her. Just two fingertips, resting delicately beneath her ear. He waited until she gave her assent with a nod.
His eyes softened in a look of tenderness, although the intent still burned there, too, frighteningly magnified by the featureless mask. She held her breath, afraid to breathe, the moment suspended in time.
“Isabelle.” He whispered her name against her ear. Then his fingers traced a path down her neck, slowly. She shivered.
He found the satin ribbon that tied her robe closed and pulled on one end, undoing the bow in a single long, smooth motion, all his movements excruciatingly slow. She trembled, not with fear as before, but with anticipation. He undid the second bow, and now her robe parted to reveal the gown beneath. The diaphanous cotton lawn clung to her like a second skin, nearly transparent. She might as well be nude.
His gaze left hers and traveled lower, caressing her body. She didn’t have to look, she could feel him taking in the sight of her naked breasts. He rested his fingers in the hollow of her throat and traced a path, moving slowly—always slowly—coming to rest in the valley between her breasts.
He slipped his hands beneath her robe, cupping her shoulders as he had done before, when he comforted her. Then he caressed the length of her arms, sliding the robe off her until it fell onto the floor with a soft whisper. Quite naturally, without thinking, she looped her arms around his neck.
“Close your eyes.”
It was a gentle command, but a command nonetheless. Yet, strangely, she didn’t mind him ordering her. When she closed her eyes, Jonathan bent forward, half cradling her against his arm, and whispered something against her ear. She thought at first he was giving her another command and nearly opened her eyes, afraid she hadn’t understood. Then his hands began to explore her body, and she forgot all else. His touch was light, though assured, nothing like that of the other men who had touched her, pawing at her flesh the way a dog digs for a buried bone.
He whispered the same words again. This time the sounds took a familiar shape, and she recognized t
he words of the poem. He kept repeating the first line, je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime, saying the words he didn’t know she understood, while his hand delicately roamed her body.
Then it came to her. It was she, in fact, who hadn’t understood—the idea was too foreign to her. Only by hearing him say it over and over again did she realize that Jonathan meant the words for her.
His hand cupped her breast, his thumb circling the sensitive skin around her nipple, teasing it to hardness. Isabelle gasped, surprised by the sudden tightening of her womb. Jonathan’s touch brought life to a part of her she’d thought barren; like a flower rising from deep within, her desire slowly blossomed.
As if he felt it too, Jonathan moved his hand from her breast and stroked her stomach in one long caress, coming to rest over her womb. And then his hand traveled even lower, covering her mound, then lower still, there, nearly between her legs. He found the place she hadn’t known existed and, with a light pressure of his fingers, drove reason from her mind.
She turned in his arms, her inhibitions forgotten, and pressed against him, offering herself. A thrill went through her when his body tensed in response. She didn’t understand what was happening, only that she had been starving all her life, and Jonathan had given her a taste of ambrosia—like Eros, she thought, and would have laughed if her hunger had not been so great.
Jonathan drew her head down against his shoulder and held her as though he feared to loosen his grip. He was trembling.
“I cannot,” he said hoarsely.
Jonathan leaned away from her and looked into her eyes, searching. But for what? She couldn’t make sense of it.
“Forgive me, I cannot,” he repeated.
“Why?”
He took a step back, a small distance, but one that opened a chasm between them.
“Why?” she asked again. This time it was a whisper.
“Understand, I want you. I have never wanted anything more. But—” He let out a ragged breath. “But I have a conscience.”
“What does your conscience have to do with . . . ” She couldn’t say it. With my needing you. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I understand. First, you refuse to marry me because to do so would make you no better than a prostitute—that was your term, not mine. And now you’re asking me to take the most intimate liberties, which rightfully belong to none other than your husband. Where is the sense in that, I ask you?”
She stared back at him, her cheeks burning with humiliation, unable to refute his logic.
“You see, I have my scruples as well.”
He spoke the words gently, with no trace of self righteousness, yet they stirred a contempt in her that over the years had become automatic.
“Most men do not.”
His bitter laugh was little more than a grunt. “I am not most men.”
“But in this matter, you have a choice.”
Jonathan briefly looked away as if considering whether to tell her something she did not wish to hear. Isabelle began imagining the worst. Somehow, she had betrayed herself. He had guessed the truth from her wanton behavior, and now he knew. She was worse than a prostitute. She was tainted. Unclean.
“My father used to bring his whores here.” Jonathan made a sweeping gesture with one arm. “Here. Under the same roof as my mother. Can you imagine the pain that caused her? I swore to myself that I would never be like my father, that should I marry, I would honor my vows and treat my wife with respect.”
“But I’m not your wife.”
Jonathan stooped to retrieve her robe from the floor. Standing behind her, he draped the robe around her, then rested his hands on her shoulders. Though devoid of sexual intent, his touch sent a shiver through her. When he leaned forward to speak into her ear, the linen mask rested against her cheek.
“I would like you to be my wife, Isabelle. And if it would please you, I want to lie with you. As your husband.”
Isabelle put her hands over his, holding him there behind her. She caressed his scars, feeling an inexpressible tenderness for them. How ironic that this gentle man propose they join in the most intimate act possible, and yet all she had ever seen of him was his hands. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against his shoulder, then forced herself to say what must be said.
“I cannot marry you. I cannot.”
Reluctantly, she moved away from his embrace and left the room without a backward glance.
He didn’t try to stop her.
Chapter Forty
After a sleepless night spent tossing and turning in bed, caught in the throes of self recrimination and guilt, Isabelle roused herself early. What was done, was done. Jonathan would never know she had done him a favor by rejecting him. She had hurt him for his own good. As for the rest of it, as for her shameful, wanton behavior . . .
She could never redeem herself in Jonathan’s eyes. She couldn’t make up for her behavior the night before. But she might yet do him some good if her plan worked. Persuading him to ride again would restore a pleasure to his life he had, unaccountably, denied himself.
And beside, Isabelle thought as she limped across the lawn toward the house, her efforts at learning to ride could be counted as a type of penance, if God accepted penance from the likes of her. Roger’s riding lesson had been mercifully short, and yet it was enough to leave her muscles aching in ways she had never before experienced.
Not that she was complaining. Roger possessed an abundance of patience, and most likely drew on his last ounce of it with her. He had helped her overcome her fear of the animals, a daunting task in itself. She could bridle and saddle a horse by herself now and, with only the occasional minor mishap, she could actually mount one of the beasts unaided. Given another few weeks of Roger’s patient tutelage, she should be ready to invite Jonathan to accompany her on a ride. Her stiff muscles and aching back would all be worth it, if she could persuade him to take to the saddle again.
Of course, she had to consider the possibility that she might not be here in another few weeks. After she refused his proposal a second time, Jonathan might soon find her presence disagreeable, a continual reminder of what he no doubt believed to be his failure to win her affections.
If only he knew.
But therein lay the problem. He could never know. If he ever discovered the true reason for her refusals, the shame of it would be more than she could bear.
Oh, it was a lovely fairy tale, to believe that he loved her, but such a fantasy avoided the truth of the matter. Jonathan was in love with the person he believed her to be. He could never love who she really was, a ruined woman with an unsavory past—no, unsavory was too mild a word. Her past was shameful. Disgusting. Horrible. Much more horrible than the scars Jonathan hid beneath his mask.
Isabelle’s footsteps veered toward the rose garden, as much from habit as a conscious decision on her part. The garden had become her secret retreat, somewhere to escape her problems. She ducked through the opening in the hedge and made her way toward her usual corner of the garden.
“Nellie!”
Isabelle uttered the startled exclamation before she had time stop herself, ruining any opportunity to turn back and quietly leave unnoticed. She considered fleeing the scene anyway, because it was obvious she’d intruded at the worst possible moment. Nellie was crying, sitting with bowed head, staring at the handkerchief she held in her lap. Hearing her name, she jerked upright
“Miss, begging your pardon.” Nellie started to rise.
Isabelle motioned her back down. “I should beg your pardon, Nellie. I’ve caught you in a private moment.”
“Oh, no, Miss.” Nellie patted the bench beside her. “In fact, you’re the very person I was wanting to see.”
Isabelle took the offered seat, trying to hide her reluctance. Nellie had been upset the last time they talked and, rather than be of help, Isabelle felt she had somehow managed to make matters worse. Remembering how before Nellie had run away in tears, she opened the conversation a
s mildly as possible.
“How are you?”
Nellie blushed. Isabelle wanted to tell her she needn’t be embarrassed on account of her previous behavior, but decided that reminding her of the incident would only embarrass her further.
“I’m doing better, Miss.”
Isabelle had given up on asking Nellie to call her by her Christian name. She watched the poor woman fidget with her handkerchief, turning it round and round in her hands. Judging from the tear stains on the cotton, and Nellie’s reddened eyes, she had been crying for quite some time. In light of Nellie’s pitiful state, Roger’s recent cheerfulness seemed that much more suspect. Isabelle was by now convinced that he was to blame for Nellie’s misery.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Nellie responded as she had a number of times in the past, with a torrent of words that seemed to have needed the right question to open the floodgates.
“It’s just that I’m so happy to be working here, Miss, this place so much better than where I was at before, with people, you know, taking advantage. And me coming with no references nor nothing, and Mr. Nashe being so good to take me on anyway.” She paused to draw breath, then plunged ahead. “Though I’ve not never actually seen ’im, ’e’s a good man, I mean, ’e treats us, pays us well, and I never wanted to do anything to make ’im angry or make ’im want to send me away and I never, I never . . . ”
Isabelle put her hand on Nellie’s arm to calm her. “You’re indispensable here, Nellie. The place would probably fall apart without you. What in the world makes you think Mr. Nashe would want to dismiss you?”
Nellie blushed again, this time turning an alarming shade of scarlet. She tugged at the handkerchief until Isabelle thought she would rip it in half.
“We never planned it to happen, me and Roger.”
Isabelle pressed her lips together, unable to suppress a soft exhalation of disgust on hearing Roger’s name. Nellie had just confirmed her suspicions of the man. As kind as he had been to her, she would find it hard to forgive him for hurting Nellie.
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