Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
The theater had emptied hours ago, and the echoes of song and applause still lingered in Whitmore’s mind. At intermission, he had covertly slipped a small, folded note into Isabella’s gloved hand. He’d told her not to read it until she was home safe in her room—and to burn it straight after.
He was playing a dangerous game, one that had no clear ending. Yet he knew one thing with absolute certainty—he had to see her again, alone.
He needed to kiss her, even if that was all she would ever allow him.
The night was cold, the air thick with fog as he waited across Grosvenor Square. His coach stood beneath the shadow of a towering elm, the horses restless and snorting in the silence. The hour had long passed two. The city slept, yet the pulse in his chest refused to quiet.
He kept his gaze fixed on the small side gate of the ducal townhouse. Any moment now—
And then, as though the darkness itself had conjured her, she appeared.
Isabella slipped from the shadows, her dark cloak drawn tight, her hood low. The faint lamplight brushed her cheek, revealing the delicate hue of her skin, the nervous glance she cast about before hurrying forward. His driver saw her and instantly moved the carriage closer.
Within seconds of her stepping free of the garden gate, Whitmore had opened the door. She slipped inside, a whisper of silk and rose filling the air between them. The coachman clucked softly to the horses, and they rolled away, leaving only the sound of wheels on damp cobblestone behind.
No words passed between them. There was no need.
Whitmore reached for her the moment she entered. Their mouths met, urgent and claiming, and every shred of restraint he had fought to keep disintegrated.
Her lips parted, a soft needy sound escaping her, and he deepened the kiss, his hand sliding into her hair, tilting her face to his. Her scent enveloped him, and it was all he could do not to lose himself completely.
The kiss grew fierce, the kind that left little thought behind.
She pressed closer, her body fitting perfectly against his.
The heat of her chest burned through the thin barrier of his coat.
He had kissed women before—dozens, perhaps more—but none had ever made him feel as though his heart had been stolen from his chest.
The world outside ceased to exist. There was only her mouth, her breath, her trembling hands clutching at him as if she too were caught in the storm of it.
She was magic in his arms. He was undone.
Desire clawed through him, sharp and wild, demanding he take what she offered. Yet even as she arched closer, he fought for control, fought not to shatter what remained of his reason. He was hard, aching, consumed.
He had never wanted like this.
He had never wanted her like this—because to want her was to risk everything. Her lips moved against his throat, her fingers slipping down the front of his waistcoat, skimming the fabric of his breeches. His heart stopped, his breath caught.
“Isabella…” he rasped, half warning, half plea.
But she silenced him with another kiss, soft and devastating.
The question hovered on his tongue, the one that would change everything between them if he dared speak it aloud. It lived there, alongside the truth he could no longer deny. He loved her, wanted to marry her.
To say such a thing aloud would undo him entirely. It would make him hers, body and soul, and he feared that once she saw him clearly—past the witticisms, the sullied reputation, the careless rake she believed him to be—she would recoil.
He had made a personality of laughter, of living as if nothing touched him, but she affected him. God help him, she reached the parts of him that had never seen the light.
Isabella’s low groan pulled him from his thoughts. She kissed him again, hungrier now, her hands exploring as though she sought to commit every inch of him to memory. He groaned too, matching her pace, his body straining to keep from taking her here and now.
Control slipped, fragile and fleeting.
Her hand pressed against him through the fall of his breeches, and he froze, the pleasure and torment of it flooding through him. His body burned, his mind reeled.
“Isabella,” he said again, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You must stop.”
“I do not wish to stop,” she whispered back, her breath hot against his ear.
He shut his eyes, his head falling forward until his forehead met hers. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”
She smiled, and it was his undoing. “I want you, Hartley.”
The words shattered him.
A stronger man would have denied her. But Whitmore had never claimed to be strong. He had spent years giving in to his every vice, and now, faced with the only woman who had ever made him question himself, he found he had no strength left to resist.
He caught her face in his hands, kissing her again—deep, desperate, reverent. He wanted to brand her, to make her remember this moment as fiercely as he would. With a growl of surrender, he lifted her onto his lap, the motion drawing a gasp from her throat.
Her cloak slipped, revealing pale skin, the faintest glimpse of the curve where her dress had loosened. His mouth followed instinct before reason intervened, tracing the line of her neck, the fluttering pulse beneath her jaw.
She trembled, her hands finding his shoulders, pulling him close. The carriage rocked gently, the sound of rain beginning to patter against the roof, drumming in rhythm with the frantic beat of his heart. The city outside might as well have ceased to exist.
He could have her now. One tug at her bodice, lifting of her silken skirts, one whispered word, and she would be his. But the thought struck him cold—because he didn’t want her like that. Not here, not like this.
He wanted all of her.
He wanted her laughter in the morning, her scent on his pillows, her name tied to his forever. God help him. He wanted her as his wife.
He stilled, his breath ragged, and buried his face against her throat. She sighed, her fingers threading into his hair. “Hartley,” she murmured, her voice soft, full of trust.
That broke him completely. He lifted his head, eyes meeting hers in the dim light. “You have no idea what you ask of me.”
“I ask for nothing,” she said. “I only want you.”
He kissed her again because words were useless now.
The taste of her was salt and sweetness, fire and ruin.
Every touch carried both promise and warning.
His hands trembled as they skimmed the silk of her gown, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest. He forced himself to stop before he crossed the point of no return.
“I cannot,” he whispered against her lips.
She blinked, her eyes wide. “Cannot?”
“Not like this,” he said softly. “You deserve better than a scoundrel in a carriage at dawn.”
She studied him, her chest rising with each unsteady breath. “This does not feel so sullied as those words.”
He gave a low, rough laugh. “It feels like madness.”
The carriage slowed, the rhythmic clatter of hooves easing to a halt. Whitmore glanced out the window and realized, with a twist of fate, that they were near his townhouse. He reached for her hand and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles. “Come inside with me, Bells. Before I change my mind.”
She hesitated only a moment before leaning forward, brushing a feather-light kiss against his mouth. “I would like that very much.”
So would he.
Within minutes of her agreement, they slipped inside his house, the hush of sleeping servants wrapping around them like a secret. No one stirred. His staff was long to bed—a longstanding order, since he was rarely home before dawn.
He didn’t bother with the rear entrance but drew her through the front and up the grand staircase, their fingers twined, the urgency between them building with every step. The air was thick with want, the faint scent of rain and candle wax mingling as they moved.
They barely reached his suite before he closed the door and pulled her into his arms. His mouth found hers, deep and claiming, and she melted against him. Here—in his home, in his arms—everything he’d tried to resist came undone.
She denied him nothing, her touch as eager as his. Their clothing soon littered the floor—stockings, gloves, gowns, and coats forming a careless trail to the bed. The firelight painted their skin gold, shadows dancing across the walls like silent witnesses.
Hartley came over her, his body hard and eager. He lifted her leg to hook over his hip before lowering himself, pausing to take in the sight of her. Hair unpinned, eyes heavy with desire—she was an undeniable temptress.
He reached between them, brushed his hand over her soft curls and down to her slick heat. She trembled beneath him, arching into his touch, her breath catching.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.
Her fingers curled in his hair, tugging him down for a kiss. He went willingly, aligning their bodies, his control slipping as she opened to him like a flower in bloom. She did not flinch or turn away, understood what they were doing, what it meant—and in that moment, so did he.
She was his. He was hers. And the world beyond this room ceased to exist.
He pressed into her, and she met him with a gasp, clutching at his shoulders. “I want you so much, Hartley.”
Her plea broke him. He thrust into her, taking her innocence—and something far more precious—with that single, irrevocable move. She wrapped her legs around him, kissed him with fierce abandon, and he thought he might lose himself entirely.
Every breath was a struggle for control. Every movement a prayer that she found pleasure in his touch. She stirred beneath him with instinctive grace, her body rising to meet his, soft sighs escaping with each roll of her hips.
It was too much—too perfect.
“Yes, Hartley,” she whispered, her voice a trembling appeal.
Her body tightened around him, and he felt her release crest and break. Her soft cry tore through the quiet room, dragging him down with her. “Oh yes, Bells.”
They came together, clinging, shaking, their bodies shuddering with shared ecstasy. When the tremors eased, he kissed her again, a tender press of lips that spoke of everything he dared not say aloud.
He drew her close, her body warm and pliant in his arms. She tucked herself against his side, her breathing slowing until the rhythm matched his own.
“That was sensational,” she whispered, glancing up at him.
His heart gave a foolish tumble. To have her here, in his bed, felt like the only right thing in the world. Tomorrow, he would take her home to Ravensmere and ask for her hand. After the banns were called, Lady Isabella would be his—his wife, his everything.
“I aim to please my lady—always.”
She laughed softly and pressed a kiss to his chest, sending a rush of warmth through him. “I do not think I shall ever be able to walk again. My legs feel like jelly.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now you cannot run away.” He reached down and tickled her until she squealed, then pulled her close again, his grin fading as her hand rose to cradle his jaw.
“I do not ever wish for the night to end,” she whispered.
He kissed the crown of her head, his voice low and certain. “Nor I.”
Tomorrow, he would speak to Ravensmere. Tomorrow, everything would change. Tonight, though, she was in his arms—and for the first time in his life, Hartley thought that forever might not be long enough.