Chapter 12 #2
But Nicholas stilled her with a hand on her door before she could enter the duchess’s suite. “Wait.”
She looked up at him, at the way his jaw feathered subtly as he watched her, and the dark, opaque expression in his eyes. He was always so hard to read. “What is it?” she asked.
“I would never have thought to look for her there. To my knowledge, she rarely goes up to that wing—and the cat…” He paused, glancing away, and the hand on the door curled into a fist. “I’m sorry I was angry at you for bringing the cat inside.”
The tension in her body eased. “An apology from the great duke?” she teased. “Twice in one night?”
He looked back at her. “I thought you deserved one. I know I haven’t always been… easy to live with.”
She longed to know if this would mean he would stop going on his mystery visits at night, but perhaps that was still a bridge too far for now.
“And,” he added, his eyes intent on hers, “I know that you have been trying with Sophia, and I’ve been meaning to say how grateful I am.
She has always been…” He hesitated, searching for the right words.
“She’s always felt a little like a mystery to me, even though I’ve been in her life since she was born. Having someone who understands her is…”
“I understand,” she said softly, and following the prompting of the moment, she rested a hand on his chest. “She’s just young, and she’s living in a world that is changing under her feet, and that’s a scary thing for any girl. Give her time and space to be a child.”
“I do.”
Isadora laughed. “She thought you would scold her for having a cat.”
“A pregnant cat,” he interjected.
“It’s natural for a child to want a pet. Something to fuss over and care for.”
His fingers curled around her wrist, but he didn’t move her hand away. Instead, he looked down at her as though he had never seen her before. “Something to fuss over,” he repeated.
“Sometimes it gives us purpose. You and I have Sophia, but she’s a child—so she has a cat.”
“And you,” he added, something unreadable in his voice.
Isadora blinked. “Well, perhaps she might disagree, but I don’t think Sophia is looking after me.”
“Not Sophia,” he said. “Me.”
Her eyes widened a touch, breath faltering in her throat. He loomed over her, but she never felt intimidated by his size the way she might otherwise have done. Yes, in so many ways, she supposed he did look after her. She just hadn’t thought he cared enough to consider it in those terms.
Her palm still lay over his heart. She slid it to his shoulder and stepped in until her skirts brushed his legs. It felt perfectly natural to tip her chin and look into his eyes.
She felt his harsh exhale against her face.
The fingers around her wrist loosened. His other hand closed on her waist, the way it had while they waltzed, and brought her nearer, one deliberate inch at a time. He gave her every chance to refuse. She answered by sinking her fingers into the hair by his nape—so soft, so downy.
He made a noise in the back of his throat. Starved, the sound of it made her stomach dip and swoop and heat bloom between her legs. It was the same feeling as before, in the ballroom, when she felt as though they were on the precipice of something—and she wanted.
How she wanted…
Nicholas made her want in an entirely new way, and she ached for more.
“Isadora.” His voice scraped out, hot against her skin. His nose brushed her cheek. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and she caught her breath. Impatient, uncertain. This was all new to her; she needed him to take her hand and lead her through this new territory.
“Please…” she whispered.
His breath shuddered, and then his hand slipped beneath her hair, cradling her nape as he drew her in.
The kiss deepened with the first touch. His mouth moved over hers with a voluptuous pressure that drew a soft ache through her belly.
She parted her lips on a gasp, and his tongue found the tender inner curve of them.
She kissed him harder.
His fist twisted the charmeuse fabric at the base of her spine, pulling her more firmly against him, stomach to stomach. Her back arched, yearning for still more closeness, and she wrapped her arms around his neck.
So this was a husband’s kiss.
She’d imagined the act, of course—what woman hadn’t, especially with such a handsome man for a husband—but she had never imagined it would be like this. Like fire dancing through her, like something hot and wet and utterly sensual coursing through her limbs, demanding she yield.
This new hunger he had created in her was a terrible, restless thing; it would never be satiated.
She would never be satiated unless he took her to his bed and somehow eased this ache inside her.
There was a hollowness, an emptiness, a strange hole where before she had never noticed a loss, and she needed him to assuage her need.
He seemed agreeable. Every thrust of his tongue, every slide of his lips, every shuddering breath he released, pointed toward him being just as affected as her. And—there was something else, too, pressing against her midsection. Long and hard, it seemed to have appeared from nowhere.
If she’d had her mother still, perhaps she would have known what to expect from a man when he lay with a woman.
And if she’d had married friends, she might also have learned.
But although some of her sisters were married, they had never spoken to her about this, and so she did not know if the hard length pushed against her stomach was a good or bad thing.
That was, until she shifted, rubbing against it, and he groaned in the back of her throat, holding her still. When she looked up at him, panting, his eyes were closed.
“We should stop and think about this,” he growled, not opening his eyes, a furrow between his brow as though he fought himself.
“What is there to think about?” she whispered, bemused.
He shook his head violently. “That is… enough.” His arms loosened from around her, and although it looked as though it cost him an enormous effort of will, he stepped back. “We should go to bed.”
Oh, was that what he meant? Would he finally visit her bed so he could kiss her again, but in a more suitable place?
“Separately,” he quickly added, seeing her face and sensing her thoughts. “You should go to sleep, Isadora.”
Sleep… when she felt like this, restless and aching and on fire? The throbbing between her legs was so urgent it bordered on pain. What she needed was not sleep, but relief.
“Is there… is there something wrong with me?” she asked, suddenly uncertain. Anger and frustration and hurt warred in her body, and she swallowed hard. “Is there a… a reason you don’t wish to be with me?”
“You? No.” A quick, bitter smile flashed across his face, and he reached up a hand to brush her cheek with his knuckle. “You’ve done nothing wrong. But you deserve better than…” He shook his head. “You deserve better. And I… I cannot give you that.”
“I don’t care!”
“I do.”
Pride dictated she say nothing more. Her bedchamber door was behind her, and she reached for it blindly, grasping the handle and turning, all without looking away from Nicholas.
He didn’t move, waiting until she stumbled inside and slammed the door in his face.
Even still, hope lingered in her chest that he might change his mind and follow her inside.
But his footsteps eventually sounded toward his own door, slow and ponderous.
Isadora touched her lips with the tips of her fingers, tracing their lines, wondering.
Then she took hold of her pillow and flung it at the door.