And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!
Lord Byron, The Bride of Abydos, Canto II
Phineas stared at Miss Rochon. “Yes, that is why I am here.” He pointed behind him. “I am returning from seeing my bailiff.”
The color drained from Miss Rochon’s face and she swayed slightly. Phineas knew the signs only too well. He leaped off Prometheus, unfortunately landing in a puddle and splashing her with mud, and caught her before she could hit the ground.
Letting the bread and cheese fall where it may, but careful of her book and spectacles, he lifted her and ran the short distance to his door. He pounded on it with a booted foot and waited for Gibbs. At least the eaves overhead sheltered them. He had confidence in Prometheus to either stay in place or head for the stables.
Soon enough, the door opened, revealing his butler’s wizened features. “My lord?”
“Fetch Mrs. Gibbs immediately and direct her to the blue guest chamber.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“And have one of the stable lads see to Prometheus.”
He carried her up the steps, and Miss Rochon mumbled. He bent his head closer and could have sworn she said something like, “I need to get back to my own time.”
He caught himself heading for the Viscountess’s bedchamber. He stopped in the hallway and looked upon her face. She was not his Viscountess. Not yet, anyway.
He shook his head as that notion traitorously sneaked in. What had he meant by that? Surely he did not entertain hopes in that direction, did he?
His housekeeper caught up with him when he reached the guest chamber.
“See to it a fire is started immediately and that Miss Rochon, my betrothed, has her wet things removed.”
His housekeeper, God bless her, did not blink an eye. “Right away, my lord.”
He eased Miss Rochon into a chair by the hearth.
She settled back, and he gently pulled his arms away, gazing into her sleeping face.
Lord, but she was beautiful.
Half an hour later, Phineas settled in an armchair he had moved next to the bed in which Miss Rochon rested. He contemplated her peaceful face as Mrs. Gibbs placed a heated brick at Miss Rochon’s feet.
“Will there be anything else, my lord?”
“No, that will be all. Thank you.”
She contemplated him for a moment before exiting. Phineas didn’t care. Propriety be dashed.
He had resolved to let Miss Rochon sleep as long as she required, instead of reviving her with a vinaigrette.
Besides, while she required time to sleep, he required time to compose himself, to acclimate to her presence. What had possessed her to venture alone to a place five hours’ journey from London? Clearly, she had no plans to remain overnight, as luggage she had not. Had she intended to travel back this evening? By post?
He shuddered at the thought.
Then he remembered that first evening he had made her acquaintance: she had said she lived in Guildford. How could he have forgotten? Perhaps because she never made mention of it again? Since that evening, she acted as if she had traveled from America to visit her ‘cousin’ Miss Byron, with no roots anywhere outside London. But that first night, the only night it had ever been mentioned, she seemed to think it no hardship at all to travel to Guildford after an evening in London.
Phineas frowned. Could this be the source of, the clue to, her secret? Perhaps, somewhere nearby her real family resided, an aunt and uncle with whom she had been sent to live? Had she run away? It would explain much.
But why was she heading for his house this afternoon? He had never told her where lay his country estate.
Presumably, she had sought shelter, a desperate destination, after the rain had commenced, and her ultimate destination lay elsewhere.
He stood abruptly and paced once around the room. When would she awaken? He returned to his place of vigil. The breath escaping her nose rhythmically lifted a tuft of hair that had fallen in front of her face. Not able to constrain himself, he reached forward and brushed the stray hairs away. His fingers lingered on her cheek and tucked the hair behind her ear.
Something brushed against Isabelle’s face. Blech, a bug. She swatted at it.
A deep chuckle rumbled nearby and a familiar voice said, “Even as you sleep, you like to strike me.”
Isabelle’s eyes snapped open. The fuzzy outline of Lord Montagu’s face floated nearby. His warm fingers stroked her cheek.
“What?” She whipped her head around and sat up. “What happened? Where am I?”
“You, my dear, fainted. You are in a guest chamber in my home.”
“I fainted? I don’t faint. Girls in the nineteenth century faint.” She ran a hand through her loose, wet hair.
“Considering you are in the nineteenth century, you are keeping up with the modern habits of the fairer sex.”
Isabelle stilled. Good Lord, how could she have forgotten when she was? Lord Montagu felt so comfortable, and with her confusion upon waking... “Where are my glasses?”
He reached over to his left and handed them to her.
The room snapped into focus. Nice. Her heart skipped a beat. “Oh my gosh, this is my study!”
“Your study?”
Oops, she’d slipped again. She dropped her head into her hands and sank back into the soft warm bed. She pulled the covers over her head. “I’m sorry, I still feel a bit strange. Don’t mind me.”
“Rest now. Your clothes are drying by the fire.”
“Thank you. I would like to rest a little longer. Don’t let me keep you.”
A chair scraped back. “Very well, I shall return shortly.”
The door latch rattled and she folded a corner of the coverlet up and peeked at him. “Thank you.”
He stopped, his head angled down, and looked at her over his shoulder from under his lashes. “For what?”
“For waiting here until I woke up. I don’t think I could’ve handled it if I’d been alone.”
He stood a moment, looking at her with those piercing eyes. He turned and bowed. “My pleasure.”
The door shut softly behind him, and Isabelle let out a breath. She pushed the covers back. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what happened. She’d stupidly set out to go to her house, to seek solace in its familiarity, only to arrive exhausted, hungry, and wet to the core. What was a forty-minute commute by train had taken all day.
Then, seeing Lord Montagu appear so suddenly on a massive black horse and learning her house, the one she’d fallen in love with, the one she’d spent most of her inheritance to purchase and begin restoring, was his house? Her mind reeled at the coincidence. She glanced down and saw she wore only a long cotton shift.
She set her glasses on the table beside her, closed her eyes, and slipped back into an exhausted sleep, too tired to puzzle it all out further.
Phineas returned to his vigil two hours later, hoping Miss Rochon had awakened. He had spent the time pacing the length of his library, at a loss to find meaning in her behavior and utterances. That she lay sprawled on a bed in his house unsettled him further.
When he slipped inside the room, he was highly gratified to see a cheerful fire blazing, emitting tendrils of warmth. How he would explain her sudden and unusual arrival to his housekeeper and staff, he still did not know. Fortunately, they were too well trained to inquire.
He sat in the chair near the bed and tried to be as quiet as he could. Her bare hand rested near the edge. Unable to resist, he lightly grasped it and closed his eyes, loving the feel of his bare hand finally, finally holding hers.
She murmured in her sleep and shifted toward him.
He lightly squeezed her hand. “Shh, you have been through much and need your rest.”
Her eyes fluttered open and she stared at him, something mysterious flickering within them. Some thought, some decision, or some need. Which it was, he knew not, but felt as if he were sinking into their depths, the indefinable pulling him in.
“P
lease, don’t go. I woke earlier and you weren’t here.” She rested her hand against his cheek. The touch seemed to transfer her wish into him. He leaned into her hand. “I want you to stay,” she whispered. “I need you to stay. I can’t explain, but please stay. With me.”
Seeing her alone and exhausted earlier had stirred something unfamiliar deep within. She was vulnerable for the first time in their acquaintance, and a strong urge to protect her, care for her, had gripped him.
Now her pleas, the silent and the not silent, awakened other feelings, deep inside. He turned his head slightly. He cupped her hand with his and gently kissed the inside of her bare wrist. A tremor traveled down her arm and sparked an answer within. Blood rushed to his groin.
Oh, how he desired her! And she desired him, apparently. Her scent alone nearly undid him. Still, he contented himself with only that chaste kiss, though he lingered longer than was prudent. The rapid pulse in her wrist vibrated against his lips, his own rhythm matching the jumps of her heartbeat. He closed his eyes, breathed in her sweet scent one last time, and looked down into her eyes. She stared back at him, boldly assessing.
God help him. He could not seduce her; he could not live with himself if he did.
Expecting her to remove her hand, he closed his eyes again and sighed softly, willing his body to relax. Her hand slowly left his face.
This is for the best. His heart, his body, ached at its loss and the unfulfillment of his desires.
The next instant, her gentle hand stroked his chin and bottom lip, and his whole body jerked.
He kept his eyes closed, afraid to break the spell. Warm fingers slid down his neck. Shivers coursed up and down his spine. Sweet was the torment, and fragile was his control as he felt it slip away.
Chapter Twenty-One
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,—
And oh, that eye was in itself a soul!
Lord Byron, Bride of Abydos, Canto I
When Phineas’s warm lips had caressed the sensitive skin of her wrist, Isabelle’s whole body had flushed. Memories of the last time he’d kissed her hand flashed through her mind: the darkened carriage ride home, the flickering lamp light, the simple brush of his lips against her gloved wrist that left her weak. But now? Without a glove? Lordy, Pete.
Oh, God, why was he still sitting in the chair? Why wasn’t he doing anything further? But when his eyes closed and his breath came on a soft sigh, she understood. She must initiate. Something held him back. She peeked. Well, it was not lack of desire.
Through the confusion of this afternoon’s events, one thing was certain: she ached to connect with this man in a fundamental way. She’d come to the house to find answers and seek solace, and succeeded only in further shredding her sense of self. She must have the comfort and strength she could find in another living being, or she would be lost.
And not just any living being.
She needed him.
His strength, his essence. Phineas. In this house.
To ground herself, she needed to share with him, bond with him, be with him. She couldn’t explain it. Perhaps it would also purge him from her system. Her brain’s rational side screamed, “No!” She shoved it aside and did something she’d never had the nerve to do before: initiate intimacy.
Isabelle raised herself on one arm and gently touched the sexy cleft in his chin, sliding up his strong jaw, his half-day’s growth rough against her skin. She swallowed hard and rubbed his bottom lip, barely dipping her thumb inside his now-parted lips. She tamped down on a tickle of fear and studied his reactions. His eyes were closed. He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple peeked from his cravat.
Needing to be closer, she sat on her knees. Her fingers touched his face again, and he jerked. She stroked her thumb along the hard ridge of his Adam’s apple and reveled in his reactions, in his control. Far from dismissing her, or taking the initiative and moving quickly to the inevitable conclusion, he appeared to hold his power in check. For her.
Her breath hitched. More.
Fingers shaking, she pulled one end of his cravat, the fabric swishing against itself. Man, it felt so much sexier undressing a man in period clothing, like unwrapping a package. A delectable package. She encountered a new knot and her fingers tugged, teased it out. He slowly opened his eyes and pinned her with his hooded gaze, his breathing now audible. He eased onto the bed and knelt beside her, the bed dipping with his weight.
Yes. His body’s closeness made her more frantic, more determined to have him. Have his hard body pressed against hers, his heat, his scent, covering her, filling her. Phineas.
Knot undone, she pulled gently on the end, its length whispering along the back of his neck until it was free. Now, his waistcoat. She unbuttoned each button, the hard, silk-covered fastenings grazing her fingers, each time like a separate moment, grounding her to him. Last button popped, his starched white shirt formed the only soft barrier between her questing hands and the hot skin of his chest.
Inhaling his unique scent that made her feel all tingly, but also safe, she pressed her hand against his hard chest. His muscles jumped under her palm, and he dragged in a sharp breath, the sound an erotic rasp near her ear. She had never felt such feminine power in her life. She flexed her fingers and found his nipple through the fabric, scraped her thumbnail over the already hard tip. Her breath came in shorter gasps. Or was that his?
What did his chest look like? She could feel the hard muscles, but.... she had to see... Oh, God, and taste... With both hands, she slid his coat over his broad shoulders and down his arms. He helped remove it, flinging it behind him once freed.
Surely, he’ll take control now.
But his arms rested at his sides, eyes closed again, head slightly raised. A shiver went through his body. Could she keep going on her own?
Her heart sputtered a hell-yeah.
She pulled out his shirttails and peeled his shirt over his head, along with his waistcoat. She took in a slow breath—the mellow glow from the setting sun and nearby candles highlighted the hard planes of his naked chest and arms. He was gloriously smooth-chested, the muscles jumping and tightening as he obviously fought for control. A few dark hairs adorned his nipples, and an enticing sprinkling traced a path down his taut stomach and disappeared beneath his buckskin breeches.
Oh God, she needed to see all of him! This delicious slowness, this delicious seduction, made her breath come shorter, made her blood flare with heat. And judging by the bulge in his breeches, he enjoyed it, too.
She smoothed a hand along the healing wound on his arm and his delightfully muscled chest. Her palm brushed against his nipple and trailed lower.
His eyes snapped open. He grasped her wrist in a strong grip and pinned it to his chest. To his heart.
“Allow me,” his voice rough and deeper than usual.
In the room’s golden shadows, his hazel eye shifted color, grew darker, more piercing. The hunger and promise reflected in their depths pulled her, matched her own. Hoo, boy.
He leaned closer, not breaking eye contact, not quite touching his body to hers, his face inches away. Heat coalesced in the small space between them, their breath mingled. He brushed a stray hair from her face, his fingers lingering, the gentle touch transferring the building warmth to her skin. Just one little touch, so far, but heat pooled into a ball in her chest and shot downward.
Unaware of the effect he had on her, or because of it, he traced one finger down her temple to her cheek and along her jaw, the blunt tip of his finger a feather-light touch-touch-skim that drew all her nerve endings to the surface, leaving fire in its wake.
He cupped her head, below her chin, and slowly stroked her neck. She shivered at the touch and the quiet strength, the subtle possession. Her heart ker-thumped in time with each stroke, anticipating.
His hooded gaze followed his roaming fingers as they traced the top edge of
her shift. She closed her eyes, every nerve pinging with awareness of his closeness, his tender touch, his heat.
A light tug on her shift scraped the cloth across her sensitized nipples, followed by a soft whispering of string. He gently pulled one edge of her shift off her shoulder and grazed the wet heat of his mouth across her skin at the fabric’s edge. She gasped. He’d free her breast soon and kiss her... There...
No. He only brushed and nipped her neck, the deadly combo of soft lips and chin stubble enflaming her skin, tormenting her, while he gently kneaded her breast through the cotton and glided a hand down her waist. He nibbled her earlobe, the soft puff of his breath creating a cascade of shivers down her body. She grasped his arms, and he captured her mouth in a searing, hungry kiss. She gasped and opened her lips, his clever tongue teasing its way inside, questing, stroking, stoking the fire that burned inside, seeking a release.
She shuddered. Holy cow. She had never been this aroused so early in the process.
It seemed they spent an eternity exploring each other’s mouths. Need vibrated through her—the need to be closer, to feel more, to connect with him. She arched her body. He slipped his hand from her waist and stroked the small of her back, pulling her into full, exquisite contact with his hard body. The gentle yet strong touch of his hands on her back, and of her body to his, made her ache. Ache for more. She shivered and wrapped her arms possessively around his neck.
He moaned and broke away from her mouth. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back onto the bed, the soft sheets and pillows cradling her fall with a light whisker of sound. He landed next to her, a heavy, buckskin-encased thigh coming to rest between her legs.
His weight partially covering her, his heat, his dizzying scent—she’d found the haven she craved. The hardness of his muscled thigh rubbed against the building pressure in her sensitive core, and she wrapped her captured leg more securely around his, wanting to be closer, wanting to feel his entire body pressed as tightly against her.
Must Love Breeches Page 21
