Chapter 19 #2
The faint scent of cigar smoke and beeswax polish met her senses, and the muted green of the billiard table caught what little light filtered through the curtained windows.
Not the retiring room, but good enough. Cues rested neatly in their rack.
The hush of the room enclosed around her like a balm and was just what she needed.
She drew a deep breath, pressing a hand to her chest. Foolish. Entirely reckless.
The sound of footsteps in the hall made her shoulders stiffen a moment before the door opened.
“Running away again?”
The deep timbre of his voice evoked emotions in her she wanted to ignore, to pretend didn’t make her ache. She turned. He had followed her. “Must you always intrude?”
“It’s my forte.”
“It is a flaw.”
“Possibly both.”
She drew a breath, steadying her tone. “Why are you here? Why must you be everywhere I am?”
“I could ask you the same.”
“This was not your affair to attend. Mariah is my friend. You should have denied your friend the pleasure of your company if you knew I was going to be here.”
He frowned, coming into the room and shutting the door. She didn’t like that they were alone, several doors from the safety of the rout.
“But that would have disappointed Lord Pye and I do not like disappointing my friends.”
She laughed once, brittle and full of mocking. “You expect me to believe that?”
“I did not know you would be here, that was entirely by chance.”
“You should leave.” She wanted him gone, far, far away from her where she wouldn’t be tempted by the very sight of his handsome face. She wanted to stomp her foot, pretend that he wasn’t niggling and wigging under her skin, imbedding himself there like a barb.
He stepped closer, his voice softening. “Do you truly wish that?”
She should. God help her, she should. But his nearness unsettled her, as it always did, and she could not voice her request again for him to leave. The memory of his last kiss haunted her every breath, replaying in her mind like a forbidden melody.
“You confuse me, Whitmore,” she admitted quietly. “You say one thing and do another. You tell me you are not ready to marry, and yet you act as though—”
“As though what?”
“As though I belong to you.”
The words hung between them. His jaw tightened, and she saw something flicker in his eyes—guilt, desire, fear.
“I do not know what I want,” he disclosed. “Only that when I see you with another man, I want to break something.”
Her heart stuttered. “Then you are covetous. Are you finally admitting to it?”
“Undeniably.”
“And yet you will not marry me.”
He gave a short laugh, harsh and self-mocking. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple.” Her voice trembled. “You either wish to court me, or you do not.” She swallowed when he moved another step nearer. The faint scent of sandalwood clung to him, and it was an aroma she’d always relished.
Damn the man.
“I fear I will only ever disappoint you, Bells.”
His response was not what she wished or expected to hear. Her temper spiked and she narrowed her eyes. “Then why are you here?”
“Because I could not stay away.”
Her breath caught. For a long moment, neither spoke. The muffled music from the drawing room drifted faintly through the closed door. The air between them hummed with an unseen blaze.
He reached for her hand, hesitating only an instant before his fingers linked with hers. The touch was reverent and sent a tremor through her body.
“This is wrong,” she whispered.
“Everything about us feels flawed,” he said. “And yet I cannot stay away.”
She knew she should step back, end this madness. Instead, she met his gaze, saw the raw confusion there—the same bewilderment that lived in her own heart—and all sensible thought vanished.
He reached for her, but she was already moving toward him. Their lips met, held.
The kiss was not gentle, but then, when was it when it came to them?
The caress was urgent, hungry, a collision of two people who knew they ought to stop and could not.
His hand slid to her waist, drawing her against him, and the world narrowed to the sound of their breaths and the soft patter of rain against the windows.
He picked her up and set her on the billiards table as if she were as light as a feather. He pressed against her, and she slipped her leg about his waist, pulling him close. He rolled his hips against her core, and she gasped at the sweet ache that thrummed there.
“Whitmore...” she groaned.
“Hartley… No titles.” His strong, large hand encased her ankle, slipping along her silk stocking, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his touch.
Her breath caught as his caress did not cease but continued to her thigh.
He squeezed her flesh, and she shuddered.
She gathered her gown gathered at her waist, opening herself to him, leaving no discretion between them.
“So damn beautiful. You make me want to be a different man.”
His words left her voiceless. He kissed her again and she gasped when his fingers slipped over her mons and caressed her aching flesh. “Yes, Hartley.”
He groaned. “I love the sound of my name on your lips.” His mouth took hers again, hungry and demanding. He touched her where she ached most, rolling his fingers against a place of her that she’d never thought much of before this night.
It was wonderful, maddening all in one moment. “Don’t stop, whatever this madness is that you’re doing.” She closed her eyes and relished in the hungry kiss he bestowed against her neck.
“I have no intention of stopping,” her murmured in her ear.
She bit her lip to stop herself from calling out. They were at a rout, an entertainment where they could be caught at any moment, still it wasn’t enough to persuade her to stop. She doubted anything would make her ask him to pause his wicked, wonderful actions.
His hand moved, and she felt the pressure of his fingers at her core.
She clutched at him, needing him close, wanting him with a desperation she’d never felt before.
It was wonderful, maddening, and unlike anything she’d imagined.
Was this what made her sisters have those secretive smiles, and knowing glances with their husbands?
He pressed into her, and she gasped.
“I’m imagining myself in you right now, Bells. My hand will have to do for now.”
For now? Did he intend to engage in this madness again?
He kissed her again, stroking her, teasing and taking her with his hand. Her body felt as though it were having an out-of-body experience, it ached and craved with a wild immorality. She pressed against him, seeking more, wanting more.
“You sing at my touch.”
His words were wicked. She nodded, breathless and perhaps senseless as well. “I do,” she admitted, close to a pinnacle she wanted to tumble over, relish at the hands of a man who drove her mad.
He did not stop. Instead, he played her with an ability that left her mindless. He took her lips as pleasure unknown to her tumbled through her, contracting about her body and leaving her clutching him, needing to anchor herself lest she float off into the universe.
Only when she had regained her wits did he step back, settling her gown over her trembling legs. He raised his hand and slipped two fingers into his mouth, watching her intently as he sucked his fingers clean, his gaze burning with a need she now understood.
“You taste delicious.”
She gaped, unable to form words at the sight of him and what he was going. Dear God, she would not survive this man.
His wicked grin told her he knew he’d shocked her and was enjoying it. “We should return,” he said.
She pressed a trembling hand to his chest, pushing him away with what little strength she had left. “You go. I shall return momentarily.”
He stepped back at once, jaw tight, eyes dark. He bowed—an oddly formal gesture in such a moment—then turned and left her standing alone.
When she finally returned to the drawing room, her composure had been sewn back together with sheer will. Sir Alcott was still there, chatting easily with Mariah, but there was no sign of Whitmore. Had he left? The knowledge left a hollowness in her chest.
Isabella rallied herself to mingle, to laugh and pretend nothing had happened that had changed her life forever.
But in her heart, she knew that something had altered irrevocably—that every time she closed her eyes, she would remember the taste of what she could have with Whitmore if only he would relent.
And give in to what was clearly happening between them.