“I will not wear the gowns if you object,” Isabella reiterated.
As Damien pondered her words, Isabella saw the anger diminish from his eyes. “It seems a ludicrous waste to let the clothes become food for the moths,” he finally said. “Besides, you look very pretty.”
Isabella fought back a smile. The compliment was sincerely if begrudgingly given. “Thank you, Damien.”
The earl shifted from one foot to the other, then walked out from behind his desk and began prowling around the study. He appeared restless and uneasy, but to Isabella’s relief, no longer angry. Eventually Damien paused by the fire and idly picked up the poker.
The tension gradually eased from the air. Isabella found herself watching his hands, mesmerized, as they prodded the smouldering logs, sending showers of glittering sparks leaping among the flames. The heavy gold signet ring on Damien’s left hand gleamed in the firelight, and the memory of the feel of cool metal on her warm flesh sent a tremor of excitement through Isabella.
She cleared away the lump in her throat. Damien turned at the strangled sound, and Isabella berated herself for being caught staring at him with such blatant expectancy in her expression.
Seeming to read her thoughts, Damien flashed her a wickedly inviting smile and moved nearer. Isabella’s stomach clenched. Damien looked so strong and vital, the romantic light cast by the burning fire emphasizing his handsome, rugged features. His broad shoulders and muscular chest filled her vision, and Isabella felt a tremor run through her body.
Unable to stop herself, she reached out a trembling hand and rested it upon his shoulder. Damien cocked his head to one side and looked down at her in a way that made her knees feel weak and her heart beat at twice its normal rhythm. His smoldering, heavy-lidded gaze made her achingly aware of how lonely she had been without him.
“I missed you,” she whispered softly.
“Thank God,” Damien murmured with relief. He stroked her cheek gently with his forefinger. “I thought about you constantly.”
The room was warm, but Isabella could feel goosebumps on her arms. His gaze dropped suggestively to her mouth and she nervously flicked out her tongue.
“Where did you go?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you later.”
Damien bent his head and softly kissed her lips. Isabella eagerly welcomed him, shutting her eyes at the delicious pleasure she felt when his tongue explored her mouth.
She raised her arms, clasping them tightly around his broad back. He felt solid and powerful, inspiring a sweet sense of security. Damien had haunted her thoughts nearly every hour he had been gone from The Grange. Being held so lovingly in his arms made Isabella realize how much he meant to her, how truly incomplete she felt without him.
Worries about her future, her past, even this very moment, faded as Isabella savored the feelings of love that burned in her heart. It was a true testament to the mysterious power of love that she and this proud, worldly man shared a closeness that endured no matter what their differences. Isabella offered a silent, selfish prayer that this oftentimes bumpy, yet blissfully exciting relationship would continue.
Damien’s teeth raked the delicate skin of Isabella’s throat, causing a restless urgency within her. Smiling, she pressed herself closer to him, smelling the fragrant smoke from the fire mingled with the musky male scent of his body. It was pure heaven.
“Shouldn’t you lock the door?” she whispered breathlessly.
Damien’s gray eyes flared. “As much as I would dearly love to ravish you on this rather scratchy-looking carpet, my dear, I find myself compelled to exercise a modicum of caution. Even with the door locked, we could be interrupted at any moment.”
She leaned against his broad chest, closed her eyes, and fought to control her ragged breathing. “What a damned inconvenient time for you to develop a sense of decorum, Damien.”
He laughed heartily, and Isabella could feel the rumbling deep in his chest. “You are a refreshingly honest woman, Isabella. It is probably the quality I admire most in you.”
“Two compliments in one afternoon. You will turn my head with your flattery, my lord.”
“I wish it were that easy,” Damien grumbled. He hugged Isabella tightly for a few moments longer, then gently eased her out of his embrace. “I left The Grange to travel up to York, Isabella. The purpose of my journey was to speak with your grandfather.”
Isabella went very still. “You have seen the earl?”
“Yes. And Great-aunt Agnes too.”
“Oh.” Isabella lowered her eyes. Damien, her grandfather, and Aunt Agnes all together in one room. Discussing her, Isabella felt certain. How perfectly mortifying. “They are an interesting pair, the earl and his sister,” she said, carefully examining the tips of her light-green shoes.
“They are mean spirited, rude, and dictatorial,” Damien said. “After spending only a brief afternoon in their company I can understand how unhappy you must have been living there.”
“Can you?” Isabella’s head snapped up, her face suffused with color. Damien had endured merely a taste of the atmosphere at her grandfather’s estate. The self-confidence and self-worth she had managed to achieve through years of struggle faltered badly when she recalled the unpleasant memories. “Toward the end, it became unbearable living at the estate. Aunt Agnes scrutinized everything about me—my appearance, my actions, my conversations—and always found me wanting, while the earl either ignored me or dismissed me out of hand as being beneath his notice.”
“They are both fools,” Damien said. “You are far better off without them.”
“I know that,” Isabella answered quietly. “Yet they are my only family.”
“Perhaps.” Damien took Isabella’s arm and led her to the other side of his desk. She saw a small trunk resting beside his chair. “I brought this back from York for you, Isabella. It is filled with your mother’s belongings.”
“My mother’s?” Isabella’s eyes lit up with excitement. “How is this possible? I was told by one of the servants that my grandfather burned all my mother’s possessions. Where did you get this?”
“I stole it from Aunt Agnes,” Damien said, tipping back on his heels proudly.
“You didn’t?”
“I did.” Damien’s gray eyes danced with merriment. “I marched straight through the house with the trunk perched on my shoulder. I can’t imagine what the servants thought, but naturally no one said a word. Of course Agnes was not overly pleased with my actions. Apparently she had become rather attached to the trunk over the years and objected strongly when I decided to remove it. It became necessary to lock her bedchamber to prevent any interference.”
“She must have been very angry,” Isabella said, finding it difficult to image Aunt Agnes being bested by anyone.
“She was absolutely furious,” Damien chuckled. “When I left her, she was spouting profanities that would make a sailor blush.”
Isabella shrieked with childish laughter. “I wish I had been there to witness her defeat. Aunt Agnes finally met her match when she tangled with you, Damien.”
“I hope my prize proves to be of worth,” Damien said, shifting his eyes down to the trunk. “Agnes thought there might be something of significance in here that would name your true father.”
“Pray, don’t keep me in suspense, Damien,” Isabella said, clasping her hands tightly together. “What have you found?”
“I haven’t opened the trunk yet, Isabella. I felt it was your right.”
She knelt down and ran her hand hesitantly across the top of the trunk. A heavy weight of impending doom and dread crept into her chest. It suddenly seemed as if her entire future depended on the contents of this mysterious trunk and the secrets it held. Fearing she would lose her nerve, Isabella took a deep breath, thrust the latch, unbolted the lock, and quickly lifted the lid.
Shades of brown, tan, and white swirled before her unfocused eyes. Isabella blinked hard several times, forcing herself to adjust her vision. Gra
dually she distinguished the shapes and colors—stacks of books, piles of correspondence neatly tied with colored ribbons, a small jewelry box, a writing box, a few garments.
Hands shaking visibly, Isabella pulled forth two packets of letters. “Please help me read through them,” she asked, offering a pile to Damien.
The room fell to silence as they both concentrated their attention on the letters, the occasional spark and crack of the fire the only noise. Damien reclined in a leather chair near the fire while Isabella sprawled on the floor, leaning back against the open trunk as she read.
The first letter Isabella scanned was signed by a female named Pamela and was dated four years prior to the year Isabella was born. Impatiently she folded the missive and reached for another. When all the correspondence had been thoroughly perused, Isabella turned toward Damien. He answered her unspoken question with a slight shake of his head.
“I know it’s absurd to feel so disappointed,” Isabella said, slumping dejectedly. “I’m sure Aunt Agnes has read these letters a hundred times over, yet for some reason I thought the answer would leap out at us.”
“Let’s look through the other items, Isabella,” Damien said soothingly.
She grudgingly nodded her agreement and picked up two boxes. Keeping the smaller jewelry box in her lap, she gave Damien the larger writing box.
“Damnation!”
Damien’s husky voice jarred Isabella. Glancing up, she saw his strained expression. Her stomach did a somersault. “What is it? What have you found?”
“The writing paper,” Damien said quietly, holding up a single sheet of parchment toward the firelight.
“It’s blank,” Isabella replied, knitting her brows together.
“Yes,” Damien said. “And because it is not written on, I can easily read the watermark. I recognize it.”
Isabella rose to her knees and awkwardly shuffled toward him. “I don’t understand,” she said, peering closely at the parchment. “I thought these watermarks were woven into the paper by the manufacturer to denote quality.” She fingered the heavy cream colored paper. “ ’Tis obvious this is a superior vellum.”
“Aside from crediting the paper maker, watermarks of heraldic themes and armorial shields showing the bearing of the aristocratic owner are often used,” Damien explained. “The paper I use is marked with a replica of my family coat of arms.”
Isabella frowned. “Lord Poole wears a gold ring bearing his family heraldry. I don’t recall the design exactly, but I am certain it does not resemble this mark.”
“Of course not. If Poole’s father and your mother were lovers, he would not have been foolish enough to present her with something containing his coat of arms.”
“Yet you said you recognized this paper,” Isabella said. “How?”
“Emmeline refused to use my parchment for her correspondence, preferring her family’s unique creation.” Damien traced the outlines of the watermark to emphasize his point. “The bull’s head is a common symbol, but rising between the horns is a supporting symbol, a star. This paper is made exclusively for the Poole family. It cannot be purchased by anyone else. Finding it among your mother’s personal effects establishes a firm connection between her and them.”
“Good Lord.” Isabella sank back unsteadily on her haunches. “I don’t believe it.”
“I agree the evidence is hardly conclusive, but given all the other circumstances, in conjunction to your striking physical resemblance to Emmeline, I believe we have finally discovered the truth.”
“The truth!” Isabella jerked herself up to her knees, swayed drunkenly, then sat down hard on the floor. She looked at Damien’s solemn face, and a cold, empty fear invaded her heart.
He would grow to hate her now because of who she was. Gone forever was the chance, the hope, that he would one day return her love.
Her vision blurred. The tears were close to the surface, and Isabella knew she was about to disgrace herself. Yet she couldn’t seem to gather the strength to leave.
“Sweetheart.” Damien reached down and lifted her into his lap. “Shhhh, don’t cry.”
Isabella hiccuped back a sob. Damien smiled affectionately and kissed her temple. He rocked her slowly back and forth. She took a shuddering breath and rubbed her cheek against the soft silk of his waistcoat. He felt wonderful. Yet the turmoil in her heart continued.
Isabella felt disjointed, somehow out of touch with her true self. She absently twisted one of the gold buttons on the earl’s jacket until the thread snapped. With a mute, apologetic glance, she handed him the button and he slipped it inside his pocket. Then his fingers began to stroke her head and shoulders in a soothing motion that gradually calmed her panic. And raised her passion.
Suddenly she wanted to kiss him. Everywhere. She wanted to loosen his cravat and nibble at the base of his throat, where his pulse beat strong and sure. She wanted to remove his jacket and waistcoat and shirt and run her fingers across his naked flesh. She wanted to make love to him. Now. But after all that had happened, would he still want her?
Isabella let her hand slide over the rock-hard muscles of Damien’s arm and gave a firm squeeze. Then she bent herself seductively back over his other arm in a calculated pose of utter abandonment.
The earl squirmed in the chair, and her heart sang when she felt a familiar hard pressure against her bottom. She turned her head and looked him straight in the eye.
“The carpet might be scratchy, my lord, but your desk top looks invitingly smooth.”
A dark brow arched up. “Are you suggesting that we test that assumption, my dear?” The heat in his eyes and the sexy timber of his deep voice stole her breath away.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered in his ear.
“Right now?”
“Please.” Her voice was husky and thrillingly coaxing.
Damien hesitated a mere fraction of a second, then lowered his head and took her lips in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Isabella immediately responded by thrusting her tongue inside the warmth of Damien’s mouth. She kissed him deeply, drinking in all of his heat and hunger. They kept kissing until her lips felt swollen, until the desire rose between them thick and urgent, tightening every nerve in her body.
Tearing her mouth free from his, Isabella drew her lips along the square line of his jaw, then flicked her tongue behind the lobe of his ear. Damien quivered and held her tighter against his chest. Even through the many layers of clothing, his body felt wonderful—strong, hard, and solid, offering her the comfort and security she so desperately needed, so desperately craved.
But she needed more. She needed to feel his naked skin against her own. She pushed Damien’s jacket off his shoulders, released his waistcoat and cravat, and practically ripped his shirt away. Together they worked the buttons of her gown. She felt mindlessly insatiable, almost feverish, as the last button fell open. Naked, she rubbed her swollen breasts with their rigid nipples against Damien’s chest in an agitated rhythm.
Her frantic urgency drove him wild. He caressed her breasts with his tongue until she was sobbing with pleasure. He pulled her skirt up to her waist and plunged his hand between her legs. Ripping away the fragile barrier of her undergarments, his fingers sought and found the slick wetness of her desire.
“More,” she pleaded, pushing herself closer. “I need to feel you.”
Her raging hunger threatened to consume them both. Damien grasped Isabella’s wrist and placed her hand on the front of his breeches. She felt his swollen manhood straining against the fabric. With unsteady fingers, she unbuttoned his pants and he spilled into her palm, thick, hot, and full. He growled deep in his throat, growing larger and more rigid as she pulled and stroked him.
“I can’t wait,” Damien said breathlessly.
He swept Isabella up in his arms, stood shakily on his feet, and quickly carried her across the room. He laid her across the desk, reached for her hips, and slid her to the edge. Isabella laughed. The wood did indeed feel smooth on her naked derriere.
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br /> Damien pushed her thighs wide apart and stepped between them. She bent her knees and lifted herself to receive him. He thrust himself inside her and she closed her eyes, rolling her head from side to side as he filled her, pounding hard against her with each exquisite stroke. Faster. Harder. Deeper.
It didn’t last long. Isabella felt him begin to shudder and she tightened her legs, holding Damien closer. He cried out as he reached his peak, and she too let herself go, feeling wave upon wave of blissful sensations wash over her entire being.
Still breathing hard, they sagged together, clinging to each other in the turbulent aftermath of their passion. They stayed joined together for several countless minutes. Isabella felt wonderfully languid and numb. She barely stirred as Damien gently adjusted her clothing, covering her naked and still heated flesh.
He pulled her upright and she perched on the edge of the desk, her feet dangling. Framing her face in his large hands, Damien fingers brushed aside the damp tendrils of her hair before softly kissing her temple. Isabella sat patiently as he calmly rebuttoned her gown, her eyes never once straying from his beloved face. He tried repinning her hair, but the errant locks refused to cooperate.
“Let me do it.” Isabella held out her palm expectantly, and he obediently deposited the hairpins in it.
She could feel his eyes intently studying her every move, and her fingers grew clumsy. How foolish to feel embarrassed in front of him now, after what had just occurred between them. She lifted her head, her lovely violet eyes shining brightly.
Damien gave her a heart-melting smile. “Christ, Isabella,” he whispered softly. “We didn’t even lock the door.”
Isabella raised the wine goblet to her lips, startled to realize it was empty. How odd, she thought, I just filled the blasted thing. Shrugging her shoulders, she reached for the bottle of claret on her dinner tray. She juggled the glass and the bottle awkwardly on her lap, then raised both knees to steady her hands.
She clutched the glass upright between her legs and took a deep breath. Squinting her eyes, Isabella carefully adjusted her aim and succeeded in replenishing her glass. She took a cautious sip, pleased that the taste no longer made her grimace.
His Wicked Embrace Page 24
