Matthew heard Isabel enter the foyer and looked up from his book in surprise. She had been going to call on Sarah and told him to expect her to be gone for the afternoon. But it had been less than an hour since her departure.
Not that he minded her return. He was beginning to miss her when she wasn’t there.
He set his book aside and stepped into the hall. “You are early,” he said. “Come have tea with me.”
She glanced away from Portman and toward him, and his stomach dropped. She had been crying. It was clear on her face as she trudged toward him.
“I may need something stronger than tea,” she said as she lifted to her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.
He wrinkled his brow and followed her into the parlor, shutting the door behind them so they could have privacy. She sank onto the settee with a long, ragged sigh and covered her eyes with her hand. A thousand questions raced through his mind. What had happened? Why had she come home? What could he do to ease the pain that was so obvious in every fiber of her being?
He wanted to do so desperately.
So he started with a drink and poured her a sherry from the sideboard. When he handed it over to her, she laughed briefly. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to drink.”
She took a sip and winced before she set the glass aside. He took a place next to her and took her hand, lifting it to his lips as he searched her unhappy face. “What happened?”
She flinched and her gaze darted away. He knew that look. He’d seen it so many times on her face. It was an expression of guilt, and his stomach clenched at the sight of it. He pushed the reaction aside.
“Did you quarrel with Sarah?” he asked, already knowing that wasn’t the truth. Needing her to confess it regardless. Needing to know that she would.
She didn’t disappoint. “I didn’t go to see Sarah,” she admitted as she dropped her head. “I-I lied to you.”
He gritted his teeth. “I thought we were past lies, Isabel. Are we not?”
“I know,” she whispered, and her voice trembled with real pain that touched his heart even as he tried to close it off because she’d been untrue, yet again. “I was foolish. I thought I was protecting you.”
He shook his head. “Protecting me? Where did you go?” She glanced at him and he sucked in a breath. “Your uncle. You went to see Winter.”
She nodded slowly. “I received a summons from him yesterday, while we were away at Ewan and Charlotte’s. In the excitement you didn’t see it. I didn’t want to upset you, and I didn’t want you to interfere and have everything be worse. So I hid it and lied to you about where I was going.”
He pushed to his feet and paced away. He was angry at the deception, of course, especially considering their history. But he also understood her motives in some way.
“You went alone to see him,” he said at last. “I don’t like that, Isabel. He is…”
“Unhinged,” she finished for him, and it was on a sob.
He pivoted, and his heart softened. Her head was in her hands and she struggled with what was obviously great grief. Whatever he thought of Fenton Winter, whatever he had suffered at the blunt end of his accusations, he knew without a doubt that Isabel loved the man. She didn’t agree with him or his terrible methods, but she did love him.
And seeing him unravel broke her heart. That mattered to Matthew. It mattered more than whatever anger he had that she would keep the truth from him.
He retook his seat and gathered her against him, holding her gently as he smoothed his hands along her trembling back and let her pour her pain into him. He took it all, holding her safe as she wept, and found himself comforted by the exchange. Her pain was easier to bear than his own in some ways. And taking it lessened its power.
When she had calmed, she looked up into his face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Of course you are.” He leaned forward to kiss her temple. “Now tell me what happened to so upset you.”
She recited the details of the encounter slowly, and his heart sank with each one. What she was describing was truly a man on the edge. And while he had been threatening Matthew for years and Matthew was certain he would never actually follow through on any real plans, it was still disturbing to know that he was trying to wield Isabel as a weapon.
“I told him I would never involve myself in a plot to hurt you,” she said at last. “And he told me we didn’t need to see each other again.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I realize how much that must hurt you.”
“It does,” she admitted. “He was all the family I had left. There are a few cousins here and there, but I was never close to them. But I’m more afraid than anything.”
“Why? Because he was trying, once again, to find a way to cause me grief?” he asked. “Darling, he’s been doing that for so long, I hardly recall a time when he wasn’t. I appreciate the concern, but there is no reason.”
She grabbed for his arm and clung with both hands. “But Matthew—”
“Shhh,” he soothed her, drawing her close again. “I promise you, there’s nothing to fear. In truth, now that his last connection to me is severed, he might just settle back down. It could be for the best.”
“I still think he’s dangerous,” she insisted. “I’m afraid for you.”
He blinked as he looked down into her face. She was utterly serious in her concern for him. And the recognition of how deeply she cared, how driven she was to protect him, highlighted the closeness they had developed since the night at the Donville Masquerade, a lifetime ago.
And even more surprising was how he felt the same for her. A drive to comfort her. Help her. Soothe her.
He slid his fingers along the curve of her jawline and dropped his lips to hers.
For a moment, the kiss was gentle. Sweet. But it swiftly deepened and moved toward the powerful physical connection they shared. He knew one way to make her forget everything but pleasure. And if the way she lifted against him was any indication, it was a way she wanted to explore, as well.
He dropped to his knees before her, cupping her cheeks as he continued kissing her. He could feel her smiling against his lips, trembling as her hands fisted against his arms. There was surrender in her taste and her soft sighs as he broke his mouth away and dragged it down her throat.
“Lay back,” he ordered as he nudged his way between her legs with his shoulders and then began to slide her skirt up.
She looked like she might argue for one brief moment, but then she sighed, closed her eyes and rested her head back. She was trusting him completely with her body and her pleasure. He wanted to reward that trust. He wanted to grant her pleasure and take his own from watching her.
The skirt bunched at her knees and he leaned down to kiss each one in turn. She gasped and her eyes came open. She watched him kiss higher, his tongue tracing the inner line of her thigh as he parted her legs even farther.
When he pushed her skirt up over her stomach, he smiled and glanced up at her. “No drawers?”
She bit her lip and shrugged. “You said you wanted a little swan here and there.”
“Here,” he said, pressing his hand between her legs and smiling as she gasped in pleasure. She was already wet, and he parted her folds and spread the damp evidence of her desire across the hot opening of her sex. “And there.”
She murmured some kind of incoherent reply, which he ignored as he adjusted himself into place and then dropped his mouth to her. She opened wider with a cry, her hands coming to grip his hair as he traced her sex, reveling in her sweet, clean flavor. In the way she lifted to meet every stroke as he tasted each inch of her body.
“Please,” she murmured, her head thrashing on the settee as she lifted her hips to meet the strokes of his tongue. “Please, please.”
He continued to toy with her, stoking the ever-burning fire of her desire. He was of two minds. If he focused on the slick bud of her clitoris, he could have her screaming out hi
s name and bucking against his tongue in moments.
Or he could draw this out. Draw her out. Give her even greater anticipation before she finally exploded around him.
The second seemed the best option. He glided his tongue along her length, specifically avoiding the place where she needed him most. She rocked helplessly and glared down at him. He smiled against her skin and responded by pressing two fingers into her sheath.
She gripped him immediately, her heat drawing him as far as he could go. He curled his fingers, watching as she mewled and contorted against the pleasure. He went on like that, curling and licking, sucking and teasing, until her breath was short and her fists pounded against the settee cushions in a silent plea for release.
Gone from her beautiful face was any regret or pain. Forgotten was trouble and anxiety. For both of them. Giving her this moment of pleasure was certainly a great one for him. One he appreciated almost as much as the moments when her shaking body milked him to completion.
He nipped her clitoris gently and she bucked as her eyes went wide. She was nodding now, probably not even recognizing she was doing it. Encouraging him to give her what she needed. To free her from pleasurable torment at last.
So he did. He sucked her clitoris, rolling his tongue around and around the slick bud. She ground against him, her back arching nearly off the settee until finally her hips began to buck out of control. She thrashed, the rippling waves of her orgasm sucking his fingers even deeper as he drew the pleasure out until she flopped, spent and weak, on the settee cushions. Satisfied at last.
He leaned her body up, pulling her to him as he kissed her, let her taste the flavor of her pleasure. She wrapped her arms around his neck, probing his lips with her tongue with a lazy sensuality that came purely from her very good instincts.
She opened her eyes and held his stare. They were close now. Too close, he would have once said. Today, it felt exactly close enough.
“Take me upstairs,” she whispered. “And let’s do that again.”
He grinned before he pressed his mouth hard to hers, tugged her into his arms, and did just that.
Chapter Twenty-One
Matthew’s neck had a crick. He grinned as he worked the pinched muscle with his hand and remembered exactly how he’d gotten it—hours with his wife, tangled with her in his bed as she arched beneath him in wild abandon. He’d left her there, soundly sleeping, her naked body spread across his sheets and ready for him when he finished with a few items on his to do list.
Something he raced to do now. Then he’d have to decide how he’d wake her. Tongue? Hands? Cock? So many possibilities.
In the distance, he heard a faint sound. A thud, and he frowned as he looked at the clock above his mantel. It was nearly three. Late for a servant to be up and about, though he wouldn’t put it past Portman to already be seeing to the daily routine. The man never stopped.
It was silent now, though. Matthew bent his head back to his work. He’d ask the butler about it tomorrow. Perhaps Isabel could be part of the discussion. She would likely be able to charm him into taking a new schedule.
How could anyone deny her?
He dipped his quill into the pot of ink and scratched a few words along the vellum before him. He had nearly lost himself in the act when the door to his study clicked shut. He lifted his gaze and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. A gun being held by Fenton Winter.
He jolted back against his chair, pushing away from the weapon as far as he could go as he forced himself to look up at his attacker. Winter’s hair was wild, his eyes were glassy, his hands shaking as he leveled the pistol at Matthew’s head. He looked unwell and unbalanced, and none of that made this situation any less fraught with peril.
“W-Winter,” Matthew stammered in shock. “What are you doing? How did you get in here?”
“I’ve watched you for so long,” Winter said, his voice shaking like his hands. “I know there’s a side door your butler sometimes accidentally leaves unlocked after deliveries. I’ve even used it once or twice before. Stepped into your house and stood in your pantry, then let myself out again. Just to know I could when I needed to.” He motioned the weapon in Matthew’s face. “Get up.”
Matthew slowly lifted his hands and pushed his chair back from his desk. As he came around the furniture and stood face-to-face with Winter, he shook his head. He had spent so much time trying to convince Isabel that there was nothing to fear from her uncle, that his past actions would dictate all his future ones. It seemed he had been very wrong.
“I should have listened to her,” he said softly.
Winter’s eyes lit up. “Her. Angelica?”
“No, your niece,” Matthew whispered. “Isabel.”
Winter’s gaze dropped a fraction, filled with guilt. “She will understand someday. I hope she’ll understand.”
“No.”
Both men glanced toward the door, and Matthew’s heart dropped. Isabel was standing there, wrapped in his robe, her hair down around her shoulders. Beautiful and his, but perhaps only for a few more moments. She was staring at her uncle, pleading in her eyes. Terror.
“Go upstairs, Isabel,” Matthew said. “Please.”
She shook her head. “I shall not,” she said with firm determination.
“Do as he says,” Winter barked.
She flinched at the angry tone, but didn’t obey either of them. Instead, she stepped into the room and toward them. Step by step, Matthew tracked her, tensing with every step until she wedged herself in front of him, her uncle’s pistol now pressed into her chest instead of Matthew’s.
“What are you doing?” Winter hissed. “Get out of the way.”
“Isabel.” Matthew grabbed her arm and tried to shove her aside, but she set her feet wide and tensed her body against him.
“Stop it, both of you,” she said.
She lifted her chin and looked evenly at Winter. His hand shook even more, and Matthew tensed. If that gun fired, Isabel would die. There was no doubt. But she didn’t stop. She didn’t step away. And she didn’t seem to care because she was determined to protect him.
And he realized, in that awful moment, that he loved her beyond measure. And he might lose her.
“What are you doing, uncle?” Isabel asked, and was proud that her voice sounded remarkably calm, considering what was happening.
“You wouldn’t help me,” Fenton said, his voice pleading as if he could make his case with her. “I can’t wait anymore, I can’t watch anymore, while he gets to go on and my Angelica is in a cold, dark grave all…all alone.”
When his breath caught, she felt Matthew shift behind her. The pain both of them felt in that moment was palpable. Mirror images, though it had torn them apart. She wondered briefly it they could have helped each other, once upon a time. If her uncle hadn’t resorted to anger, would they have been able to hold each other in their grief until they survived it?
Sadly, they would never know. Because here they were. And her uncle was determined to destroy Matthew.
“You will have to shoot me in order to take him,” she said, the words like sandpaper in her throat. She meant them despite the terror they engendered deep within her, in some primal place that screamed at her to live no matter what.
The part that loved Matthew was stronger.
“Isabel!” Matthew hissed, his tone sharp and desperate behind her.
She ignored him and remained focused on Uncle Fenton. “Is that what you’re willing to do?”
He stared at her. His eyes were glassy, but somewhere deep inside of him she still saw the flicker of his true self. The man he’d been before his child had been torn from him. The man who would never hurt her.
She had to believe that man would win over the one overcome by irrational hate.
“Please don’t make me,” he said, his hands trembling even more. She held her breath, for she knew that gun could fire at any moment.
“No one will m
ake you become a murderer,” she said. “You will have done that yourself. You will be a murderer. And he still won’t be.”
“He will. He is.”
She shook her head. “He isn’t. I loved Angelica, but I see her with a more realistic view, perhaps more than either of you. She was wonderful, and she could be petulant and spoiled and irrational. You remember when I won that scavenger hunt when we were twelve?”
Her uncle blinked, like he hadn’t thought of Angelica as anything but a corpse for so long that a memory of her as a child seemed foreign. “She—she was angry. She threw your prize into the river.”
She nodded. “She would have her way, no matter how ridiculous it was.”
“She was a girl then,” Fenton snapped, his angry gaze focusing on her. “It was different when she was older.”
“Was it?” she asked, trying hard to hold her ground. Happy that Matthew was standing behind her, rigid with rage and terror, but allowing her this opportunity to end this night with no bloodshed. Like he…trusted her. “Is it truly so hard to believe that she would have a fit of pique over not getting her way? That she would take what she wanted regardless and do it without a thought to the consequences?”
Her uncle wavered a little, but she gasped at the sight of it. Her words were sinking in.
“I don’t know,” he whispered.
“You want to blame someone else because the pain is so deep, so powerful. So unyielding that the rage is all you have to keep it at bay. But if you kill Matthew, it will not change a damn thing about what you’ve lost. It will only turn you into a monster that your daughter would have turned away from in horror. Is that what you want? What you truly want? To kill this man Angelica loved? Who…I love.”
Matthew tensed at her back, but she ignored him. If she was going to die protecting him, she needed him to know what she felt. If she lived, they could deal with the result later.
The Duke of Hearts Page 19
