Lust.
She allowed the word to form in the privacy of her mind and took a moment to consider it. Was that what it was? A breeze swept past her face, toying with her hair, and she sighed as she looked at the piece of paper she held in her hand. Marjorie had brought it up to her in secrecy, and she’d waited for the maid to depart before tearing open the seal to read its contents—an invitation from the duke to meet him later that afternoon by the Kingsborough barn, located quite conveniently on the same road that she would have to take to go to her aunt’s house.
Isabella felt her heart flutter at the very thought of accepting such a liaison. It spelled trouble, and yet the note said that he only wished to talk to her. Instinct warned her that he would want to do a whole lot more, but the sound of her heart beating was drowning out her voice of reason.
She wanted to see him again, if only to say good-bye. The very idea of having to do so was terrifying, but unless she ran away with him, she had no choice. She didn’t want to disappoint her parents, to humiliate her father or, for that matter, to tell Mr. Roberts that he’d wasted so much time on her. It just wasn’t in her.
But just because she’d determined to sacrifice herself for the sake of others did not mean she should be denied one last afternoon of happiness with the man she . . . She decided not to finish that thought, for not only was it ridiculously romantic, even for her, but it would also lead to further heartbreak if she allowed herself to believe it to be true.
Donning a plain white cotton gown, Isabella picked a bouquet of daffodils in the garden, then announced to her mother that she would be taking them over to her aunt. Fortunately, her mother was in the middle of her correspondence and barely batted an eyelid, waving Isabella off instead as she wished her a pleasant walk.
“Can I come with you?” Jamie asked just before Isabella reached the garden gate.
“No,” Isabella said, turning to meet her sister’s inquisitive gaze with a pointed look.
Jamie smiled cheekily and whispered, “You’re going to meet him, aren’t you?”
Isabella had of course shared with her sister every detail about the Kingsborough Ball—except for the kiss—and, like the duke, Jamie was of the opinion that the two should marry, claiming that all of Isabella’s reasons against doing so were ridiculous.
“I’m going to end whatever is between us,” Isabella said, trying to sound convincing.
Her sister looked dubious, then shook her head. “It’s one thing for you to lie to everyone else, but to lie to yourself, Izzie . . .” She scrunched her mouth as if thinking how best to continue. “I never thought you such a coward.”
Filled with the kind of indignation one could feel only at receiving such a blunt appraisal from a younger sibling, Isabella opened her mouth to protest, except that her sister was already marching back toward the house. “Give my love to Aunt Rosalyn and Uncle Herbert, will you?” she called over her shoulder, stopping Isabella from saying whatever it was she’d meant to say a moment earlier.
Isabella stared after her.
Was Jamie right? Was she a coward? She wouldn’t have thought so, considering everything she was giving up for the sake of those she loved. But emotionally . . . It wasn’t a thought she wished to entertain at present, so with a brisk step, Isabella quickly left Moxley behind her and headed toward the rendezvous point, her heartbeat quickening when she spotted the brown building in the distance.
“You can do this,” she told herself, squaring her shoulders and clenching her teeth as if she’d been on the verge of facing an army in battle rather than a simple man, though she had to admit that there was nothing simple about him. In fact, nobody had ever complicated her life more.
As she came closer, she looked over her shoulder to ensure that there was nobody else on the road who might see her. Not even a stray dog could be seen, and Isabella wasn’t entirely sure if she felt worried or relieved by this, for there was no longer any excuse not to turn off the road, walk into the field and around to the back of the barn, where one of the doors stood slightly ajar.
Pushing it open just enough to squeeze through, Isabella stopped and allowed her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. It was warm inside—the sort of dry warmth one feels on a bright sunny day—and it smelled richly of hay. A fluttering sound reached her ears, and she looked up to see a bird preening its feathers up under the rafters, where narrow gaps in the wood roofing allowed beams of sunshine to pour through, bathing the hay in a golden glow.
She was just about to step further inside when a strong arm snaked its way around her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest. She would have screamed in startled surprise, but a large hand covered her mouth instead. “It’s just me,” a deep, familiar voice whispered against her ear.
She relaxed, and he removed his hand. “Was that really necessary?” she asked, moving to escape his grasp. He spun her around instead so they were facing each other, and she reluctantly sucked in a breath. How was it possible for him to be handsomer than when she’d last seen him? Logic told her it wasn’t so, yet she couldn’t deny that her recollection of his appearance had been unjust—a clear sign of her own denial.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you—just surprise you a little, that’s all.” He brought his hand up and ran the inside of his thumb along her cheek. “I’ve missed you.”
Isabella felt her heart hammer against her chest at the deep sincerity that glowed in his eyes. “Your Grace, I—”
“Anthony,” he muttered, still stroking her cheek.
Isabella frowned, her mind not at all its usual alert self with him caressing her. “I beg your pardon?” she managed, the feel of his arm tightening around her waist sending a shiver down her spine.
The duke smiled, and it was the sort of smile that was filled with the promise of pleasure, sin and mischief all rolled into one. Isabella felt her legs grow weak—the man was completely irresistible with his hair all mussed and his cravat slightly askew, as if he didn’t give a damn about propriety. Isabella’s heart skipped a beat. “I have kissed you twice, Miss Chilcott, and I am about to do so again. I believe it’s time we dispensed with formality, wouldn’t you agree?” And then, before Isabella was afforded the chance to voice a response to that question, the duke lowered his mouth over hers, and it was almost as if the ground fell away beneath her feet.
It was gentle at first, with their lips just grazing, but then he captured her lower lip between his teeth, tugging at the tender flesh, and she gasped, her arms reaching around his neck and pulling him closer. She was a fool, but she couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t think of anything else—didn’t want anything but this, right here, right now, with him.
The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, and Isabella ignored the voice in her head that called for her to stop and walk away. She was powerless against him and gave herself up to the kiss instead, parting her lips and allowing him entry. His tongue swept inside her mouth without hesitation, rolling over hers as he tasted her in the most sensual way possible.
Not knowing how it happened, she suddenly found herself pressed up against the barn wall, her br**sts flattened against his chest as he pushed up against her. He abandoned her mouth, kissing his way along her jaw instead, straight toward her ear, where he flicked his tongue against her lobe.
A shock of heat shot straight through her, she felt her br**sts tighten and then . . . an unbearable longing between her thighs. Dear God, she had to get away from him before she started begging him to do his worst with her. What a surprise that would be for Mr. Roberts on their wedding night. She groaned at the thought of it—a reaction the duke apparently took as a welcome, for his hands slipped between them, his fingers seeking her hardened n**ples, then squeezing.
She groaned again, but this time it was from complete and utter pleasure.
“Tell me your name,” the duke whispered against her neck, sending yet another wave of heat straight to her groin. “Please,” he added.
“It’s . . .” Dear Lord, he’d managed to make her forget even that. She fought for control of her wits. “Isabella,” she gasped as his head dipped and he proceeded to lick his way along the edge of her neckline.
He paused. “Beautiful,” he murmured as he gave her bodice a slight tug. “The woman as well as the name—so utterly beautiful.”
Isabella allowed her head to fall back against the barn wall. She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath, knowing what he was looking at. There was no corset, since she rarely wore the uncomfortable thing, and her chemise was loose. Anthony had no trouble pulling both it and her gown down just enough to reveal her br**sts in their entirety, and she was too caught up in the moment to stop him. It was mortifying.
Common sense spoke to her from a faraway corner of her mind, and she thought to push him away—to put an end to this folly before it was too late. But then he did the unspeakable. The wicked man grazed his teeth against one of her n**ples, nipping it gently, and Isabella practically buckled. “So responsive . . . ,” she heard him mutter. “So passionate.” And then he took her entire breast in his mouth and suckled.
Oh, dear Lord!
What was happening to her? Her whole body was humming with expectation, there were tingly sensations in the most unspeakable places and she felt restless—as if she wanted something but couldn’t quite put her finger on what that something might be.
Blast!
The next thing she knew, she was in his arms and he was carrying her across the floor to a large pile of hay, his gaze hot and determined, which should probably have scared her to death but didn’t. Something about this man made her feel safe and comfortable. She trusted him, and the way in which he looked at her was enough to make her want to forget about all else. This was a sacred moment they were sharing, and nobody was going to intrude on it or ruin it for them.
Sitting down in the hay, Anthony leaned back with Isabella on his lap and hugged her against his chest. He wanted her in every way imaginable, but that was not the reason he’d come here. In fact, he really had meant only to talk to her, but then he’d seen her standing there with the scattered beams of sunlight brightening her hair and skin and he’d been unable to control himself. She’d looked so divine and tempting.
His hands reached for her br**sts again and she groaned as he molded the soft, pliable flesh, feeling them swell with excitement. No, he would not deflower her so primitively in a barn, though it would not be for lack of wanting but because he knew she deserved better than a tumble in the hay—literally.
She wriggled against him and he belatedly realized that the deep, guttural groan he heard, so foreign to his ears, had come from somewhere deep inside himself. Again she moved, submitting him once more to the same sweet torture he’d felt a moment earlier as her bottom had rubbed against him. “Stop,” he muttered, his hand grabbing at her thigh in an attempt to hold her still. Her thigh . . . how he’d contemplated it for endless moments since accidentally placing his hand against it in the pumpkin carriage the night of the ball; the way it had felt to his touch—so soft and curvaceous—so sensual and womanly.