Devil take it, nothing to be done about it now. “Take me back to White’s.” He would question the porter, learn what he knew of the gentleman.
However, once back, he discovered his quarry had come inside as Lord Chesterton’s guest, and the porter had never seen him before.
“Was it a Mr. Mendley?”
“I know not, my lord.”
“Elderly gentleman? Still wearing a periwig?”
“No, my lord.”
Phineas muttered a few choice oaths under his breath. The man was like the London fog.
Swirling about the dance floor in Lord Montagu’s strong and capable arms, Isabelle allowed herself to believe and hope. Believe and hope she’d made the right decision earlier that day. When she’d told him she’d be honored to become his wife, his eyes had turned intense, holding her own. He’d raised her hand and brushed a light but sensuous kiss on her gloved knuckles. She’d been a little surprised and disappointed he’d not kissed her for real, but she told herself he was being a proper gentleman. And it had been romantic.
She’d assured him it was purely for safety and convenience, since that was how he’d presented his proposal. She’d also told herself that, to make it easier. She hadn’t revealed to him or Ada the full extent of her feelings, because she needed to protect the embryo of feeling. In the past, it always seemed that when she did expose her feelings for a guy, either to her girlfriends or to the man himself, the relationship fell apart, the cosmos’s ha-ha-gotcha.
In a way, having the case taken away again had simplified everything. She’d worried that she’d affect the timeline if she remained, but with the choice taken away, surely fate was telling her it was okay to stay. She looked into his eyes and her heart gave a short stutter. A flood of giddy bubbles fizzed and popped through her like champagne. She soaked in the moment, in the feel of his presence, in the here and now, at the Metcalfe Ball.
“Penny for your thoughts, Isabelle,” Lord Montagu murmured in her ear. He turned her expertly on the dance floor.
She shivered from his breath’s light caress. “Oh, nothing.”
“Nothing?” His eyes sparked with humor.
“I’m just happy, that’s all.”
“I am gladdened to hear it, in light of the happenings earlier this afternoon.”
The happy bubbles now tickled her stomach. The waltz ended, and he escorted her to the lemonade table. He handed her a glass and they joined Ada, who had also finished dancing with her partner.
“I see Lord Edgerton has arrived. Will you dance with me? If I join the line now, I would be in a perfect position to eavesdrop.”
Isabelle smiled, but her stomach became uneasy. Lord Montagu was determined to find her case, and she wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Plus, she didn’t know this dance. Wouldn’t she draw more attention to them with her bumbling? She said as much, but he dismissed her concerns.
“I shall have to ask someone else, but you worry too much.” He kissed her hand and held her gaze. “We shall practice later.”
A gentleman engaged Ada for the next set. Feeling a little exposed, and wanting to avoid participating in a country dance she didn’t know, Isabelle strolled to a small alcove hidden from the rest of the room by a large potted palm.
So nice to have a moment to herself. She sipped her lemonade and pushed aside the disturbing thought of Lord Montagu’s search for her case and focused on future plans. She’d told him about the situation with Lady Byron and Mrs. Somerville, so they’d agreed to marry by special license on Saturday morning, the day of Lady Montagu’s ball—it would now be a wedding ball. So much to do. She should call on Lady Montagu and throw herself at her mercy; she had no idea how a wedding was done properly in 1834, even one by special license.
At first, she tuned out the voices of two ladies on the palm’s other side, but when she caught her own name and Lord Montagu’s, she straightened and slowly inhaled.
“To be sure, that is Miss Trowbridge he is dancing with. Such a lovely girl. What he sees in that Colonial, I know not. She must be an heiress to have him ensnared.”
Isabelle’s thoughts plumed as if someone had poked a bee hive. They couldn’t be talking about Lord Montagu.
“It breaks my heart, looking at them dance. Miss Trowbridge was all but promised to him, you know.”
A small gasp, “I knew she had a tendre for him two Seasons ago, but I had no idea.”
“Her older brother and Lord Montagu were fast friends at Harrow and Oxford. They traveled together overseas, too. The brother died of a fever in Italy, though. Apparently, Mr. Trowbridge asked Lord Montagu to look after her right before he died.”
“Oh, how tragic!”
“Indeed, my dear. However, what does he do when he comes back? He becomes a rake of the first order.”
Whatever. Isabelle knew the full story and was confident he didn’t still have feelings for the woman.
“Well, I am certainly glad Miss Trowbridge returned this Season after missing the last. Too bad it was not before Lord M got himself entangled. I never did believe those vicious rumors. He cannot jilt the Colonial, so he is most definitely stuck. Miss Trowbridge would have made a much better wife. Miss Rochon will be an embarrassment for him.”
Isabelle’s insides withered. What had she been thinking? Lord Montagu was just the sort of guy to marry someone out of a sense of misplaced chivalry. Could that be why he was still pursuing her case? As an out? Images flashed in her mind: one of the coolest guys in high school saying that yes, he’d go with her to the Sadie Hawkins dance—a teammate on the volleyball team, her mouth agape. “Scott said ‘Yes’? To you?”—walking proud across the quad amongst the bursting spring flowers—then, whispers reaching her ears that he’d rather go with Tiffany. She’d approached him the next day on the quad’s emerald grass, legs shaking, and calmly told him he was off the hook.
Trying to shake off these old feelings, she took calming breaths. When finally alone with Lord Montagu, she would act with dignity and strength.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
My heart is feminine, nor can forget—
To all, except one image, madly blind;
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole,
As vibrates my fond heart to my fix’d soul.
Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto I
Isabelle spewed lemonade all over Lord Montagu’s immaculate evening kit. Granted, it wasn’t on purpose, but still, not the dignified approach she was aiming for. She’d been taken by surprise by his response, is all.
“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry.” She rushed forward and wiped ineffectually at his jacket with her gloved hand, spreading the juice further.
Lord Montagu grabbed her wrist. “Leave it.”
Wait, she was mad at him. She yanked her wrist from his grasp and stepped back, lifting her chin for that dignified look. Better late than never, right? “What did you say? I want to make sure I have it right.”
Slowly and deliberately, Lord Montagu replied, “I said I have no intention whatsoever of releasing you from our engagement.”
“Are you serious? Don’t you want out of it?”
“When have I given you that impression? In what possible manner?”
Isabelle took a tremulous breath, her legs shaking. “Perhaps this isn’t the time to talk about it. Can we leave?”
“Assuredly.” Lord Montagu clasped her arm and tucked it under his.
Ten minutes later, they finished their goodbyes. Lord Montagu helped her into his carriage and stepped in behind her, his large frame dominating the space.
“Do you mind telling me what this is all about, Isabelle?”
She glared out the window. Usually she got entangled in a situation without appreciating all the facets and only later realized how she should have reacted. Regrets sucked, especially ones involving relationships. The short time that had elapsed since their scene at the ball had given her time to reflect.
She steeled herself to be completely open.
Not quite able to look into his eyes, she turned to him. “I would hate to be in a marriage when the other doesn’t truly wish it.” There, she’d said it.
“Isabelle, to what do you refer?”
“I, uh, found out about your relationship with Miss Trowbridge, and I, uh, I want you to know, I’m freeing you from the engagement.”
“Am I to understand that you are of the opinion Miss Trowbridge and I have warm feelings for each other, and that I prefer her to you?” He spoke in an even tone, though a slight note of strain threaded through it.
“No.” She’d only said it to give him an out.
“Then what is the issue?”
She bit her lip and looked away. She could do this. He deserved honesty. “I don’t want you to feel obligated to marry me. I’m all wrong for you. You said it yourself—you want to become more involved in the House of Lords. You need a wife who’ll enhance your career. Not someone like me, who doesn’t know the first thing about your world. If you—” She stopped herself from saying if you loved me, that would be different. He hadn’t said it, and she wasn’t sure of it. She’d told herself she was okay with that, but then to realize how unsuitable she was for him. “If you are worried about me, don’t be. I can survive on my own.”
Sweat broke out on her skin, chilling her. His warm, male scent filled the small space, causing her nerves to squirm. She squelched her physical reaction. Be strong.
Aaaand silence.
Be prepared. He’ll accept your offer for an out. It’s for the best.
A small part of her cheered her on for being so brave. She waited for his reply and for her life’s course to change. Again.
He cleared his throat. The sound drew her gaze to his.
Mistake. His piercing, multi-hued eyes made her fall back into the corner, pinning her. Her breath hitched, and she feared his answer even more. He’s going to be honest.
“Do you wish to dissolve this engagement for yourself?”
“No,” she whispered. Why couldn’t she tear her gaze away? She needed to expand on her answer, though, to be absolutely clear. She swallowed. “I mean, yes. I don’t want to spend my life with someone who’s with me out of a sense of obligation.”
“And this is the only reason you avow that you wish to cry off? There is no other?”
A small flicker of anger stirred within. Why did he have to drag out her agony?
“Yes,” she answered, tight lipped. She gripped her purse.
His shoulders relaxed and Isabelle realized his whole body had been rigid with tension. He yanked her from her seat to his.
What in the world?
He crushed her mouth in a searing, hungry kiss.
A kiss that made her stomach drop away, that demanded an answer even as it sought to reassure.
Her body leapt in response, every nerve ending tingling. She clamped her arms around his neck and curled her fingers into his rich, dark hair.
The panic and fear Phineas harbored in his chest flamed into a relief so poignant, so overwhelming, it incited him with the desire to possess her immediately, right there in his carriage. She was like water to him, his desiccated existence had become rich again. The swirling eddies she caused disturbed his calm, calculated layers, shaking him up, stirring him back to life, back to his full sense of self. And he had thought she was leaving him.
“Isabelle,” Phineas groaned. “Don’t do that to me again. I cannot—” I cannot lose you. He slanted his mouth on hers, enveloping it, claiming it, tasting it. Tasting her. Like water? No. She was like some exotic elixir specially crafted for his senses. She tightened her fingers on his scalp, the delicate scrape of her nails enflaming him further.
Ever since they had made love, Phineas had ached for her. Ached to learn every curve. Ached to learn every secret desire. Ever since, he had denied himself, reluctantly accepting her desire for distance. Ever since, he had learned how much she meant to him. Now that they were truly engaged...
She caressed his neck, and every touch of hers brought his skin to life in its wake. Christ. He wanted her to trace his whole body with her miraculous fingers, complete his resurrection. Urgency pounded through him. He gripped her waist and dragged her onto his lap, straddling him, her skirts billowing. Her spectacles he gently removed and placed on the opposite seat. He framed her face with his hands and in the dim light of the carriage, he saw the same urgency, the same desire reflected in her eyes. He claimed her sweet mouth again.
A low moan escaped her. In response, blood surged and heated his body. He tore his mouth from hers and licked her ear’s delicate rim, inhaling her unique scent, like a drug. Remembering how she responded last time, he nibbled on her ear lobe, the warm, velvety button of skin a soft, delicate brush against his tongue. Her body shuddered against him. Devil take it, he could not get enough of her. He pushed a hand under her frothy skirts and stroked her luscious, luscious calf.
“You cannot, what?” She fumbled with his cravat.
“What?” With his other hand, he yanked her bodice down. A tiny tearing sound cut through the rasping of their breath. What was she talking about?
He kissed and nibbled his way to her exposed breasts. The light from the carriage lamp cast shadows, highlighting her delightfully sculpted body. He drank in the graceful curve of her long neck, the notch in her collarbone, the gentle slope of her breasts, the nipples already firm.
She was so perfect, perfect for him. Under his gaze, the peaks tightened further. The carriage’s rhythmic swinging brought one rosy nipple closer and farther away with each undulation, and it captivated him. It symbolized their relationship: external forces kept bringing her closer and tugging her farther away, and he was powerless to stop them, powerless to keep her close always. At the next sway sending her backward, he growled and jerked her back to him, his mouth capturing the taut, elusive breast.
Exultation sang through his veins, heating him further.
“Oh!” gasped Isabelle. Trembles shook her body. Her hand gripped the back of his head, cradling him. She squirmed on his lap, causing his enflamed erection to leap.
He groaned. At this moment, he wanted to be buried so deep in her he was incapable of further thought. He quested up the skin of her thigh and cupped her bottom, clasping the sweet juncture of her warm sex against his aching length. Her hips rocked slowly, sensually, stoking the hunger clawing up his spine. He suckled her breast, flicking and laving it with his tongue, tasting her, glorying in her tantalizing response.
She yanked his shirttails free from under his coat and her soft, warm hand stroked up the small of his back, the satiny glide of her gloved hand feeling scandalous on his sensitized skin. “I forgot what we were saying,” she whispered.
They had been talking?
The carriage’s motion rocked them, but he held her firmly, incorporating the sensual movement into the rhythm of their dance.
He would not let her go. He had to have her. The need to possess her so thoroughly that she would never want to leave him pulsed urgently through him. He tore his mouth from her exquisite breast and tugged on the fall of his pantaloons, freeing his painful erection. He grabbed a fistful of her skirts in his lap, hands shaking. The carriage turned a corner, jolted her against him—using the motion, he lifted her and embedded himself deep inside her hot channel in one swift, hard stroke.
“Oh, my God, holy shit.” She arched back, his hands the only force holding her up.
Chuckling at her blasphemy and moaning at the exquisite sensation of her warmth sheathing him, Phineas paused, held her desperately, and savored the moment of their union while the carriage gently swayed. So hot and slick and tight against his swollen flesh, he nearly spilled his seed. He gritted his teeth. If she moved, that would be it.
She did not, but the carriage turned another corner, embedding him more fully. He shuddered, gripped her around the waist, and tumbled them both onto the floor—her below him, taking his weight, taking him.
Oh, God, he couldn’t—his con
trol shattered. He stroked into her hard and fast, the sweet friction scorching through him, obliterating any last shred of self—all sensation arrowed into the sublime feel of her liquid heat, her acceptance, her responsiveness. Isabelle. His.
Each stroke a testament, a promise, a coming home. Her nails raked his back through his shirt as he pumped back and forth, the tantalizing pressure building, driving him, increasing in urgency.
“OhGodPhineas!” Her legs gripped his waist, allowing him deeper access.
He couldn’t hold back much longer. Another bump from the carriage and she tightened around him, convulsed, as her release swept through her, milking him.
Thank Christ.
His muscles humming, he held her face, held her gaze, watched her flush, and rammed into her one more time and exploded, his mind searing. He collapsed on her, the aftershocks of his release bucking his body several times, his skin slick with sweat.
While he drifted, two thoughts trickled in, disturbing his well-being. One: he had lost control, acted like an animal, and two: she held something back. He had seen it in her eyes just before her release.
Dammit. Isabelle was very much afraid she was in love with Lord Montagu.
She toyed with the eggs on her plate, pushing them into different formations. Vivid replays of his passion in the carriage last night continued to flash in her mind, causing heat to bloom on her skin. He had seemed entirely serious about not wanting to end their engagement, and yet... She blew out a harsh breath. Wow. Okay. Hard to admit, but yeah, it bothered her that he hadn’t said he loved her. Could she commit herself to someone she feared she loved desperately if he didn’t? Where only physical passion existed on his part? Passion faded, after all. Would he then still want to be with her? Could she deal with him turning away? Also, did he pursue the case so diligently because it was the only honorable way to sever their relationship?
Erg. She dropped her silverware onto her plate with a clatter. She needed to think.
Must Love Breeches Page 28
