Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord

by Sarah MacLean

  He laughed, and the low rumble shook the bed beneath her. “I assure you, Isabel. You can.”

  She rolled onto one side, lifting one hand to touch him, but stopping just before she did. “I—I don’t know where.”

  The laugh turned to a groan. “Anywhere, love. Anywhere is better than the torture of nowhere.”

  She settled her hand to his chest, the broad, firm mass of him overwhelming her. He seemed to sense it, and he moved one hand to capture hers and guide it, stroking over his chest and down the flat planes of his stomach to the place where his shirt tucked into his breeches. She eyed his waistband, wondering what she should do.

  “We shall only do what feels good, Isabel. What feels right.” Something in his words calmed her, made her want to press on. “What do you want? ”

  She met his eyes, blue and serious. “You always ask me that.”

  “I want to know,” he said simply. “I want only to give you that which you desire.”

  I want you. She held the words back.

  “I want to see you without a shirt.”

  Without words, he sat up, pulled his shirt over his head, and sent it sailing across the room.

  Isabel swallowed.

  He was perfect. He was like one of her statues.

  She sat up, too, then, nervous again. “I—I don’t think …”

  He reached out, pulling her to straddle his lap. “Perhaps you should not think, beauty.” And then he kissed her again, and they went tumbling back onto the bed, and he let her have control. This time, it was she who took, her tongue and teeth and lips that led the way as they explored each other. When she pulled back to catch her breath, he moved her to sit up above him and said, his words more begging than demanding, “Take down your hair.”

  She lifted her hands to do as he bid her, and he groaned, his hands and eyes raking over her. “You are a siren.”

  She smiled, enjoying the way he seemed to be transfixed by her. “Am I?”

  He met her gaze. “I am creating a monster.”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed, lowering herself until they were curtained by her auburn curls. She kissed him then, long and slow, letting her tongue stroke along his full bottom lip before she trailed her kisses down his neck and over the sloping planes of his chest. When she reached one flat nipple, she paused, lifting her eyes to his. He was watching her through heavy lids, and she could feel that he was holding his breath. “Does it feel as good for you as it does for me?”

  He did not move. “Why don’t we find out?”

  She set her lips to the spot, licking delicately before she closed her lips around him and repeated his earlier actions, scraping her teeth lightly across him before she sucked him into her mouth. He gasped, plunging his fingers into her hair and whispering her name. After long moments, he could no longer bear it and he lifted her from him. She looked to him and said, “Did you not enjoy it? ”

  He laughed, breathless. “I enjoyed it too much, love.” He took her mouth again, and their tongues tangled in a long kiss before she placed both hands on his chest and leveraged herself above him. “I should like for you to remove your pants now.”

  They were gone in seconds, and she gasped as he rolled her on the bed, settling himself between her long, slender legs and taking control once more. He kissed down her neck, stopping to scrape his teeth along her collarbone before he laved the spot with his tongue and sent her writhing against him. “Nick …” she whispered, “no …”

  He stopped at the word, lifting his head to find her gaze. “What is it, beauty?”

  “I want to touch you.”

  He went utterly still, and for a moment, she thought he would deny the request.

  “Please …” she added.

  He laid his head down on her breast for a long moment, as if shoring up strength, and he rolled back over, allowing Isabel full access to his naked body. She traced her fingers down the planes of his torso, discovering him—the lean muscle, the warm skin, the place where a long raised scar wrapped around his right side. She paused there, stroking the spot, grateful that he had survived the attack that had left such a mark.

  When her hands moved again, their aim was true. She tentatively stroked the long, firm length of him; he sucked in a deep breath and she paused, uncertain. “Is this …”

  He groaned at the words, punctuated with a tentative squeeze of her hand. “Yes, Isabel.”

  Feminine power coursed through her. “Show me.”

  His eyes flashed, and he set one hand to hers and did as she asked. Watching their joint movement, he guided her, showing her just how to touch, just how to stroke, until both of them were breathing heavily. Finally, he stopped the motion, lifting her hand to his lips and kissing her palm. “No more, beauty.”

  “But I want …”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “As do I, love. But there is nothing that will keep me from you tonight. And if I let you continue your sweet torture, this night will end all too soon.” He rolled over her again, settling between her legs, moving down her body, pressing soft, moist kisses across her torso before he paused at the opening to her and, with one finger, pressed deep inside her. “Ah,” he said, his voice dark and languid, “you are so wet here. Can you feel it?”

  She bit her lip at the sensation of his fingers delicately stroking, caressing. He added a second finger to the first and, with his thumb, began to circle the spot at the very center of her, where all her pleasure had pooled. Isabel writhed on the bed, clutching the coverlet and biting her lip to keep from crying out. He did not stop the torture as he asked, “Is this what you want, beauty?”

  “Yes …” The word came on a low moan.

  “Here?” His thumb circled faster, pressed harder.

  “Yes, please …”

  "So polite. So passionate. My Voluptas.” He slowed the caress to an unbearable rhythm. “But that’s not everything you want, is it? ”

  She opened her eyes, meeting the emotion in his. “I—”

  “Tell me, Isabel. What is it that you really want? ”

  “I want … I want you.”

  “What part of me? ”

  She blushed, pressing against him, urging him to go faster. “No, Nick …”

  He grinned, wicked and wolfish. “Oh, yes, Isabel … what part of me.”

  He stopped entirely then, his fingers high inside her, but unmoving, his thumb gone from the place where everything seemed to begin and end. She spread her legs, uncaring of what it might look like, of how it might seem. “Nick …” she cried, his name a plea and a protest.

  “You have only to ask for it, Isabel.”

  He blew a stream of cool air against the heat of her then, and she thought she might go mad from the torture. “Your mouth,” she whispered. “I want your mouth.”

  “Good girl.” He was on her, his lips and tongue perfectly against her, caressing and licking in a lash of pleasure that robbed her of thought. Her fingers clenched in his hair as he worked her with fingers and tongue, and he growled his satisfaction against her. The rumbling sound brought with it the crest of feeling, a rolling wave of pleasure. She cried his name and he flickered across the peak of her sex, his mouth adoring her until she was gone, pressing against him, lifting her hips to meet his wicked, wonderful mouth, the pleasure rolling over her until she could do nothing but hold him to her, afraid to lose the one thing that was at the center of her world.

  After she had returned to earth, he lifted his mouth from her and kissed his way up her body, stroking her breasts, playing with the tips of them until she sighed, then taking her mouth in another long, lush kiss. “You must never be afraid to ask for what you want, darling. Not with me.”

  She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “I want the rest.”

  The blue of his eyes darkened immediately at the words. “Are you sure? ”

  She nodded. “Entirely. And you said all I had to do was ask.”

  He shifted against her, and she could feel the hard, heavy length of him against he
r. She lifted against him, eager for the next part of this marvelous dance. He caught his breath, and she could tell he was trying to remain still. “Isabel—has anyone ever … spoken to you about … this? ”

  She shook her head. “I have seen animals.”

  He smiled, half grimace. “It is not quite the same …”

  She pressed against him again. “Nick … please. I don’t care.” His scar had gone stark white, and she lifted one hand to smooth a finger along the mark, hoping to soothe the demons he was fighting. “I want it. I want you.”

  “It will hurt, beauty. Just the first time. But I shall make it up to you.”

  Her heart clenched at the words. He was worried about her.

  And she knew, in that moment, that this man—so full of concern even in this moment when she could barely think of anything but the feel of him against her—had never meant her harm.

  She smiled, running her fingers into his hair and pulling him down to kiss her. When they came apart, she whispered, “I trust you.”

  And the words seemed to make everything right.

  He lifted himself then, pushing just barely inside her, allowing her time to stretch, to accommodate him. She tilted her head, considering the sensation. “It is strange.”

  He gave a hiss of laughter at the words. “It only gets stranger, darling. But we shall try for something more.”

  He rocked against her, traveling slightly deeper each time, until she was sighing her pleasure with the movements. “That does not feel strange. That feels nice.”

  “Just nice? ”

  “Quite lovely.”

  “Good.” He thrust deep, and she gasped, her eyes opening wide as he seated himself to the hilt. He stilled, holding himself above her, “Isabel? Are you …”

  "Strange again,” she said, her voice tight, pained.

  He loved this woman. The thought came clear and fast at the entirely wrong time for him to address it. But he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was true. He brushed his lips across hers in a soft, reverent kiss.

  “I shall make it better, beauty.”

  He moved, pulling slowly out of her, and she grasped his arms at the movement. “Oh. Oh, that feels …”

  He reversed his movement, returning to her. “Yes? “ “Nick,” she sighed.

  “I love the way my name sounds on your lips.” He leaned down and suckled one nipple until she was panting with pleasure. He moved in earnest then, deep, smooth strokes that chased away her pain and left pure pleasure in their wake. When she lifted to meet his thrusts, he knew he had her. He read her movements, following where her body led, eager to help her find her pleasure.

  “Say it again.” He began to thrust deeper, faster, and the tension that had been mounting became unbearable.

  “Nick,” she whispered.

  Finally, he reached down between them, placing his thumb against the rigid core of her; he stroked there once, twice. “Again.”

  “Nick!” she cried out.

  “I am here, love,” he said, capturing her gaze. “Look at me, Isabel.”

  “I can’t … It is too much,” she panted. “Please! I don’t know …”

  He lowered his mouth to her ear, speaking softly there. “I know. Take it. I shall catch you when you fall.”

  And she did as he told her, falling over the edge, convulsing around him, milking him with a heady, nearly unbearable rhythm. She cried out his name again, and he did catch her, finding his own pleasure only once she had fully experienced her own. He unraveled above her, thrusting a final time before he collapsed to her chest, their harsh breathing the only sound in the still, dark room.

  He lay there for a long moment, trying to focus, to regain the power of thought before he stirred, lifting his weight from her even as she tempted him to stay with the little protest that she offered at the loss of him. Propping himself on one elbow next to her, he ran his hands over her flushed skin. She shivered and curled into his warmth.

  He felt her lips curve against his chest in a smile and he pulled back to meet her gaze. “What is it?”

  “It was not strange in the end.”

  He grinned. “No?”

  “No.”

  “What was it, then?”

  She tilted her head, considering the question. “I think it was rather remarkable.”

  He kissed her, quick and deep. When he lifted his head, he said, “It was that.”

  She drifted to sleep in the long moments that followed, and he watched as she slumbered, considering this woman who was so strong and soft and beautiful. Here was a woman who lived. She was filled with passion and pride, and she would take nothing but what she believed was right and fair. He reflected on the events of the day—the way she had so vehemently agreed to marry him…

  The way she had so violently recoiled when he had proven to be different than what she had first thought.

  She curled against him, sighing in her sleep, and the sound punctuated his shame. She had come to believe in him, to have faith in him and the life that he was promising her, and he had robbed her of her sense of certainty. And, while her body clearly trusted him, it would take time to win back her mind.

  He would not stop until he had done just that.

  He loved her.

  It was in that moment, with the second admission of his feelings, that he realized the full force of the words. And the terror that came with them.

  “Isabel! Isabel, wake up!”

  Isabel shot straight up in bed at the pounding on the door to her bedchamber. The sound was disorienting, and for a fleeting moment, she had no knowledge of where she was or what was happening.

  When the events of the prior evening came flooding back, she gasped, one hand flying to her lips to hold back the sound, and she searched the room for any sign of Nick.

  He was gone, along with all evidence that he had ever been there. She noted that he had even moved her clothes, which had been discarded without thought, and draped them over a chair by the fireplace. The care with which he had covered his tracks made Isabel at once grateful and disappointed—grateful that he would take such steps to protect her reputation with the other residents of Townsend Park, and disappointed that he would so easily slip from her room without a backward glance.

  As though he had done it many times before.

  She scoffed at the thought. She did not care if he had done it a hundred times before. His habits were not her concern.

  One hundred did seem a few too many times, however.

  The knocking began again then, distracting her—thankfully—from her thoughts.

  “Isabel!“

  “Enter!”

  Lara came bursting through the door at the command, breathless and disheveled. “You must dress!”

  With a sigh, Isabel threw back the covers and got out of bed, heading for the wardrobe to fetch clothing. “I know that I have overslept, but it cannot be that late. What time is it?”

  Lara had frozen in midstride across the room, her eyes wide as she watched Isabel.

  Isabel turned back at the silence. “What is it?”

  “Why aren’t you wearing any clothes?”

  Isabel looked down at herself, immediately covering the pertinent parts as she willed herself not to blush … unsuccessfully. “I didn’t … that is … I …” She paused, irritated at her stammering search for a quick and reasonable answer. “I was hot,” she ended simply, grasping the closest gown and hurrying behind her dressing screen to avoid further embarrassment.

  She could hear the disbelief in her cousin’s voice when she replied, “You were hot.”

  “Precisely. It is nearly July, Lara.”

  “In Yorkshire. At night.”

  “Nevertheless,” Isabel said, willing Lara to accept the excuse. She peeked around the edge of the screen to find her cousin slowly looking around the room. She must distract her. “Lara.” The word gained the other woman’s attention. “Was there something you wanted to discuss? A reason you were hammering
on my door, demanding that I wake and dress, perhaps?”

  Lara’s eyes widened. “Yes!”

  Isabel stepped out from behind the screen, tying a long belt on the midnight-blue mourning dress. “What is it?”

  Lara pursed her lips. “You shan’t like it.”

  Isabel stilled. Was it possible that Nick had left? He had said he was leaving last night … but that was before … well, before things had changed. “What is it?” she repeated, tentatively.

  “We have a visitor.”

  A feeling of dread settled deep within.

  Everything was about to change.

  “Who is it?”

  Lara clasped her hands together tightly in front of her, hedging.

  Densmore. The guardian was here. The house, the girls, James—their fate was in his hands now.

  And Nick would leave. There was nothing to keep him here any longer. He was no longer needed for the marbles, or for anything else.

  Except, all of a sudden, she seemed to need him quite desperately.

  An ache started in her chest.

  She would be alone once more.

  “It’s Densmore,” she announced to the room, her voice emotionless.

  “No.” Lara shook her head. “It’s the Duke of Leighton. He has come to fetch his sister.”

  Nineteen

  * * *

  Minutes later, Isabel was pressing her ear to the heavy mahogany door of the earl’s study. She could detect the low hum of masculine voices from within, but their words were impossible to understand. She leaned closer, cursing the earl who had selected such a sturdy portal.

  While she appreciated that had the ancestor in question likely had goings-on that he had not wanted overheard, the choice of two-inch-thick wood showed an obvious lack of foresight when it came to the requirements of future generations.

  “Nick is in there with him?” she whispered. “Yes,” Jane replied, just as quietly. “He joined him almost immediately.”

  Isabel turned an irritated look on the butler. “And why was he given the opportunity to meet with him before I?”