Chapter 27
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
The carriage jolted forward, but Hartley’s body refused to move with it. He sat frozen, staring at the closed door where Isabella had just vanished. Every breath he took was a knife.
She was gone.
The faint scent of her perfume still clung to the seat across from him—roses and something heartbreakingly delicate. It made his chest ache in a way he could no longer bear.
“Damn this,” he growled, shoving open the carriage door. “Damn this to hell.”
The startled coachman barely managed to rein in the horses before Hartley leapt down into the street. “Return to the ball for the duke and duchess,” he barked. “Do not wait for me.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, instead he strode toward the ducal townhouse, his boots striking the stone steps hard enough to echo through the quiet night.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He could think of nothing but her—the way she’d looked at him, the ice in her voice, the tears she’d refused to shed. He could not lose her. Not like this.
Inside, the entryway was bright, the scent of wax polish heavy in the air. A startled footman nearly dropped the tray of glassware he carried.
“Where is Lady Isabella?”
“My—my lord, the lady—”
But Hartley was already moving. He saw her halfway up the grand staircase, her pale gown glinting softly in the light from the sconces above. “Bells!” he called.
She turned, eyes wide, shock flashing across her face. “What are you doing?” she hissed, glancing down into the hall. “You cannot be here—”
He took the stairs two at a time, closing the distance before she could protest further. He didn’t think—he couldn’t think. His heart was a storm, his only anchor her.
When he reached her, he caught her up in his arms.
She gasped, palms pressing against his chest. “Hartley! Put me down this instant. You cannot—”
“Where’s your room?” he demanded, his voice low, rough, urgent.
“Don’t you dare—”
“Where, Isabella?”
Her chin lifted, defiant. “At the end of the hall. But I swear, if you do not—”
He didn’t let her finish.
Ignoring the servants’ startled glances as he strode down the corridor with her in his arms, he muttered, “Let them talk. I care not what anyone thinks.”
She squirmed against him, furious, her hands pushing at his shoulders. “You’re mad! You need to stop this—right now!”
“Not until you hear me,” he said. “Not until you understand.”
Her heartbeat thudded against his chest, a frantic rhythm that only drove him harder. The rustle of her skirts, the warmth of her breath near his throat, the way her body fit against his—all of it tangled his resolve into something wild and unbreakable.
He reached her room. Her maid, startled by their sudden entrance, froze mid-motion with a gown in her hands.
“My lord?”
“Leave us,” he said sharply.
The maid hesitated only a second before fleeing, skirts rustling into the corridor. Hartley slammed the door, turned the key, and the soft snick of the lock felt final. He set Isabella down on the bed and stood back, wondering what he was going to do now.
She glared at him, cheeks flushed with fury. “You’ve lost your mind. If my sister finds out you’re here—”
“I don’t care,” he said, stepping closer.
“The servants will tell—”
“Let them.”
Her glare could have cut through glass. “You’ve no right to barge into my home like some—some barbarian!”
“Then call me one,” he said quietly, “but I’m not leaving until you forgive me.”
She gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Forgive you? You think one more intrusion will make me forget your wager? Your betrayal?”
He came closer still, the edge of the bed brushing his knees. “I think,” he said, his voice low, “that I’ll make you see that everything I said in that carriage was truth. That I love you, Isabella Ravensmere, and I will prove it.”
She shook her head, but her voice faltered. “You can’t force forgiveness.”
“I don’t intend to,” he said. “I intend to earn it.”
Her lips parted as though to retort, but he silenced her with a look—steady, unyielding, full of every ounce of feeling he’d denied for three long weeks. The longest in his life. Even his exile abroad seemed quicker than the time he’d spent away from her.
The air between them hummed. The lamplight caught the gold in her hair, the soft rise and fall of her chest. He could see the battle warring in her eyes—anger, pride, and something that looked dangerously close to longing.
“I will not leave this room,” he said softly, “until you believe me. Until you know I mean every word I’ve said. By morning, you’ll see that what I feel for you is not duty, not guilt, not scandal. It is love, pure and maddening, and I’ll not let you go until you understand that.”
Her breath trembled. “You’re impossible.”
He smiled faintly. “So you’ve told me before.”
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then, slowly, he reached out, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her cheek. She didn’t pull away.
Her pulse fluttered beneath his fingertips. The faint hitch of her breath told him everything her words would not. “Bells,” he whispered, “forgive me.”
He leaned in, his mouth finding hers.
The world fell away.
Her lips were soft and unyielding, tasting faintly of defiance and something heartbreakingly sweet. Her hands came up to his chest—not to push him away this time, but to hold herself steady against the force of everything between them.
He deepened the kiss, and Hartley promised himself that no matter what waited beyond this night, he would never let her doubt his love again. He removed his jacket and waistcoat, kicked off his boots, and pulled his shirt from his breeches, before he rid himself of those too.
With relief, he watched as Isabella fought with the laces of her gown before he turned her about and all but ripped them from their ties, desperate to have her out of her dress.
She stood, and the gown and stays fell to the floor before she slipped her shift over her head, leaving her in nothing but her silk stockings.
His breath caught at the delectable sight she made. She was so utterly perfect and beautiful—and his.
All his.
He cupped her face, kissing her, drinking from her mouth like a man starved of water. “I love you so much.”
They tumbled onto the bed, and he kissed his way down her neck, marking her with his tongue and small love bites. He kneaded her breast, his mouth suckling one of her nipples, teasing the peaked, pink flesh. He could not get enough of her, he was mad with want and the demand to love her again.
She squirmed beneath him, her fingers spiking into his hair, fisting his locks, holding him as if she never wished to let go.
And he would not. She would never be rid of him.
He kissed his way down her smooth, flat stomach, reaching between her legs to slip his hand over her mons, teasing her wet, ready cunny.
The proof of her desire was in equal measure relief and torture.
She gasped and moaned when he slipped a finger into her, teasing her, readying her for what was to come.
Hartley could wait no longer. He moved lower and licked along her sweet, most private of places, teasing her with his tongue, suckling her until she was bucking beneath him. His name a plea, an appeal for more.
And he would give her more.
He worked her with his mouth, closing his eyes and relishing the taste of her. His cock was rock hard, his balls ached with denied release. He pressed himself into the bed, wanting a little relief from the torture he was enduring.
“Hartley…” His name on her lips almost undid him, and he suckled her harder, flicking his tongue over her engorged nubbin, wanting her to come. Wanting her to grind her quim on his face and take what he offered.
Thankfully he did not have to wait long. She tightened her legs about his face, a telltale sign she was near. He groaned, savoring the moment of her climax. He worked her sweet flesh until she was spent and sated, her legs lax and open, her body his to explore.
Only then did he kiss his way back to her mouth. He took her lips hard at the same time as he thrust into her with a determination—a declaration—that left them both breathless.
She wrapped her legs about his waist, and he rocked into her, kissing her, marking her his. “You’re so beautiful. I will never get enough of you, my heart, my love, my everything.”
She clasped his cheeks, watching him, her eyes glassy and hopeful.
“I would not be here now, I would not be fighting for you, Bells, if I did not want you to be mine. Please know—please believe me.” He pushed hard, and she gasped, arching her back, her breasts rocking with the movement.
“Tell me you believe me. Tell me that you love me too, before I expire of wondering if it’s only me who’s affected by this emotion.”
She met his eyes and they locked and held. “You are not alone in this new reality,” she finally admitted.
“Thank God.” He took her, thrusting into her until they were both without wits or breath. The first tremors of her release tightened about his cock, and he held on as long as he could before they came in a whirlwind of gasps and cries of delight, tumbling together over the edge of bliss.
After several heartbeats, he slumped to her side, pulling her close and knowing there would not be another night they would not lie like this. Married or not, he would never be separated from her again.
She slumped onto his chest, as if the weeks they had been apart had never happened. He wished they had not—but he would make it up to her. “I will, from this day forward, strive to make you pleased. To never make you sad or disappointed with me again.”
She glanced up at him, a small smile playing on her kiss-swollen lips. “We will argue about some things, Hartley. No marriage is perfect. But so long as you never enter another stupid wager like the one you did with the duke, we shall be well.”
He slipped his hand into her hair, cupping the nape of her neck. “I will never be so foolish again, even if that thoughtlessness made me come to realize how much I love you. For that, I shall forever be grateful.”
She made a little scoffing sound before wiggling into the crook of his arm.
“You’re lucky, I suppose, that the wager involved me.
You could, right at this moment, find yourself betrothed to a woman you do not care for—and then where would you be?
All because you were an irrational child who had to bet with his friend instead of saying no like an intelligent adult would. ”
Her words shamed him. It was only providence that such a situation had not occurred. “I see your point and agree. I promise I have learned my lesson.”
“Good.” She leaned up and cupped his face.
“While I’m still a little mad at you, I do believe you—and I want what we started that first night together.
I want a love match with you, Hartley. I love you too, so much.
I was so hurt that you only courted me for a wager.
It made me feel dirty and worth nothing more than a bit of amusement for two men I thought highly of. You hurt me.”
His heart broke anew. “I know, and I’m so sorry. Truly. I promise to make it up to you.”
An impish grin slipped onto her lips. “Well, what you did earlier was certainly interesting. I could like that again, I think—if you’re willing, of course.”
He moved his mouth near her ear, bussing it with a quick kiss before he whispered, “When my mouth was on your quim?”
A blush stole over her cheeks, and he chuckled.
“Yes, when your wicked tongue was between my legs.”
Her bold words sent his cock to rigid in an instant. He rolled her onto her back, her legs spreading, willing and pliant for his every wish. “You do not know what you have started, my lady.”
She ran her hand through his hair, her eyes shadowed with desire. “Oh, I think I do. I’m going to be marrying the worst rake in London. I think I know exactly what’s to come next.”
He grinned, kissing his way down her stomach.
Perhaps she did. Still, he had other tricks up his sleeve that she would soon enjoy. So much to look forward to.
Together.