“Well. Jack …” Her voice caught on the name. “Jack’s always one for stories. He usually wants me to invent something with dragons and such.” She fingered her empty teacup. “The other week, I was too tired to come up with anything, so I thought he might like to hear about Jack and the beanstalk. Because of the name, you see.”
“Wasn’t he afraid of the ogre?”
“Not at all. He tromped about for days shouting, ‘Fee, fie, foe, fum!’ Do you know what he said?”
He propped his chin on the heel of his hand. “No. Tell me.”
“He said an ogre worth his salt wouldn’t say anything so namby-pamby.” She nearly laughed at the memory, but somewhere her laughter snagged on a jagged edge to emerge as a choked sound.
George settled himself more firmly on the bench. Like the card game, he’d meant his question to distract her from her missing son.
“You still have another question,” she said thickly.
He ought to ask about Redditch, but how? How did he bring up the topic and not appear cruel by reminding her of yet another loss? He couldn’t do it, not after all she’d been through. “Perhaps I shall claim my second question later, when I’ve had a chance to play for you.”
“Can’t you think of anything else to ask me?”
“I’m holding out for something extra scandalous.” There. Let her think he only meant to flirt.
“And you can’t imagine that now?”
“Well, if you insist. Never let it be said I backed down in the face of scandal.” He made a show of contemplating, tapping his fingers on his chin while giving her a wolfish grin.
Her cheeks turned a fetching shade of rose under his scrutiny. So much the better. The past few days hadn’t done any favors for her pallor.
“Gracious.” She touched her fingertips to the base of her throat. “What are you thinking?”
“Shall I answer you truthfully when it isn’t your forfeit to claim?”
“Yes.” That single syllable emerged on a throaty note, much more appropriate to the bedroom. But then she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Good heavens, what am I thinking?”
Her voice wobbled into an alarmingly higher register on the final syllable. Her face crumpled, and she screwed her eyes shut. Damn it to hell, he’d nearly succeeded in his distraction. He’d had himself believing he might coax reserved little Isabelle Mears into flirting with him yet.
“I shouldn’t,” she murmured into her palm. “What kind of person …”
She was melting before him. All her composure drained away before his eyes. Something like a fist squeezed his heart. He pushed the bench back, stood and circled the table to her side.
“Budge up, would you?” Deliberately, he kept his tone light, while he nudged with one shoulder.
Choking, she inched to the side, let him sit, let him wrap an arm about her. Her head settled on his shoulder, and one of her small hands crept up his free arm until she clung to him. Her breath tore from her in ragged spurts, and her body trembled against his chest.
She felt so small in his arms, small and vulnerable, this slip of a woman. Mentally, he cursed Redditch for turning her out into the world, for that night had led to this—a night she’d lost everything yet again. He tightened his hold on her, and sifted his fingers through her hair. If he could, he’d have saved her this pain.
She burrowed closer, buried her face in the side of his neck, and inhaled, steady now, as if she were taking his scent into herself. As if she might take him into herself. Her breasts pressed against his chest.
In spite of himself, his body reacted to her nearness, her softness. Good Christ, she was nearly in his lap. She might even feel him against her thighs—white, slender thighs that he wanted wrapped about his waist.
He swallowed a groan. The last thing she needed was to fend off his advances.
She raised her head, eyes wide and brown and luminous in the candlelight. No, those were unshed tears, not the reflection of desire. Her lips parted. Her teeth tugged at the plumpness of her lower lip, and his mind flooded with the memory of that sweet pliancy beneath his mouth.
Under his tongue.
She’d reacted to gentle persuasion, but now his mind focused on a single question: How would she react to a more carnal assault? For that was how he wanted to take her: rough, forceful, hard, and fast.
Only a scoundrel would act on the impulse. A scoundrel would take advantage of her innocent vulnerability—for she was still innocent, even though she’d borne a child. A scoundrel would think with his prick and strip that away from her.
She blinked, and her lips parted once more. The pink tip of her tongue darted out. Heated need shot to his groin, and he forced himself to loosen his grip.
She must have sensed his hesitance, for she moved closer. “Please.”
Oh, damn. If she planned on begging him in that cracked little voice, he was well and truly buggered.
“Isabelle—”
“Please, I need …”
He touched his fingers to her lips to stop her from completing that thought. “It’s not a good idea. I should leave.”
But he couldn’t very well rise with her nearly in his lap, couldn’t dump her onto the floor.
“I cannot bear to be alone.” She formed the words around his fingertips, and his resolve slipped a bit further.
“There’s a difference between keeping company and asking for trouble.”
“Please.” That word again. It burned through him.
And then she took away his choice along with his chance to protest. Seizing him by the lapels, she covered his lips with hers.
Her kiss, God, her kiss. As gentle as their first had been, this one was its complete and utter opposite. It was the antithesis of demure. It was every bit as rough and forceful and hard and fast as he craved. She tasted of desperation and need entwined. She shattered his will with all the finesse of a racehorse charging ahead on to the finish line.
Her palms flattened against his chest and slid upward to his shoulders. Her fingers tugged. Good God, she was unknotting his cravat. He had to slow her down before she pulled him over the cliff with her. She might well seek some release to her emotional turmoil, but he was certain she’d regret it if he took her to bed—by tomorrow morning if not the moment they finished and she drifted back to earth.
He tore his lips away, but she only settled her mouth against his cheek, while her fingers still fumbled with his neck cloth.
“Isabelle,” he grated. By God, he was going to regret what he was about to do—or parts of him were. “Isabelle.”
He pressed his hands over hers, halting her fingers. They were trembling, whether with desire or despair, he didn’t know. “Slowly. I’m not going anywhere.”
She blinked up at him, her eyes round and dark and huge in her pale face. It was the wine. It had to be. She’d barely eaten all day and the strong burgundy had gone to her head. Her breath ghosted across his lips. “Don’t stop. I … I need … I don’t even know how to say it. You’ll think me scandalous.”
“Hush.” He gave her hands a warm squeeze. “I know what you need.”
Lord help him, he needed the same, but for different reasons, reasons he was in a position to ignore. This one time, he could give without taking. “I swear to you, I won’t do anything you’ll regret later, but you’ll have to trust me.”
Her gaze focused on his mouth, and she leaned in. Before she could advance on him again, he met her halfway in a gentler caress. If he wanted her trust, he had to earn it, starting now. “Do you, Isabelle? Do you trust me?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE OVERPOWERING hunger for closeness to another person—to feel a heartbeat against hers—overwhelmed any protest her brain might mount. She craved this escape, however ephemeral. And if he could give her that much without forcing her to risk once again her virtue and reputation, then how could she refuse?
How could she not trust him? She’d already thrown herself at him in a reckless offer of he
r entire being. Her past might well have taught her caution, but in this moment when she’d lost everything, she could not tolerate any less than the comfort intimacy bestowed. His lips on hers. His tongue and hands seeking out her secrets. Skin against skin.
Above all, the oblivion of passion.
“Yes, I’ll trust you when I should not.” Her voice sounded foreign to her ears, something low and enticing and compelling.
Imagine such seduction dripping from her tongue, when she had once fallen prey to that very siren’s song. But it was as if someone else controlled her actions now. Someone or something. Not reason, certainly. No, somewhere inside her, a need had awakened, a small spark that had ignited in dry timber to become a raging inferno. Reason and logic held no power against such forces.
Neither did her conscience.
She didn’t want to think, only feel until the sensations overtook her and blocked out all else.
“Why should you not trust me?”
Because he was a rogue. Because his charm captivated her. Because, right now, she wished these things had never led her astray. “Perhaps …” She focused on the front of his topcoat. “Perhaps it is myself I should not trust.”
He closed his eyes, and a groan erupted from deep in his chest. “Do not say such things.” He raised a hand to her cheek. His fingers trembled against her skin. “You play utter havoc with my resolve to respect your wishes.”
Wishes? She’d expressed no wishes.
His mouth covered hers, hard and demanding, before she had a chance to reply. His tongue invaded her mouth and forced her to hold back the questions that clambered into her throat. In another moment, she forgot them, as he hauled her up against his chest. He set her mind awhirl until she could only respond to the darkness of his kiss. She clutched at him, ran her hands across his broad shoulders and down his back, pulled him into her.
Yes, yes, and yes. She longed for him to be part of her, to fill her and erase the past and let her believe in a brighter future.
Brighter future? That was carrying matters a bit far.
With a groan, he pulled away, his breath coming in warm puffs across her cheeks. “Don’t think.” He ran a finger along her jaw, tracing a line to her throat and pressing on her racing pulse. “Feel. Trust. The last thing I want is to harm you.”
But he would, when he left. He’d do both—leave and hurt her in the process. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, and his embrace tightened about her, a blanket of warmth and protection.
He pressed his lips to her forehead, a mere shadow of a kiss, barely there. Again came the gentle pressure, a fluttering, over and over in a line down her face. The corner of her eye, the jut of her cheekbone, the lobe of her ear. She lowered her lids and settled into the tenderness, the simple affection behind the gesture.
So long she’d lived alone.
So long without such comfort from another adult. A child’s enthusiastic hugs and grubby kisses weren’t enough. Only an adult could envelop her so fully, could surround her with the sense of well-being. She let it infuse her.
She’d take what affection he was willing to give. Take it and return a measure of her own. Her body craved the security the way her lungs craved air.
Fingertips trembling, she stroked the side of his face, to press the gentle rasp of his beard against her skin, to revel in his nearness. Warm, wet heat skated along her neck as he branded her with his tongue.
Her fingers slipped into his hair. Like warm silk, the strands slid against her palms. He pressed closer, nuzzled and then moved on. Her collarbone, the notch at the base of her throat. The upper swells of her breasts.
Her nipples tightened in invitation, and she arched back in a wordless plea for more. She ached for him to fill his hands with her flesh, to bare her to his gaze, to suckle.
His deft fingers moved to the tiny buttons at her shoulders that held up her bodice. Then they tugged at the ties beneath. Her loosened stays fell aside easily along with the straps of her chemise. Cool air rushed over exposed skin, and her nipples puckered to buds, begging for his attention, his lips, his tongue, his teeth.
He pulled in a sharp breath. She opened her eyes to find him staring, eyes dark and hard as granite, but never cool. No, his gaze burned into her. Deep in her midsection, an answering spark burst into flame.
He raised his hands, and she inhaled, waiting for his touch, yearning for it. Needing it. But his fingers curled about her waist strong and steady on either side. Before she could question, he stood, raising her at the same time, crowding her, forcing her back. The firm edge of the table nudged at her bottom. He lifted and pushed until she sat, until her face hovered level with his, but his gaze was fixed on her throat.
Once more, he stepped closer. His slim hips angled between her knees and pushed them apart. His hands slipped to either side of her thighs, his arms a brace for his body and a cage to hold her in place.
Not that she intended to move from the spot. Not when the bulge at the front of his trousers pressed against her most intimate flesh, searing her through layers of fabric. Not when he dipped his head to draw a straining nipple into his mouth.
She cried out, a high note tinged with desperation. How did this man ignite such a fire in her? She didn’t quite recall it being this way—all her reactions intensified. An aching knot of need tightened deep in her belly with every hot swipe of his tongue.
He edged forward and pushed her back against the unyielding wood. God, he’d laid her out on her own kitchen table. Next to the mismatched teacups, their hollows stained red. Beneath her, the scattered pack of cards and crumbs of their meal. Completely wanton. She no longer cared. All she wanted was more. More pleasure. More of him.
Until he filled her.
She tangled her fingers in his hair, pressed him closer. Arched her back, her head digging heedlessly into the oak’s bite. For a moment, he pulled away, and the heat of his breath blazed across her swollen flesh, harsh and rapid. His eyes, darkened to black, branded her with the intensity of his gaze.
Still fully clothed, he loomed over her, hair in spiky disarray. Power lurked beneath that precisely tailored topcoat, beneath that rich waistcoat with its gleaming buttons, beneath the fine linen of his shirt. Power and rippling muscle. She’d felt it through the barrier of his garments. Her fingers itched to learn his texture, to experience the leap of his pulse beneath his skin, to trace their way down fire-gilded flesh and corded sinew, to learn, to know until the pair of them ceased to exist as man and woman alone.
Until they moved as one at passion’s decree.
She reached for the band of silk that bound his neck, to finish loosening the first ties that separated them.
He grasped her wrist, pressing it over her head. “No, Isabelle.” A grin stretched one side of his mouth, or perhaps it was more a grimace of pain. “I’ve sworn to leave you without fear of another child. But I’m only made of flesh and blood.”
“I would know the flesh.” Her voice was nearly unrecognizable. It floated over them both, low and sultry, as if she were indeed the temptress, the experienced one.
He closed his eyes, and a shudder passed through him. She felt the tremor at every point where their bodies touched—her wrist, her belly, the junction of her thighs, wedged apart and pressed against the solid length of his arousal. Something pulsed between them—her or him, she couldn’t tell.
“Not tonight. I’ve given my word and, by God, I intend to keep it. How else am I to prove you might trust me?”
Lord, he was going on about trust when it was the last thing on her mind now. She ought to heed him, ought not to take another chance, but her body was making its own demands. She recalled the sensation from last time, only with him, it was somehow magnified. Insistent. Urgent. Implacable.
She might once again be disappointed in the actual joining, but she had to know, had to experience, just once with him. She tilted her hips. The hard length of his erection pressed into her just there, just at that sweet, sweet spot.
Her breath released on a sigh.
“I won’t deny you, love. I know just what you want.” Leaning forward, he feathered a kiss across her lips. “I know just what you need.”
She peered at him from beneath half-closed lids. Nothing about his voice had changed, but he couldn’t have given in so quickly. Not after all his insistence on trust. “How?”
He laughed, a low, sensual rumble that originated deep in his chest and vibrated through her. “You poor, innocent creature. I might have known the ape who ruined you didn’t go about the matter properly.”
“I believe he managed well enough.”
“For him, perhaps, but not for you. Don’t think about him anymore. Let me show you how it ought to be.”
Ought to be. Such promise in those words. He had made promises of pleasure, as well. Naturally he had—promises he hadn’t kept. George was different somehow. She saw it in his eyes, the reverence, the determination. She felt it in the way his touch focused on her, worshiped her. It rang through the conviction in his voice when he spoke the vow.
How could she refuse? How could any woman, even laid out before him on a rough table like a banquet, a half-finished bottle of wine next to her head. Already he was devouring her with his eyes. She wanted to be consumed.
Yes. She swallowed to relieve her parched throat, but the word wouldn’t come. Weakly, she nodded her assent.
Heat flared in his gaze and sent an answering spear of flame straight to her midsection. Intimate muscles clenched, and without thinking, she tightened her thighs about his flanks.
With a growl—there was no other word to describe the feral noise in his throat—he straightened. Seizing an ankle, he placed the sole of her foot on the edge of the table. His fingertips trailed fire up her calf. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth. Cool air teased the bare skin above her stockings as he raised her skirts.
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