Once a Duchess (14 page)

His lips twitched. “I should like to try. Surely you could find it in your heart to split the tart with me.”

She shook her head, eyes wide. “Oh, no. It’s much too good to share. I’m afraid if you tasted any, you would want it all for yourself. And then what should I do?” she asked as though caught in a dire quandary.

He fought to keep a straight face. “You shall retain your girlish figure that much longer, my dear.” He slowly reached across the table and made a grab for the fork, which she easily pulled out of his reach.

“I think not, Your Grace.” Her brow quirked in the same challenging way she’d used in the kitchen. If she wanted to play, Marshall thought, he was game.

A lazy, wolfish grin spread across his lips. “You will stop ‘Gracing’ me, if you please. You and I are beyond formalities, Isabelle.” He stood and leaned across the table again, this time swiping for her wrist.

She hopped up and grabbed the tart, plate and all. “As you wish, Marshall. You still shall not have my tart.”

“You insolent little minx.” He pushed his chair back and tossed his napkin to the table as he rose.

Isabelle squeaked and took several steps backward into the rose garden. He took two steps toward her, and stopped to watch her again pierce the tart with the fork and eat another mouthful. Moonlight grazed the surface of the dessert, giving the glaze a liquid appearance. The night air was thick with the perfume of roses. Sensual temptation drew him. Isabelle and her ridiculous tart, the lush smell of the garden, the gentle breeze touching his face, were all enough to test the mettle of a stoic, which Marshall surely was not.

A promising delight tantalized him. Why not give chase?

A low growl escaped his throat. The cords in Isabelle’s neck showed as she let out an excited squeal. She took a few more steps backward, glanced over her shoulder, turned, and started off. The chase was on.

Marshall stalked after, letting her gain distance on him. He had the advantage of familiarity with the garden. What Isabelle did not know was that the rose garden was actually a maze. It was a low one, and easy to see over the tops of the various rose plants. This only made it deceptive. Visitors were lured in for a stroll, thinking they were walking into an ordinary garden, when suddenly, they found themselves puzzling their way out again.

He watched in growing amusement as she rounded a corner. A dead end, he knew. Sure enough, Isabelle retraced her steps and reached the intersection just as he did. He lunged. She yelped and sidestepped, then took off like a deer.

Her herbal scent hung in the air behind her, mingling with the roses in a heady aroma. He caught sight of her frantically running up and down the aisles of flowers. She was trapped now, no getting out the way she’d come except past him.

He caught up to her in the center — the only secluded spot in the rose garden — where a tall wall of hedges encircled a graveled clearing. In the middle, a bed of roses surrounded a fountain. Isabelle sat on a stone bench, panting. They were cut off from the house lights here, and only a little moonlight filtered in. Her features took on an ethereal quality. He glimpsed only the outline of her face, a flicker of light reflected in her eyes, the gleam of her teeth through her parted lips.

“You, madam,” Marshall said, lowering himself beside her, “are caught. I shall have my prize now.”

He heard the smile in her voice as she spoke. “I still don’t wish to share,” she cajoled.

His voice rumbled in his throat. “Keep your dessert. I think I’d like something sweeter.” He heard her intake of breath as he lowered his head.

Before reaching her mouth, he encountered a forkful of flaky pastry. He chuckled and allowed her to feed him the bite of tart. Juice flooded his mouth, and the buttery crust melted against his tongue.

“It’s very good,” he said sincerely. “You were right to keep it away from me. Now I must have more.” He placed a hand at her waist and drew her to his side. Reaching down, he plucked the fork from her fingers, scooped up a morsel of pastry, then returned the favor of feeding it to her.

Isabelle closed her lips around the offering. Marshall withdrew the fork and pressed the tines, still warm from her mouth, against his own lips.

He watched her jaw work and her throat move when she swallowed. Only highlights of her skin gleamed in the dim light, the rest was cast in shadow. The contrasting rises and falls of her contours invited his touch. He brushed a finger along her jaw, and before she could rebuff him, he bent his neck and pressed his lips to hers.

She stiffened, and made as though to withdraw. Marshall kept a hand on her back, and ran the other down her arm in a soothing touch. When she calmed he took advantage, deepening the kiss.

He teased his lips back and forth. A hand slid up his shoulder and hooked around his neck, and then her lips parted, inviting him in. What was left of his rational mind melted away. She was warm, and tasted like strawberries and wine. Heat stirred his blood, stoking the desire that he had been keeping at a dull roar ever since he’d clapped eyes on her in his kitchen.

His tongue plunged boldly into her mouth, exploring territory that had once been so dear and familiar. An aching sense of loss caught him off guard, and he crushed her to him, desperate to hold onto this woman who captivated him in a way no other had.

Would his body eventually come to crave Lucy the way it did Isabelle? He faltered for an instant and started to disengage.

A mewling sound escaped her throat and her arms snaked around his neck, driving Lucy from his thoughts. For the moment, at least, no other woman existed. His fingers twined into the tresses at her nape, pulling them free of their rumpled knot. Her hair was like a blanket over his hands, comfortable and soft against his skin.

He moved his hands to cradle her face. It felt so fragile under his palms, her cheeks cool in comparison to her hot mouth. But the fragility belied a strength he could not help but admire, and somehow contained this woman who had refused to wither away under the force of society’s condemnation and his own. Instead, she made her own way and survived. He was startled by warm tears against his fingers. He trailed kisses up one cheek to capture a tear with his lips.

Her crying confused him. Had he scared her? She’d been willing enough to receive his kisses, and had been flirting with him before. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he murmured against her temple. “What’s wrong?”

She moved her face in his hands, shifting so his fingers once again entwined in her hair. Isabelle nuzzled under his chin, rubbing her cheek against his neck.

“It’s been so long,” she whispered.

And then he understood. She’d felt everything he’d felt this evening, up to and including the overwhelming loneliness he’d experienced when they first came together. The realization was nearly his undoing.

With one smooth motion, he scooped her up into his lap. “Too long.”

But she was here now, and so was he. And she was so achingly familiar. Her presence awakened memories held within his very bones. His body knew her, missed her. She touched his jaw, and the muscle vibrated beneath her palm. Her other hand rested on his shoulder. His skin burned at her touch; his thin shirt did nothing to muffle the heat, yet it was an unwelcome barrier.

Isabelle found his ear, and drew the lobe between her lips. A jolt of sensation shot through him. He heard himself groan her name, the word ripped from the very depths of his being.

It wasn’t enough. He had to touch her. Needed to rediscover her.

Once again, her needs mirrored his own. Her lips fled back to his, and without breaking contact, she twisted to face him, drew a knee up and over, and resettled herself straddling his lap. His hands found her waist, and squeezed.

She rose up on her knees and arched against him. Marshall found himself in the erotic position of looking up into Isabelle’s face. She controlled their kiss now. Her tongue set a throbbing pace.

She did that
thing
with his lip that only Isabelle had ever discovered to make him wild. His erection strained against his trousers, aching to join with her. Abruptly, her mouth was gone. She made a needy little whimper and guided his head downward. Isabelle arched her back, brazenly brushing her breasts against his lips.

Marshall chuckled low in his throat. Ah, but she had always been a sweet one. He happily obliged her unspoken request, and turned his attention there. His hands slid up to cup the firm mounds. She exhaled in relief against the top of his head.

Her dress was already a ruin, so he did not feel badly tugging the neckline and exposing her to his view. Through her thin chemise, he saw the darker circles of her nipples.

He dropped his head and pressed a kiss onto the top of one soft swell, and then the other. Meanwhile, he captured both nipples between his thumbs and middle fingers, and slowly began to roll the sensitive flesh from side to side. The nubs rose to erect points. He lightly grazed his teeth over one and suckled it through the gauzy fabric.

She gasped and thrust her pelvis against his middle. It was becoming more than Marshall could stand, more than
any
functioning male could stand. His hands found the hem of her dress hitched around her knees. He slipped his hands beneath and grasped her silk-clad thighs. Impatient, he quickly moved upward and squeezed the firm globes of her derrière. She responded with a delightful whimper. He pulled her down, bringing her into full contact with his arousal.

Rather than shy away, Isabelle rocked her hips over him. His body jumped, hardened further by the intimate contact. “Isabelle,” he released her to unfasten his trousers, “I need — ”

At the same moment, she said, “Marshall, we have to stop.”

It was several seconds before her meaning sunk in. He only fully understood when she pulled her face away from his entirely.

He swallowed hard, willing his thundering pulse to slow. “Oh,” he said lamely.

She shifted off him, stood with her back turned, and rearranged her clothing. The stoop of her shoulders, the way she hid from him as though she was ashamed, pricked his conscience.

He quickly set himself to rights and rose. When he placed a hand on her shoulder, she jerked.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I behaved abominably — ”

“Don’t.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “Please don’t, Marshall.” She gave her dress a final tug and turned back to face him again. “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to.”

Wrapping her arms across her middle, she turned her gaze to the nearby fountain. “It would have been improvident to go further. I’m tired, and the wine went to my head, and that is all years behind us.” Her voice sounded wistful.

He reached out and took her hand. It trembled in his grasp.

Well done,
he scolded himself. Isabelle had spent the entire day on her feet, working in the stifling hot kitchen. The poor woman was exhausted and probably ached all over, and he’d not only kept her away from bed, but also treated her most despicably, despite her denial.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. “Come now.” He tucked her hand in his arm and escorted her through the maze and back to the house. He bade her goodnight, and ordered baths be taken to both her bedchamber and his.

As he washed off his unprecedented day in the kitchen, he considered what had passed between himself and his former spouse. She was right; their behavior had been improvident. They should not have gotten themselves into such a situation. They both knew better. But she was dead wrong about one thing. It was obvious to Marshall, no matter what she said, that it was not behind them now. Not by a long shot.

The sky was the middling gray between night and sunrise when Kelan dragged himself out of bed, dressed, and stumbled to the stables, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The morning fog clung to the ground; he amused himself by pretending his feet had disappeared, and that he was a ghost floating across the stable yard.

The lad entered the dark stable and was greeted by the familiar, clean smells of his trade: hay, dung, and oiled leather. A few soft wickers acknowledged his arrival.

Sometimes he resented that the horses ate their breakfast hours before Kelan got his, but then he reminded himself to be grateful. There were few jobs to be had in his native Midlands anymore, and the money Kelan sent home to his widowed mother and siblings helped keep food on the table and a roof over their heads. His Grace paid well, and the head groom was a fair man. Kelan reckoned if the Duke of Monthwaite wanted his horses kissed on the lips every day, he should be obliged to pucker up and thank his lucky stars for the chance.

He made his way down the row of stalls, doling out feed to His Grace’s cattle.

Kelan approached Rosemary’s stall. She was with foal, and so received a larger portion of feed than the others. He reached into the feed sack, not paying attention to his feet, and suddenly found himself sprawled on his back with the air knocked from him. Feed spilled across the clean dirt floor.

“Bollocks!” He had only been at Helmsdale a little over a month. He didn’t want to foul up and give the head groom a reason to send him packing. He picked up the feed sack and turned on his knees to find the obstacle that had caused him to slip. It was a brown jar, half full of some sticky substance. Kelan stood, brushed the dust from his pants, and glanced into the stall. Rosemary was not waiting at the stall door for her morning feed like the other horses had been. She was usually more eager for her breakfast than the rest. He wrinkled his brow and leaned over the door.

The horse lay on her side on the stall floor. Kelan could see her stomach moving in and out, but she didn’t look good. Slowly, he walked into the stall and crouched next to the mare’s head, extending a trembling hand. She whinnied the instant he touched her. He snatched his hand back and wiped horse sweat onto his pants. Her breathing was hard and labored. She wasn’t supposed to foal for another month, but if Kelan had to guess, that’s what seemed to be happening. Fear gripped his heart. What if the horse died? Suddenly, the feed he’d spilled seemed a small thing.