by Emily Larkin
He lifted his eyebrows. “But Mrs. Westin—”
“Certainly she will accompany me if I have no other escort, but she has no great liking for balls and rout-parties.”
She leaned against the balustrade again and looked out over the garden at the darkness and the shadows and the flickering lamps. “Usually one or another of my brothers and sisters are in London for the Season, but this year they are none of them here. Julian has just been presented with his fifth child and poor Marianne is in no state to come to town. Simon has taken his family to the continent, and both Clara and Amabel are expecting.” She turned her face towards him, laughing, moonlight gilding her cheek. “You see, Major, there’s no shortage of children in my family!”
He looked at her for a long moment. “You truly have no intention of marrying, do you?”
“No.”
“But—”
“I enjoy being a spinster.” He heard the truth clearly in her voice: there was no defensiveness, just a quiet sincerity.
Spinster. An ugly little word. So wrong for her.
Nicholas looked at Lady Isabella in the moonlight. She was golden and silver, beautiful. Such a waste.
Lady Isabella looked out over the garden again. “Legally, a wife belongs to her husband. She’s his property.”
He’d never thought of it quite like that, but she was perfectly correct.
“I have no desire to become another person’s possession, Major.”
“But. . .” He groped for words, trying to articulate his thoughts. “But if a man truly loved you he wouldn’t try to make you a possession.”
“I have received a number of offers, Major, from men who professed to love me. But what they loved was my face, or my rank, or my fortune—or all three!” There was no bitterness in her voice, just honesty.
“Then you’re wise not to have married them.”
She smiled at him. “We’re in agreement, then.”
“But a love match,” he persisted stubbornly. “If—”
“If it was me he was in love with,” she said with irony, “and not merely my face.”
“If it was a love match,” he continued doggedly. “Then surely you could have no objection?”
Lady Isabella laughed. The sound had a hard edge to it, matching the glitter in her eyes. “It’s always my face men fall in love with,” she said. “And I’m much more than my face.”
“I am aware of that,” he said with stiff dignity.
The hard glitter left her eyes. Her mouth softened into a smile. “You are a prince among men,” she said, reaching out to touch the back of his hand, resting on the balustrade, with light fingertips. “Ogre.” The word was said with affection.
She turned to go inside.
“But—”
Lady Isabella looked back over her shoulder. “I shall never marry, Major. Accept it!”
She was Venus, standing silhouetted in the light streaming from the French windows. Tall and queenly and inordinately beautiful.
Their companions in this corner of the terrace were gone. Some had returned to the dancing; others, judging from the muffled giggles that rose from the gardens, were indulging in more clandestine activities. He and Lady Isabella were alone, apart from music and shadows and moonlight.
She held out her hand to him. “Come inside. Let’s dance some more.”
Nicholas took hold of her fingers. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
She laughed. “I assure you that I do!”
“No,” he said. “You don’t.”
It was music swirling from the ballroom that made him tighten his clasp on her hand, that made him pull her closer. Faerie music, wild and reckless.
Lady Isabella became very still. “Major.” There was a note of warning in her voice.
“Don’t dismiss something as worthless until you’ve tried it.”
“Major Reynolds—”
“You’ve set your heart against marriage, without knowing anything of the pleasures that may attend it.”
“Major—”
“If you were to make a love match, you would find that the . . . er . . . physical side of marriage can be extremely enjoyable.”
Lady Isabella pulled her hand free. She folded her arms across her chest, defensive. “Roland did kiss me once; I didn’t like it.”
“He didn’t do it right, then.”
Her frown vanished. She laughed. “How would you know? You weren’t there!”
“How do you know if you’ve only tried it once?”
The question silenced her. She bit her lip.
He looked at her, gilded in moonlight. Desire clenched in his belly. Dear God, he wanted to kiss her. The music was no help, whispering in his ear, urging, enticing. “I think you should try it again.”
She stood quite still for a moment, her arms crossed, her face expressionless. “Just what is it you’re proposing, Major?”
He shrugged and tried to keep his tone careless. “A kiss.”
There was no revulsion in her voice, merely shock: “You know I dare not!”
He glanced over his shoulder, at the shadowy gardens. “We wouldn’t be the only ones.”
Her brow creased. “Why, Major?”
Because I want to taste your mouth. “So that your decision may be more informed.” He leaned against the balustrade. “It’s a very important decision, after all.”
Her lips twisted, as if she tried to hide a smile. “For my own good?”
“Yes,” he said, striving for a note of piety. “I feel it’s my duty.”
He saw laughter in her eyes; she knew he was teasing her. “Your duty?”
“Yes. I’m a very dutiful man.”
She laughed aloud at this and uncrossed her arms. “You have a glib tongue, Major. Is this how you won your battles? By sweet-talking your enemies?”
You aren’t my enemy. Nor was she the woman he wanted to marry. But right now, while the mad, Bacchanalian music swirled around him and the night air was cool on his face, he had a burning desire to kiss her. “What do you say?” he asked lightly.
She bit her lip, looking uncertain. “I don’t know.”
It wasn’t a No. Did the music affect her as it did him? It urged him to take her hand again and stroke his fingers lightly up her arm.
Nicholas gave into the urging. He stepped away from the balustrade and reached for her hand and ran his fingertips up the inside of her arm, over cool, smooth skin.
Lady Isabella shivered slightly.
“Aren’t you the slightest bit curious?” His voice was low.
“No,” she said. “I told you that Roland kissed me—and I didn’t like it at all.”
He bent his head and whispered in her ear. “And I told you that he did it wrong.”
She laughed at this. “Major, you’re more conceited than I’d thought!”
“Not conceited,” he said, stroking his fingers lightly up her bare arm again, from her wrist to the sensitive hollow of her elbow. “Merely honest.”
Lady Isabella shivered again. She bit her lip.
Nicholas bent his head closer. “I dare you,” he whispered in her ear.
“My reputation—”
“Will still be intact. I give you my word of honor.”
Lady Isabella made no demur as he led her down the steps into the garden, as they followed a barely seen path into the shadows, as he pulled her into the darkness of a gazebo.
“I’ve drunk too much punch,” she said.
“I know I have.” He pulled her close to him, cupping her face in his hands. “I shouldn’t dare to do this otherwise.”
“Am I so terrifying?” she asked, a tart note in her voice.
Not terrifying; untouchable. He was suddenly, painfully, aware of his ruined cheek. Beauty and the Beast. And yet he was touching her, her cool skin warming beneath his fingers.
“If you dislike it, you must tell me.”
Lady Isabella moistened her lips. “I will.” Her voice was barely aud
ible; she was nervous.
She wasn’t the only one.
Nicholas inhaled a slow, steadying breath. He slid his hands from her face to her throat, tilting up her chin with his thumbs. Her eyes stared at him, silver in the night shadows.
“Relax,” he said, smiling at her.
“That’s easier said than done, Major!”
He laughed, a slight puff of breath, and angled his head and touched his lips to hers.
Slowly, he told himself, closing his eyes, inhaling the scent of her skin. Orange blossom.
He started gently, laying soft kisses on her mouth until he felt her begin to relax, then he tasted her lips lightly with his tongue. She tasted of punch, of strawberries and oranges, sweet and tart, delicious.
Heat was building in his body. When her lips parted to his tongue he almost groaned.
Slowly, damn it. Slowly.
He explored her mouth in small increments, keeping it light and teasing, playful. Arousal jolted through him when her tongue shyly touched his.
Slowly.
But it was impossible when she was kissing him back, her mouth shy and inexperienced, eager.
Nicholas abandoned his caution. He kissed her more deeply, losing himself in pleasure, in heat. His awareness of their surroundings, the gazebo and the shadowy garden, faded. Her mouth was more bewitching than the Faerie music, more intoxicating than the punch. He sank into it. His world narrowed to her lips, to her body pressed against his, to her scent, her taste. This was indulgence, this was bliss, this was—
Madness.
Nicholas forced himself to release her. He opened his eyes and stepped back a pace, struggling to breathe. His heartbeat was loud in his ears.
They stared at each other. He heard her breathing, as ragged as his own, saw the glimmer of moonlight in her eyes.
“Lady Isabella?” he asked softly.
She inhaled a sharp breath. “I need to return to the ball.” Her voice was low and shaken. “If my absence has been noted—”
Nicholas took hold of her hand. “It will be all right.”
Her fingers clutched his. He saw her nod, heard her try to steady her breathing. “Yes,” she said. “Of course it will.” But her hand trembled slightly as he escorted her along the path and up the steps to the terrace. I shouldn’t have kissed her, he thought as he halted, letting her enter the ballroom alone. She glanced back, framed by the French window, golden in the light streaming from the chandeliers, then moved swiftly from his sight.
Nicholas stayed on the terrace for a full hour, leaning his forearms on the balustrade, frowning down at the garden. What had happened in the gazebo? A kiss, merely a kiss, spurred on by the punch they’d both consumed, by the reckless music.
Merely a kiss, and yet . . .
He was uneasily aware that his world had altered. Something was different, but he wasn’t sure what.
Chapter Twelve
When dawn seeped in through the chintz curtains, Isabella gave up all pretense of trying to sleep. She had lain awake for what seemed like hours, listening to the clatter of hooves on Clarges Street, to voices raised in song as revelers made their way home, to the night watchman’s cry: Four of the clock, and all’s well.
Except that all wasn’t well.
In the space of a few minutes, everything had changed. Her life had turned upside down.
You’ve set your heart against marriage, Major Reynolds had said. Without knowing anything of the pleasures that may attend it.
And he’d been correct: she had set her heart against marriage. But now . . .
Isabella shifted position inside the twisted nest of bedding. Sleep was impossible; every time she closed her eyes she remembered the major’s kiss, remembered the heat that had washed through her, the spiraling coil of pleasure in her belly.
She hadn’t wanted him to stop. That was what appalled her the most—more than her acquiescence to his suggestion, more than her enjoyment of it. She hadn’t wanted him to stop. She had wanted more.
Am I so sunk below reproach?
It seemed that she was. Every time she closed her eyes she was aware of the heat and the tension still lingering in her body. I want more.
Isabella changed position again. She rearranged a pillow that seemed to have grown lumpier with each hour that passed.
I feel it’s my duty, the major had said, teasing her. And then he’d kissed her. And she’d let him, she’d kissed him back, and now . . .
I want more.
Isabella closed her eyes and relived Major Reynolds’ kiss. Warmth flushed inside her at the memory of his mouth, the gentleness, the hunger.
It was no longer impossible to imagine the major with Spanish paramours. If he kissed like that—
Isabella opened her eyes. The curtains shone brighter with suppressed sunlight.
Harriet’s grandfather had been correct: the girl was a fool to turn down a man such as Major Reynolds.
And I am a fool for kissing him.
No, not for kissing him—for letting it affect her like this. For allowing a few minutes’ pleasure to disorder her mind.
Isabella uttered an exclamation of annoyance. She pushed back the covers and sat up. Across the room, her reflection glimmered ghostlike in the mirror—pale face, shadowed eyes.
Rufus, in his basket at the foot of her bed, sat up and yawned widely.
“Did you sleep, Rufus? I didn’t.” She touched a light fingertip to her mouth, watching the movement in the mirror.
Major Reynolds had kissed her, tasted her . . .
Isabella lowered her hand and briskly got out of bed, reaching for her dressing gown. She pulled the belt tightly about her waist and stared at herself in the mirror. A stranger met her eyes: a woman who would consider casting aside the tenet she had lived her adult life by, a woman who would consider exchanging her liberty for a man’s embrace.
Rufus climbed out of his basket, stretched, yawned again, and trotted across the carpet, tail wagging, to greet her with a lick on the hand.
Isabella patted him absently. “No,” she said under her breath, turning away from the mirror. She was not such a fool. A fool to kiss Major Reynolds, yes, and an even bigger fool to enjoy it—but not such a fool as to fail to realize that it wouldn’t be like that with every man. It had most certainly not been like that with Roland.
Isabella drew the curtains back. Sunlight flooded in.
Why hadn’t it been like that with Roland, whom she had loved? Why Major Reynolds? A man who, by his own confession, wanted a bride barely out of childhood. A bride he could mold to suit him. She couldn’t admire him for that. He was either foolish, or arrogant, or perhaps both. And yet . . .
And yet she wanted him to kiss her again.
When had she come to be so aware of the major as a man? An attractive man?
She leaned her hip against the windowsill, frowning down at the street without seeing it. Memory of Major Reynolds’ kiss tingled on her lips, but the major wasn’t a man she wanted to marry. Any more than he wants to marry me.
Rufus pushed his nose into her hand.
Isabella laughed suddenly, looking down at him. “Your mistress is a fool!” she said loudly. A kiss, one kiss, was no reason for this turmoil of her thoughts.
Rufus pricked his ears, alert. He wagged his tail.
“Yes, you’re quite correct, Rufus. It’s time for breakfast.” She turned away from the window and reached for the bellpull.
They had formed the habit of meeting in Hyde Park between the hours of five and six. Lady Isabella would take him up in her phaeton and drive around the park and let him down; a flirtation, conducted beneath the ton’s interested gazes.
Except that it hadn’t been a flirtation; it had been businesslike and friendly.
Until I kissed her.
The question was: Would she stop for him today?
Nicholas strolled along the drive. A light breeze ruffled the dark surface of the Serpentine.
“Reynolds!”
; Nicholas turned his head.
Lieutenant Mayhew came up alongside him astride a high-stepping gray. “Joining the Grand Strut, I see.”
Nicholas lifted one shoulder in a shrug. He glanced at Mayhew’s companion and blinked in recognition. “Harry?”
“Sir,” his nephew said.
A phaeton swept briskly past with a clatter of hooves and wheels. Perched on the high seat was a dashing young lady with dark ringlets. The glance of her eyes, the slight smile as she passed them, were full of coquetry.
Mayhew turned his head to watch her. “Very nice!” he said. His attention swung back to Nicholas. “And where’s your fair Venus?”
The words brought back vivid memory of the Worthingtons’ terrace: Lady Isabella standing framed in the French window, golden, goddess-like. “Ah . . .” Nicholas said. He turned to Harry. “I didn’t see you at the Worthingtons’ last night.”
“I dined with Mayhew,” his nephew said. He sounded like a schoolboy trying not to brag: a little too nonchalant.
Nicholas glanced at the lieutenant. “Taken up with this young rattle?” he asked, forcing humor into his tone.
Mayhew grinned. “Someone has to tell him about your exploits.”
“My exploits?” Nicholas said, slightly taken aback.
Harry edged his horse closer. “You never told me, sir, that during the battle at Badajoz—”
Nicholas stopped listening. Another phaeton was approaching. The lady’s elegant posture, her deft handling of the reins, the black-and-tan mongrel at her feet, the middle-aged groom, were all too familiar.
Lady Isabella brought the phaeton to a halt alongside them. “Mr. Reynolds, Lieutenant Mayhew.” She inclined her head in greeting. “Major Reynolds.” Her eyes met his for a mere instant and then slid away.
Nicholas bowed to her, and wished Mayhew and Harry gone. He listened to Mayhew’s cheerful greeting with impatience, to his extravagant praise of Lady Isabella’s skill with the reins with something approaching irritation.
“Prime horseflesh, ma’am! You’re clearly a capital whip.”
The conversation turned to the kittens, and then to Mayhew’s niece and nephew, before the lieutenant finally bowed in his saddle and took Harry off, with a grinning backwards glance at Nicholas.
