She looked away, turned her head to the side and down, and he immediately regretted reminding her of her past scandal. “Forgive me. That was an unconscionable thing to say.”
“Indeed.” The word was frosty. “Most especially when you do not know the circumstances.”
“Circumstances, yes. There are always circumstances.” He waited. Would she go on without further prompt? Not that her past was any of his affair, but part of him was curious. She was obviously well bred. Her speech, her manners spoke to that. Her family was well-heeled enough to provide.
“I do not wish to say more,” she said at last, as if he’d prodded her. “I’ve never heard anyone play so finely. Haydn, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.” Oh, she was educated, all right, as educated as any young lady of good family. Enough to recognize the work of a composer better known for his symphonies than his piano sonatas.
George probed his memory, searching for any recollection of a scandal involving a young lady. She’d have been making her debut, certainly, but six years ago he spent more time in gaming hells than ballrooms. Hardly surprising a young miss’s unexplained absence from society had passed his notice.
But if they had been introduced, he’d have remembered this one, in particular, with her fine features and slender hands. As much as he made a habit of avoiding the marriage mart, the sight of Isabelle in a ball gown, gloves covering her long, white arms, her curls tamed beneath a fashionable headdress, might well make him reconsider the prospect.
Thank God he’d never laid eyes on her then. He’d have made an utter ass of himself, when obviously, her heart had been engaged elsewhere.
“You must have learned from a master.”
“I learned from the same tutor who instructed my sisters, and you may thank the heavens you’ve never been subjected to their performances.”
“Oh, come.” She smiled faintly, a mere shadow amid others. “They can’t be that bad. Not when their brother displays such talent.”
“I’d gladly let them have a measure of mine. They might each end up tolerable.”
“Won’t you play something else?”
The very request he’d been dreading. “No. I never meant to perform for anyone at all.”
“Pity.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth for a fleeting moment. “I liked you better when you were playing.”
“Liked me better?”
“Not that I disliked you before, only … Oh, I’m making such a hash of things. How to explain this? When I was listening to you play just now, you seemed, well, less threatening.”
“Threatening? My dear, you’ll have me blushing soon if you don’t leave off with the compliments. Do I threaten you now that I’m not playing?” He waited for her reply. How had he posed any sort of a menace to her at all? But he had. That first day down at the beach, she’d been on her guard. Fearful, really, beneath the veneer of anger. But what had she to fear from him?
The silence stretched out too long for her to deny it. “A little.” She waved her hand. “Should anyone find us, my reputation shall be in tatters.”
Again.
Neither one of them dared pronounce that truth, but it hung between them all the same. “A pity you have nothing to show for it then.”
She held her hands clasped in front of her, the very picture of a demure and biddable miss. “Yes, a pity.”
He cleared his throat. “Would you like something?”
“Not from you.”
No, of course not. He hadn’t requested the pleasure of her company. Someone else had. “And yet you stand there. Were you going to meet someone in the garden? Off with you, then.”
She remained on the spot, her face turned away. Well. Whoever she planned to meet, she was clearly displeased with the prospect.
“Perhaps I ought to pity the poor fellow. Your eagerness is overwhelming.”
“You know nothing. Nothing at all.” She’d likely meant the words as an attack, but somehow they lacked force.
“Yet, you’re here,” he pressed. “With me.”
Her hesitation tore at him. He was used to experienced women, women who knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to ask for it. Some were even bold enough to reach out and make the first move. Isabelle was different, experienced to a degree, and yet so completely innocent. He usually ran from virgins. Virgins expected a courtship. They expected flowers and escorts through the park and proposals. Isabelle, while no longer a virgin, retained that shyness, that hesitance that usually sent him scrambling in the opposite direction.
So why wasn’t he running from her? Why was he skirting the pianoforte to stand before her? Why was he tipping her chin up and forcing her to look him in the eye?
Her lips parted at the contact, and he studied them, plump and open and soft, but not quite inviting. Some slight tension in her cheeks prevented her from relaxing completely.
“You’ve nothing to fear from me,” he murmured. “I’ve never once forced my attentions on a woman, and I don’t mean to begin with you.”
If anything, she tensed further. Her mouth closed and pressed itself into a line.
“What is it?”
Instead of replying, she picked up his hand and laid it flat, fingers splayed. She fitted her free hand over it, palm to palm, her soft skin a glimmer of white against his paw. His long fingers extended beyond the ends of hers. He could easily curl them into a fist and crush her hand if he chose.
He understood. She wanted the assurance of gentleness from him. He lifted her arm and pressed his lips to the back of her wrist. She sucked in a breath.
“I will not hurt you, and I will do nothing you do not wish me to do.” He turned her hand over and brushed his lips over the tender skin at its base, inhaling as he did so, drinking in her freshness, her lightness, her otherworldliness. She smelled of lavender, the sharpness of sea air, and the earthiness of woman. He thought of taking his time, taming her slowly until he moved above her, sheathed in her softness and heat. Blood rushed to his groin.
He released her hand, placed it on his shoulder, and drew her close enough that the tips of her breasts brushed his chest. He stroked the length of her spine, his fingers tracing each bump of her vertebrae, feeling the tension ease from her as his hand traveled toward her waist.
Her breath released in a warm gust that wafted against his neck. He touched his lips to her temple, her cheek, at last grazing her mouth, gently, slowly, returning with greater insistence when she didn’t freeze up on him. He raised his hand and pressed it between her shoulder blades, eased her closer. He teased her lips until he coaxed a response from her, a gentle pressure in return, unschooled, a far cry from his mistresses’ practiced caresses.
And yet, with her, the patience to teach came so easily. Hell, someone ought to instruct her properly. The idiot who’d got her with child clearly hadn’t bothered with the task.
Cradling the back of her head with his hand, he traced the seam of her lips with his tongue. When she stiffened for a moment, the reaction came as no surprise. So hesitant, his Isabelle, but then she’d landed herself in trouble before. No shock she advanced with caution now. He stroked her back again, and like a cat, she arched into his touch.
“Open for me, my dear,” he whispered against her lips. “I swear I’ll only kiss you.”
Her hand slid to the back of his neck, and the tips of her fingers bit into the skin about his collar. Tempted and yet still hesitant.
“Trust me.”
OH, how she wanted to. Those gentle initial kisses had kindled a familiar fire within her belly—but down that path lurked disappointment and ruin. She could not give into passion with a man yet again, not even with George Upperton, whose gentleness and patience inspired trust.
When she’d placed her hand to his, she’d meant to show him how easily he might break her if he so chose. He’d taken the hint. He would not overpower her. But eventually he would demand more than she could give him.
And yet—his body was so firm ag
ainst hers. He awakened in her an insidious longing, a curiosity to know him fully, and the feeling threatened to outweigh her memories and fears. Yes, she could kiss him, but no more.
As if he sensed her acquiescence, he bent his head once more and captured her lips. She parted them for him, let him explore with his tongue, raised her own to twine with his. Oh God, yes. She recalled this sensation of being swept along in a rising tide of passion, the pleasure, the pure heat, the awakening ache in her belly. At the age of eighteen she hadn’t known what it was. Experience had taught her the depths of shame and humiliation, but while it was happening—at least in the beginning—how wonderful.
And with George it was even better, the fire hotter, the ache more bittersweet. He tasted and smelled of lingering smoke. The strands of his hair slipped like silk through her fingers. His chest pressed against her breasts, and her nipples tightened into buds.
With a groan, he tore his mouth from hers, his chest heaving raggedly. She opened her eyes to find him devouring her with his gaze. Gracious, such finely veiled fire. It was nearly naked. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and his fingers curled tighter.
“Already you tempt me to break my promise and ask for more than a kiss.” He dipped his head for another sip from her mouth.
“I would deny you,” she said when he broke off. Her voice had faded to a low, husky note.
“What would it take?” He kissed her again. “How many more kisses until I’ve got you so drunk with passion you consent?”
“Too many.” Too few, but she could never admit as much, lest she find herself on her back and increasing once more. “I already know the outcome. I prefer not to live through the shame a second time.”
He pressed his lips to a spot just below her ear. How did he know? How did he know just where to touch and drive her mad with want? “There are precautions one might take.”
“The surest is abstinence.”
He dropped that soothing hand from her back and tugged at his hair. “I would protect you.”
“Protect me?” The words stung like a slap in the face. She dropped her arms and wrapped them about her waist to ward off a sudden chill. “You wish me to become your mistress?”
“No, you misunderstand.”
“Then pray, explain it, because the only other significance I can ascribe to your words is far worse.”
He did not respond straightaway. His mouth worked, and his cheeks darkened, gray under the moonlight, but in the full sun they would be flushed a dull red. Mistress indeed, but as insulted as she was, part of her acknowledged that a role as a man’s bit of muslin was all she was fit for now. She’d managed to ruin herself and could expect no better.
But she would not expose Jack to such an arrangement. He was an innocent child, and she would ensure he remained so as long as possible. There was pain enough when one’s illusions were suddenly stripped away. She could spare her son that much.
“I meant no insult,” Upperton replied at last.
She crossed her arms. “Indeed.”
He exhaled, and she took a perverse satisfaction at his discomfiture. She’d pushed him into a corner, and she rather liked him there.
“Isabelle, you are a breathtakingly beautiful woman. Have you never considered you might improve your fortunes by taking on a protector?”
Oh, but he was beyond the pale. “My fortunes are perfectly acceptable as they are. A woman in my circumstances can hardly hope for better.”
“No?” He stepped closer, near enough that she caught a hint of his scent with every intake of breath. “And when you lie abed at night, alone, and sleep doesn’t come, and you long for another body beside you, a little warmth, a little companionship?” He tipped her chin up. “A little passion?”
She clamped her lips shut. He meant to seduce her, but she wasn’t about to yield. Not after the sort of offer he’d just made. “I manage quite nicely, thank you. Now if you’ll pardon me, the hour is late, and I need to be off home. I have responsibilities, you see, and I cannot simply wave them away or expect a servant to see to them for me.”
He dropped his hand, and she allowed herself a smile at his stiffened posture. So he’d caught her insinuation. So much the better. Useless, idle members of society. What good had any of them ever been to her? Why would she wish to consort with any of them, most especially a man who wanted nothing more than a few hours’ pleasure—his pleasure, not hers—and who would move on the moment he tired of her. She’d be fortunate not to find herself with a permanent reminder of his passage through her life.
“Good night, my lord.”
She didn’t wait for his reply. Squaring her shoulders, she took herself through the casement and into the gardens. Her feet crunched briskly across the graveled path. Mistress indeed! Why any woman would commit herself to such a life—paid to live at a man’s beck and call, to serve him in the most distasteful manner.
It’s the best you can do.
She tried to push the thought aside, but it persisted. No man would look upon her as a suitable wife, and no respectable family would take her on as a governess or companion. She was fortunate to have found a comfortable dwelling. Otherwise, she would have succumbed to selling herself out of desperation long since.
She rounded the end of the house and strode down the footpath that led to the village. The moon cut from behind a cloud to cast the world in eerie shades of gray. A sharp breeze blew up from the sea, carrying with it the dull pounding of surf on the unseen beach at the cliff’s base. Her cove lay nearby, bathed in that same otherworldly light.
That cove was no longer her and Jack’s secret, not since the day Upperton had come upon them. He was no better than an intruder, and a rude one at that. What had she been thinking, entering the manor when she ought to have waited for whoever had left her that note?
Blasted curiosity, always leading her astray. And it had made her miss her meeting. Whatever he had wanted with her … He, yes. Curlicues aside, there was something masculine about the handwriting on that note. She’d trudged up the path to Shoreford house, her heart heavy. What could anyone know about Jack after all these years?
But she’d gone and let Upperton distract her. Although he’d kept his word and done no more than kiss her, bitter experience ought to have taught her to exercise more caution. She intended to, starting now. She’d go back to her cottage, mind her own business, raise her son, and never look in the direction of the likes of George Upperton again.
A crack from the hedge to her left brought her up short. Her heart slammed into her ribs, and her senses tingled to the alert. The night air, still but for the distant rush of waves on the shore, pressed in on her. Before her, the path stretched out, empty. Neither, she was certain, did anyone lurk at her back. Not Upperton, surely. Not even he was so insufferably arrogant that he’d have followed. Not the way they’d left things.
Drawing in a lungful of salt air, she willed her leaden feet forward. Awareness prickled at the back of her neck. How she wished she’d stayed home. Home was safe. Home was secure. It posed no danger to her reputation or to her person.
But a young woman wandering alone in the dark was a different matter altogether. She lengthened her stride until she wasn’t quite running. No sense in allowing her fear to show. For all the lane appeared deserted, a sense of watchfulness grew until it weighed on her, sullen and oppressive as the air before a summer storm. Her breath came in ragged puffs.
Just ahead, a figure loomed out of the darkness—a large, imposing figure. It blocked the path.
She stopped, whirled. If she ran full out, she might make it within shouting distance of the manor before she was caught. A hand lashed out and clamped about her wrist, the fingers strong as five iron bands. The shocking force of that grip brought her face-to-face with a stranger.
“Did you really think you could throw me over tonight?” he growled. The menace in that voice sent a knee-weakening shiver through her. “Did you expect me to lie back and take it?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER ISABELLE’S abrupt departure, George once again found himself in the garden. He pulled in fragrant smoke from a cheroot, but for once in his life, he found no comfort in the taste. It did nothing to erase the feeling of Isabelle’s lips moving on his. He strode to the end of the garden. She would have left this way, marching down the path to the village in a temper.
Damn, damn, and damn.
Could he possibly have phrased his question any more awkwardly? George Upperton, known for his wit and clever tongue. Only tonight they had failed him. Tonight he’d managed to insult a poor woman who likely endured enough gossip. He’d all but ensured she’d never consider his attentions again.
Some wit. Some cleverness. He was an idiot, pure and simple.
He cast the stub of his cheroot to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel. Why should he care, at any rate? Dallying with her would bring him no closer to the Earl of Redditch, or to settling Summersby’s debts. He had enough troubles without involving himself in another entanglement, especially one that came with the complications of a child.
Another child.
And he was getting nowhere, standing here, mulling over Isabelle. He was most certainly not mooning. Should anyone suggest otherwise, he would call them out.
A woman’s scream tore through the night’s stillness, a high, terrified note. Isabelle. Oh God.
He took off down the lane at a dead run.
He spotted them at the last possible moment, as he turned a corner past a high hedge. Two shadowy figures—one seeming to tower over the other—struggled in the middle of the lane.
George didn’t stop to size up his opponent. He ran full-tilt into the beast, shouldering his way between Isabelle and her assailant. With a cry, she stumbled backward. George turned to grab the oaf by his lapels, but the man heaved himself, shoving his way out of George’s grip. George ducked just in time to avoid a flying fist. Next thing he knew, the thuds of the attacker’s footfalls faded into the night.
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