Chapter 13 #2
“They were.” Isobel's smile was bittersweet. “They loved us all so fiercely, even me, although I had not been born to them. I never felt like anything less than their true daughter.”
Richard felt something twist in his chest at her words, at the pain beneath them. Because of course, there was an unspoken contrast there – the parents who had chosen to love her and protect her, versus the father who had chosen to abandon her.
“I am sorry,” he said, meaning it. “For what Gregory did to you. For the childhood you should have had.”
Isobel looked at him, surprise flickering across her features. Then she shook her head slightly, as though dismissing the moment of vulnerability.
“Well,” she said, her tone becoming brisk, “Fortunately, I learned some useful skills during that childhood. Such as how to treat bruises. I need to apply it directly over the affected area.” She looked at him expectantly.
“Which means you need to remove your coat and shirt so I can apply this properly.”
Richard's eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your coat and shirt,” Isobel repeated, as though it were the most natural request in the world. “Take them off.”
“Miss Wightman –”
“We are well past formality, Your Grace,” Isobel interrupted, and there was a glint of mischief in her eyes now. “Considering what occurred between us yesterday. Or would you prefer I remind you of the details?”
Heat flooded through Richard, along with a surge of desire that was entirely inappropriate given his current state. This woman – this bold, brazen, utterly shameless, beautiful woman – was going to be the death of him.
“You have no sense of propriety whatsoever,” he muttered in mock complaint, but he was already reaching for his coat buttons.
“I am Scottish,” Isobel replied cheerfully. “We are known for being practical rather than proper.”
Richard could not help it – he laughed. A real, genuine laugh that seemed to surprise them both.
“Is that so?” he chuckled.
She had a look of utter surprise on her face for a few seconds, then she smiled as well, making a dismissive motion at him with the wave of her hand.
“Absolutely. Now stop stalling.”
With a shake of his head, Richard shrugged carefully out of his coat. The movement jostled his shoulder, and he hissed slightly at the pain. Isobel immediately stepped closer, her hands hovering as though ready to help if needed.
“Slowly,” she murmured. “There is no need to rush.”
Richard managed to remove the coat, draping it over the arm of the chair.
Then he reached for the buttons of his waistcoat, acutely aware of Isobel's gaze on him. There was something oddly intimate about this – nearly even more so than what had transpired between them the day before. Although he couldn’t quite explain why.
The waistcoat joined the coat, and then he pulled his shirt over his head. The fabric caught on his shoulder, and he could not quite suppress a grunt of pain as he tugged it free.
“Careful,” Isobel scolded softly, taking the shirt from him and setting it aside.
Then she went very still, her eyes widening as she took in the sight of his bare chest and shoulders.
Richard wondered if it would be too prideful of him to show off the evidence of his good physical condition a bit more.
Instead, he watched as a pretty blush settled across her face while her eyes ran over his form with varying expressions of awe and concern.
He knew the source of the concern was a result of the many scars he had collected over the years, and he wanted to reassure her that he was all right, but then her gaze strayed to his right shoulder, and she gasped at the dark bruise that was already beginning to bloom across his skin.
“Oh, Richard,” Isobel breathed, and the concern in her voice made something in his chest ache. “This is worse than I thought.”
She moved around behind him, and Richard felt her fingers ghost over the bruised skin, feather-light and careful. The touch sent a shiver down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature in the library.
“It looks quite painful,” she murmured.
“It is not as bad as it looks,” Richard lied.
“Do not.” Her voice was firm. “Do not pretend with me. Not about this.”
Richard exhaled slowly. “All right. It does hurt,” he admitted. “But I have endured worse.”
“That does not mean you should have to endure this without treatment.” Isobel's fingers left his skin, and he heard her moving, preparing the herbs. “This may sting a bit at first, but then it should help with the pain and reduce the swelling.”
“I trust you.”
The words slipped out before Richard could think better of them, but he realized they were true. Somehow, despite everything, he trusted this woman. This stranger, who had a familiar face, had burrowed her way under his skin in a matter of days.
Isobel's hands returned to his shoulder, this time slick with some kind of herbal preparation.
The smell of it filled the air, sharp and a tad bitter, with an underlying earthiness.
Just as she had warned, it had stung initially, but then a cooling sensation spread through the bruised tissue, dulling the ache.
“Better?” Isobel asked softly, her fingers working the preparation into his skin with gentle, circular motions.
“Yes,” Richard admitted. “Much better. Thank you.”
They fell into silence as she worked, and Richard found himself hyperaware of every point of contact between them. The warmth of her hands, the occasional brush of her body against his back as she leaned closer to reach a particular spot, the soft sound of her breathing.
In an effort to distract himself from his growing arousal, he cleared his throat and stated,
“While I greatly appreciate your enthusiasm to help me… Please do not demand that other gentlemen take off their clothes. That could lead to far more misbehavior than you had bargained for, Miss Wightman.”
He had done his best not to accidentally insult her as he had done previously, and his efforts seemed to work this time because she smiled and leaned forward, regarding him with a suspicious smile for a moment, before she then said,
“You know, you almost sounded friendly just now as well. There is no other way to explain this – you have a twin brother too, do you not? Who are you and what have you done with the duke?”
Richard stared at her for a moment, then he laughed out loud, startling both of them with how sudden it was, sending them both into a laughing fit. Isobel giggled, her eyes regarding him curiously with a smile, and she looked so lovely that he wanted to simply exist under her gaze.
It felt good to be with her and simply express joy. God, when was the last time he had laughed like this? Without any manipulative reasons or calculations, just pure, simple joy at another person's company?
When their laughter finally subsided, they were both smiling, and the atmosphere in the library had shifted into something softer, warmer.
“I am sorry,” Richard said, the words coming more easily now. “For how I treated you when you first arrived. For making you feel as though you were inadequate or foolish. You are neither of those things, and you did not deserve to be hurt by my foolish and careless words.”
Isobel's expression softened. “I accept your apology.”
“Thank you,” Richard paused, staring at her in silence after that.
Isobel noticed and grew curious about his fixated gaze. Soon, she couldn’t help but wonder.
“What? Is there something wrong?”
He took a breath, meeting her gaze steadily. “No, not wrong. Never. I was simply in awe of you. Although you look exactly like Valerie, I think you are much more beautiful. You are so utterly breathtaking.”
Isobel's breath caught audibly. “Richard—”
“I mean it,” he continued, unable to stop now that he had started. “It is truly a wonder how you exist. How the mere thought of you sends me into a feast of thirst until all I can think about is you, writhing in pleasure beneath me.
Her eyes had darkened, her lips parting slightly. Richard felt his control fraying at the edges, felt the desire that was never far from the surface when she was near rising to consume him.
“Richard,” Isobel breathed, and there was no protest in her voice, only want.
He pulled her closer, mindful of his shoulder but unable to resist any longer.
Their lips met in a kiss that started soft but quickly deepened, hours of tension and desire pouring into it.
Isobel's fingers curled against his chest, her nails digging in slightly, and the small bite of pain only heightened his arousal.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing heavily. Richard guided Isobel to straddle his lap – carefully, so as not to bother his injured shoulder – and she went willingly, gathering her skirts to settle against him daintily like the precious little thing that she was.
“We should not,” she murmured, even as her hands traced the planes of his chest, exploring with a curiosity that made him want to let her touch him everywhere.
“No, we should not,” Richard agreed, his hands spanning her waist. “But I find I do not care.”
“Someone could come in,” she pointed out, tone hushed.
“I locked the door after you entered.”
Isobel pulled back slightly to look at him, surprise and something that might have been admiration flickering across her face. “You did?”
“I am not completely reckless,” Richard said with a small smirk. “Now, are you going to keep finding reasons to object, or are you going to kiss me again?”
A slow smile spread across Isobel's face – that genuine, sunlight smile that made his heart stutter dangerously. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you are going to teach me something new again.”
Desire shot through Richard like lightning. This woman would be the death of him. “So eager to learn, hmm?” he murmured, pulling her closer. “Very well, Miss Wightman. Let us see how well you remember your previous lessons.”