Once a Duchess (33 page)

Lily’s footman argued with the men, to no effect.

Marshall and another man emerged on the
Adamanthea’s
deck. “Marshall!” she called. Her voice was swallowed in the bustling din; he did not look her way. He and his companion began walking across the deck with their backs to Isabelle.

She desperately twisted in the grasp of the large guards.

“Gawd, she’s a wild one,” one of the men said. “Where’s a charley when we need one?”

Marshall was about to round the prow of the ship. If Isabelle lost sight of him now, she might never see him again. She gathered her breath and screamed his name. He turned. His brows snapped together when he spotted the ruckus taking place near his ship. Then he saw her, and his lips parted.

She nearly cried in relief. He’d seen her. It would be all right now.

Marshall strode the length of the deck and paused at the top of the gangway. The breeze tousled his hair. He wore no jacket over his ivory shirt and camel waistcoat, in spite of the cold morning. His brown breeches fit like a second skin. He was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen.

“Hold,” he called. A single word in his commanding baritone was all it took to get the guards’ attention. “She can come up.”

Isabelle schooled her features into regal composure and arched a brow at her captors. They released her arms.

Her eyes were locked onto Marshall as she climbed the ramp to
Adamanthea’s
deck. Butterflies buffeted her stomach. She wanted so much to smile or laugh, but his fierce expression kept her on tenterhooks.

Marshall’s lips were drawn into a tight line, his guarded features betraying nothing. Was he not pleased to see her?

Maybe she shouldn’t have come. He didn’t want her anymore — she could see that now. She’d hurt him too badly. Too much time had passed.

Despite her uncertainty, her feet carried her forward. She stopped in front of him. Her hands twisted in the cord of her reticule, two white knuckled fists.

“Isabelle.” He nodded once. His pulse flicked beneath the skin of his throat. She longed to cover that place with her mouth.

She swallowed. “Hello, Marshall.” Whatever happened, she had to try. If he told her to leave, she would. But she could never live with herself if she didn’t try.

Without a word, he took her elbow and guided her across the deck. Sailors stepped out of the way as they passed.

They descended narrow steps into the belly of the ship. He opened a door and gestured. She stepped past him into a neat, small cabin. A bunk was built into one wall. A desk was nailed to the floor against the opposite wall, with a single wooden chair in front of it. His trunk stood open near the bunk. She glimpsed his shaving articles nestled atop a stack of snowy nightshirts.

“What do you want?” he asked, closing the door. He stood with his feet planted wide, his arms crossed across his chest.

She took a deep breath. It was now or never. “You.”

Marshall flinched.

Isabelle laid her hand on his arm. His muscles tightened beneath her fingers. When she glanced up, he was looking at her hand.

“I saw Mr. Gerald,” she said. “Did you really give him a position?”

His jaw hardened. “I needed a competent master of the horse, and he just so happens to be the finest hand with horses I’ve ever seen. Is that why you’ve come — to discuss Mr. Gerald?” She detected a note of hurt in his voice, and his piercing eyes bored straight into her core. “This ship sails in two hours,” he said. “I’m extraordinarily busy.”

“No.” Isabelle gripped his arm. “No, of course I haven’t come to discuss Mr. Gerald. I came because … ” Her courage began to flag.

He arched a brow, and she caught the faintest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.

“I love you,” she blurted. She turned away and tossed her reticule onto the bed.

Marshall crossed the cramped cabin in a couple steps. He turned the chair around and sat down, crossing his ankles. “This sounds more interesting than Thomas Gerald,” he drawled.

Isabelle bit her lip. She sat on the edge of the bed with her fingers curled around the side rail. “I’ve been perfectly miserable these last few months. I thought I could be happy on my own, but I’m not.”

“You’re respectable again,” Marshall pointed out. “I hear you have the ladies’ committee well in hand.”

Isabelle started. “Ah,” she raised her brows, “Naomi. Who must’ve had it from Lily. They’ve been conspiring behind our backs, you know.”

“I find I am not surprised in the least.”

“Justin came home,” Isabelle said. “He showed me the letters he received.”

“Mother again.” Marshall gave her a pained look. “She’s staying in the country, perhaps for a very long time.”

Isabelle winced. “I’m sorry it had to come to that.”

Marshall blew his cheeks out. “So am I, but I couldn’t allow her to continue unchecked. What might she do when it comes time for Grant to marry, or Naomi?”

It was a bitter thing for a son to have to punish his own mother, but Isabelle didn’t want him brooding now. “You did the right thing. Thank you for bringing Justin home.”

He shrugged. “I couldn’t let him spend the rest of his life fearing to return to England. He didn’t propose?” he asked mildly. “I thought you’d come to tell me you were marrying Miller.”

“What?” she gasped, amazed he could ever think such a thing. “No, darling, Justin brought his wife and child with him.” She wrinkled her brow. “It’s never been like that between him and me. You know that.”

He smirked. “Not really,” he said, cutting his eyes to her. “Logically, yes, but if I hadn’t been so damned jealous of your relationship with him I never would have taken my mother’s word for what happened in the cottage that day.”

“Jealous?” Isabelle said, bewildered. “You never said anything before. I shouldn’t have invited him while you were gone, Marshall. I know that now. I ask your forgiveness for doing so. Truly, though, I never would have done if I had any inkling you’d object. I thought you understood how things were with Justin.”

He leaned back and raked his hands through his hair. “I know. And I did try not to let my emotions overrule my sense. I was insecure. I wanted you so much, but Mother would hear nothing but that you were only after the title and money. When she found you with Justin, it was easy to believe the worst.” He lowered his head into his hands and groaned. “I did so many things wrong,” he muttered miserably.

“So did I,” Isabelle said wistfully.

She crossed the room, crouched in front of him and took his hands. Marshall’s pained gaze tore her heart. “I never told you back then that I loved you. I should have, but I didn’t think you wanted to hear it.”

Marshall’s fingers squeezed around hers. “Did you?”

She nodded, and felt the knot she’d been carrying in her middle for months begin to unwind. “I’ve loved you since before we married. And I’m afraid that no matter what I do, I shall love you until the day I die. So you see,” she said with a half-smile, “I find myself in quite a predicament.”

Suddenly she was in his arms. They were standing, with her full length pressed against his. His mouth came down on hers, tenderly at first, but rapidly becoming more demanding. Isabelle felt like the light of the sun pulsed between them, bright and hot and unquenchable.

Marshall dragged his lips away from hers. He stroked the hair above her temples and brushed his lips against her forehead. “So many mistakes,” Marshall said, repeating his self-incrimination. “I should have told you I loved you in that inn. I should have told you a thousand times before you left me. I know why you did. I would’ve left me, too.”

Isabelle laughed softly, leaning her forehead against his chin. She pulled back in his arms and tilted her head so she could look him in the eye. “You’ll stay now, though, won’t you?”

Marshall smiled sadly and stroked her cheek with a knuckle. “No, my love, I won’t stay. I have to go.”

Isabelle recoiled. Her mind reeled, refusing to accept what he was saying. Not when she loved him, and he loved her.

“But,” he said, touching the tip of her nose, “if you’d like, I will delay sailing for a few weeks — long enough to get invitations out and guests to town. How does South America strike you for a wedding trip?” His lips turned up in that sly, boyish smile of his, the one she loved best of all.

She flung her arms around his neck and raised up on her toes to kiss him. It was an awkward kiss, more teeth than lips for the smiles they each wore.

He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bunk, where he gently set her down on the wool blanket. Then he straightened, made quick work of the buttons on his waistcoat and tossed it aside. His shirt soon followed and joined it on the floor.

Her breath caught at the sight of him. Heat stirred her blood. He stretched out beside her on the bunk. Their arms wound around each other as he delivered kiss after scorching kiss.

Marshall began working the buttons on the back of her dress. Isabelle’s breath left her in a whoosh as moisture pooled between her legs. She was desperate to feel him. Isabelle tugged first one sleeve, and then the other, pulling her arms back through the material. Marshall shimmied her skirt up so it bunched around her waist. When Isabelle’s arms were clear, she lifted them, and Marshall pulled the frock over her head and tossed it to join the heap on the floor.

Their eyes locked together, and Isabelle thought she would die if she couldn’t have him. She quivered all over with the force of her wanting. Her eyes never leaving his, she stripped out of her chemise and stockings while Marshall made short work of the rest of his clothes.

She had one delicious glimpse of his glorious, naked self before he grabbed a folded blanket from the foot of the bed and shook it open. He turned and covered her in one smooth motion; the blanket billowed, then settled over them.

Isabelle traced her tongue up the side of his throat, relishing the light, salty tang of his skin and his spicy, masculine scent. She didn’t care how forward or wanton she might seem. Theirs was a mutual hunger, a soul-deep yearning that went beyond lust.

Marshall groaned and captured her mouth in a heavy kiss. Their tongues danced and stroked. Isabelle clutched his neck with frantic need.

He dragged his mouth across her cheek, and then propped himself up on his elbows. Sheltered by his large body, Isabelle felt safe and warm and … home.

Marshall’s heavy erection pressed against her thigh. Isabelle parted her legs and made a whimpering sound. Marshall moved to cover her there with a hand, stroking and parting her folds. “I have to have you now,” he said in a strained voice.

“Yes,” Isabelle said. Her breath was already coming fast. “Me, too. I need — ”

And then he was in her, and she gasped at the pleasure. Her nails dug into his back as she clutched him as tightly as she could, even squeezing the muscles around his staff — which resulted in an earthy grunt of approval from Marshall.

He withdrew and drove in, burying himself to the hilt. Her taut nerves jumped in response. He moved in slow, long strokes, claiming her with his body. “You’re mine,” he rasped. “My Isabelle.”

She hugged her arms around his shoulders, near to crying with joy and the force of her passion, oblivious to everything but the heat between them. “Yes,” she whispered.

She
was
his. She loved him. She’d loved him since she was eighteen years old. She’d loved him through divorce and exile and everything life threw in her path. She’d loved him through it all.

Marshall rose onto his knees and lifted her thighs to receive him even more deeply. The blanket fell around his hips. His fingers dug into the globes of her buttocks. She pressed her feet into the bed, willing their flesh to meld together into one.

His eyes were hazy but intense upon her as she neared her climax. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. He drew a deep breath and shook his head. Isabelle knew he was holding back.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “Come with me.”

His mouth dropped open, and Isabelle closed her eyes. She felt him shift over her, moving higher, while maintaining their joining.

The change in position had the base of his shaft dragging against her tight bud with every stroke. Everything below her navel clenched. It was all she could do to hang on and ride the pounding waves of pleasure he brought her with every driving thrust.

“Love you, Isabelle,” he said between heavy pants.

“Love you so much,” was her breathless reply.

Their sweat-slicked skins slid together with sinful ease, every movement ratcheting her tighter and tighter until … “Aaah!” she cried. Her heels pressed into the mattress and the force of her orgasm arched her off the bed, lifting Marshall just as his own climax had his fingers digging into her hips, holding them tight together while he poured into her womb.

When they were spent, Marshall held her close for a moment, then disengaged from her arms. He dropped a kiss to her damp brow and hastily dressed to inform the captain they would not sail just yet.

He paused in the doorway and gave her a sated smile. “I must warn you,” he drawled, “the only reason I proposed is because we need another cook. This is a working expedition, after all. No lazing about like a pampered duchess.”

Joyous mirth bubbled up inside Isabelle and spilled out in a gale of silvery laughter. She tossed a pillow at his head, which he easily caught. He brought it back to the bed and leaned over. He planted his hands on the mattress on either side of her. She loved the feeling of being surrounded by him.

“However,” he said, his eyes full of rekindling passion, “you’ll spend most of your time right here, assisting me in the very important endeavor of producing an heir.”

She rose to meet him as another wave of desire fell across her. “That,” she said, smiling wickedly and curling her fingers around the back of his neck, “is an occupation I shall be glad to have.”

Like all good Southern girls, Elizabeth Boyce fell in love with the past early on, convinced the bygone days of genteel manners and fancy dresses were only an air conditioning unit shy of perfection. Her passion for the British Regency began when she was first exposed to that most potent Regency gateway drug,
Pride and Prejudice
. She’s remained steadfast in her love of the period ever since. Those rumors of a fling with ancient Greece are totally false — honest.