Chapter 20
Twenty
They stood facing each other in the candlelit room, the air thick with everything unsaid between them.
"I shouldn't have said you were rejecting me," Andrew said finally, his voice rough. "That wasn't wholly accurate."
"It wasn't," she agreed, lifting her chin. "But you weren't entirely wrong either."
His eyebrows rose. "No?"
"No." She wrapped her arms around herself, acutely aware of how thin her nightclothes were, how his gaze kept dropping to where the damp fabric clung to her skin.
"I have been pulling away. Every time we get close, I panic.
I think about all the ways men have tried to control me, and I—" Her voice cracked.
"I retreat. Because being vulnerable terrifies me more than anything. "
Andrew moved closer, slowly, each step deliberate. "And the other night? When I told you to return to your room?"
"I felt denied," she admitted, the words barely above a whisper. "I know that's not what you intended, but I felt... dismissed. As if you didn't want me."
"Didn't want you?" His laugh was harsh, almost pained. "Isobel, the only reason I sent you away was because I wanted you too much. Because if I'd let you stay one moment longer, I would have begged you to let me touch you."
Her breath caught. "Then why didn’t you?"
"Because I didn't want you to wake up the next morning and regret it." He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek with devastating gentleness. "To feel like I'd taken advantage of a moment of weakness."
"That's not true." She stopped, emotions tangling in her throat. "I wouldn't have regretted it."
"Wouldn't you?" His thumb traced the line of her jaw, sending sparks dancing across her skin.
"You've spent weeks convincing yourself that I'm going to choose the Mayfair Fox over you.
That I'm going to cage you the way your father did.
Would you have believed it was real? Or would you have told yourself it was just another game I was playing? "
The accuracy of his words stole her voice.
"I know you, Duchess," he continued softly, his other hand finding her waist. "Better than you think I do. And I know that for you to truly trust this, trust us, you need to be the one who decides."
"You're infuriating," she managed.
"I know."
"And presumptuous."
"Also true."
"And you're standing in my bedchamber in a state of partial undress, telling me that you're too noble to seduce me." She let out a shaky laugh. "Do you see the contradiction there?"
His smile was crooked, boyish, devastating. "I never claimed to be smart. Just stubborn."
"Andrew."
"Tell me to leave," he said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper as he moved closer, backing her toward the bed. "Tell me to leave, and I will. I'll walk out that door and we'll pretend this never happened."
"And if I don't want you to leave?"
His hand stilled on her face. "Then tell me what you do want."
This was it. The moment Eleanor had been talking about. The choice she had to make.
But instead of answering in the way she’d intended while soaking in the tub, she found herself saying, "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?" His breath was warm against her temple.
"Making me feel like everything is a game. A wager between us." Her hands came up to press against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her palms. "You talk about my free will, about waiting for me to beg, as if this is just another competition for you to win."
"Is that what you think?" He caught her hands, bringing them to his lips and pressing kisses to her knuckles. "That this is a game to me?"
"Isn't it?" But her voice wavered, betraying her uncertainty.
"No." The word was fierce, absolute. "Do you remember what I said the night I proposed? That I value your free will? That I would wait for you to beg for what you want?"
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Beg me, Isobel,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvety whisper that brushed against her ear as he closed the distance between them. His breath was warm and inviting. His lips grazed her lobe before he spoke again. “Tell me what you want.”
His hand skimmed the curve of her waist, his fingers tracing the delicate lace of her gown, and she shivered, her resolve fraying like silk under his touch. His other hand cupped her cheek, turning her face toward his, and she met his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest.
His eyes were dark with promise, a storm brewing in their depths, and she felt her control slipping, her body responding to his nearness with a hunger she couldn’t deny.
“You think this thing between us constitutes a game, a mere wager,” he continued, his voice laced with a seductive edge that made her knees weak. “But I assure you, I take your surrender, your pleasure, most seriously.”
His thumb stroked her jawline, his touch firm yet tender, and she swallowed hard, her throat dry.
“Cocky,” she breathed, her voice trembling, a feeble attempt to mask the desire that threatened to consume her. But Andrew only smirked, his lips curving into a wicked smile that sent a jolt of heat through her veins.
“Then let me give you another taste, my dear,” he said, his lips descending to her neck, kissing, nipping, his teeth grazing her skin with just enough pressure to send fire racing through her.
His mouth moved lower, his tongue tracing the hollow of her throat, and she arched into him, her hands clutching at his coat, her nails digging into the fabric as if to anchor herself to him.
“Andrew,” she whispered, her breath catching as his fingers slipped beneath the neckline of her gown, brushing the swell of her breast.
His touch was light. His fingertips circled her nipple through the thin fabric of her chemise, and she gasped, her head falling back, her body aching for more.
"Just say yes, and I'll give you everything you've been dreaming about in this bed right now.”
“Please,” she murmured, her voice barely audible, a plea that hung in the air like a question. But Andrew shook his head, his lips curving into a wicked smile.
“Clearer, Isobel,” he commanded, his fingers dipping lower, grazing the sensitive skin of her stomach. “Tell me what you want.”
His proximity was intoxicating. His scent, his heat, enveloped her, and she felt her control slipping further. Her body responded to his touch with a desperation she couldn’t hide.
She tried to answer, but all that came out was a whimper as his teeth grazed her collarbone.
"Use your words, Duchess." His hand slid down her side, over her hip, bunching the fabric of her nightgown in his fist. "I need to hear you say it."
"This." The word burst out of her. "I want this. I want you."
"More specific." He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as they searched hers. "What exactly do you want me to do to you?"
Her face burned. "I don't, I can't just say the words."
"Yes, you can." His thumb brushed over her bottom lip. "Be brave for me, Isobel. Tell me what you need."
She stared at him, at this maddening man who'd somehow become essential to her existence. Who made her feel seen and wanted and cherished and infuriated all at once.
“Andrew,” she pleaded, her voice raw and unguarded, her pride crumbling under the weight of her need. “I want, I need…” She swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. “I need you to touch me,” she said, the words rushing out, raw and unguarded. “To make me feel good.”
He kissed her then, until a slow, aching desire coiled in Isobel’s core. And then his hands were all over her – her breasts, her curves, her nipples. Isobel needed him, urgently.
His smile was pure sin. "As my Duchess commands."
His smirk deepened, a look of satisfaction that made her cheeks flush, and without a word, he sank to his knees before her. His hands slid up her thighs, pushing her skirts higher.
Her breath hitched as his lips pressed against the bare skin of her leg. His tongue trailed upward slowly; each touch sent sparks of pleasure through her.
“Let me taste you,” he murmured. His voice vibrated against her flesh, and then his mouth was on her. His tongue parted her folds, his fingers slipping inside, and she cried out. Her hands tangled in his hair, her body arching toward him.
He took his time. His tongue was firm and insistent. His fingers stroked and circled, driving her to the edge again and again, only to pull back, to tease, and to prolong her torment.
“Andrew, please,” she begged, her body trembling, her thighs quivering as she teetered on the brink of release.
But he only hummed against her skin. His touch was relentless. His mouth devoured her as his fingers delved deeper. His tongue moved rhythmically, flicking, lapping, tasting her with a hunger that left her quivering.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her senses overwhelmed, and she felt her orgasm building, a tight coil of pleasure ready to snap. But just as she was about to surrender to it, he pulled back. His lips brushed her inner thigh as his fingers slowed.
“Not yet,” he murmured, his voice a dark promise that sent a shiver down her spine. “Do you want this?”
Andrew rose slowly. He positioned himself so that he could lean forward, and she could once more feel his breath on her ear.
His teeth grazed her lobe then his hand slid up to cup her breast. “Or this? Do you like this?” He peeled away her garments and his thumb flicked her nipple.
She moaned. Her head fell back. Her body ached for release.
“Beg me,” he insisted, his voice firm, his touch relentless. Isobel surrendered. Her pride crumbled under the weight of her need.
“Please, Andrew,” she cried, her voice breaking, her body trembling with desperation. “Let me have this release. I need it.”
"Good girl. So responsive," he murmured, watching her face as he explored. "So beautiful like this, all flushed and wanting."
The praise sent heat pooling low in her belly.
His lips curved into a satisfied smile, and then his mouth was on hers again. While his fierce tongue massaged her, his fingers danced down her naked form until they found her center. His touch drove her over the edge.
She couldn't form words anymore, could only gasp and whimper as he touched her with devastating skill. He seemed to know exactly where to press, where to circle, building the tension inside her with maddening precision.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
Her eyes snapped open, meeting his.
"I want to watch you come apart." His fingers moved faster, more insistent. "I want to see your face when you finally let go. When you stop fighting and just feel."
She shattered, her orgasm ripping through her, her cries echoing in the room, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.
He held her through it. His hands were firm, his mouth gentle. His fingers soothed the raw edges of her release, and as her tremors faded, his lips brushed hers and she could see how his eyes darkened with desire.
“That,” he murmured, his thumb stroking her cheek, his voice low and husky, “was only the beginning.”
And as his lips descended once more, capturing hers in a kiss that was both tender and demanding, she wondered what other pleasures he had in store. Her heart raced with anticipation.
His hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer, his body pressing against hers, his hardness a promise against her thigh, and she knew this was just the first chapter in a story that would leave her breathless, craving more.
"What about you?" she asked, her hand moving toward the fall of his breeches.
He caught her wrist, bringing it to his lips. "Tonight was about you. About showing you what this could be between us."
"But you didn't—"
"I know." His smile was strained. "And I'm going to pay for it later. But I meant what I said, Isobel. I want you to choose this. All of it. When you're ready. Not because you feel obligated or vulnerable."
She studied his face, seeing the cost of his restraint in the tension around his eyes, the rigid set of his jaw. He was giving her control. Truly giving it, not as a game or a ploy, but as a gift.
"You're really quite remarkable," she whispered.
"I'm really quite desperate," he corrected. "But I'll survive. Probably."
She laughed, the sound breathless and wondering. "Stay."
"What?"
"Stay with me tonight. Just... hold me. Please."
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, hope, tenderness. "Are you certain?"
"Yes." She nestled closer, resting her head against his chest, listening to the rapid thunder of his heart. "I'm certain."
His arms tightened around her, one hand stroking through her damp hair. "Then I'm yours for as long as you'll have me, wild cat."
They lay like that in the candlelight, wrapped in each other's arms, the silence between them now comfortable instead of tense.
And as she drifted off to sleep in his arms, Isobel realized something that should have terrified her but somehow didn't:
She was falling in love with her husband.
And maybe, just maybe, that wasn't such a frightening thing after all.