Chapter 17
Isabella lost all track of time. The warmth of Major Reynolds’ body, the strength of his arms, the urgency of his mouth, the sheer magic of kissing him, of being held by him, drove all thought from her mind.
Heat rose in her until she burned with it. She ached for more. This—his mouth on hers, his arms around her—wasn’t enough. She broke their kiss. “Nicholas...”
He rested his cheek against her temple. His breath was ragged. “What?”
A sound at the door made them break apart.
“Down!” The major whispered fiercely, pushing her behind a winged armchair.
Isabella crouched as the door opened. She pressed her forehead against the cool leather and closed her eyes. Her heart beat rapidly. If we’re discovered...
Major Reynolds knelt alongside her. His arm came around her shoulders, pulling her close. She felt the pressure of his thigh against hers.
The door shut with a snick. There was a moment of silence, when she strained to hear past the beating of her heart, and then she heard a man’s low voice and an answering feminine whisper.
The minutes passed slowly. She leaned into the major’s warmth, her eyes closed, trying not to listen to the giggles and low murmurs. Is that what we sounded like?
No. She and Major Reynolds had kissed silently. There’d been no coquetry between them, no teasing, no muffled laughter.
Because ours isn’t a flirtation. It was something much more intense, exhilarating beyond anything she had ever imagined—and quite terrifying.
I could lose myself in him.
She knelt with her head bowed and her eyes closed while the lovers kissed, while they murmured farewells, while the door opened again and then shut.
Major Reynolds’ arm tightened briefly around her, and then he released her. Isabella opened her eyes and looked at him. His face was in shadow, the scar hidden. Her heart clenched in her chest. I love you.
“I apologize,” the major said. “This was not a good idea.”
Isabella shook her head mutely.
Major Reynolds was silent a moment, looking at her, his eyes a dark gleam. He uttered a shaky laugh. “My lady, don’t look at me like that, or I’ll have to kiss you again.”
Then kiss me.
He sat very still, staring at her, and then reached for her, pulling her towards him. His mouth was hot and hungry.
Isabella closed her eyes and kissed him back fiercely. I love you.
The rows of books with their leather spines, the carpet beneath her knees, the armchair casting its shadow over them, ceased to exist. Her awareness narrowed to the major’s mouth, to the grip of his hands. She was drowning in sensation, drowning in him, in his scent, his taste, his heat, in the sound of his breathing, the sound of his heartbeat.
This time it was Major Reynolds who broke their kiss. He pulled back, putting distance between them. His face was flushed, his eyes so dark they looked black. His breath was ragged, panting.
He stared at her for a long moment, and then rubbed his hands over his face. He leaned his head back against the armchair and squeezed his eyes shut. “This is madness. We’re insane.”
“Yes.”
He turned his head to look at her. “If we’re discovered...”
“It would be a scandal,” Isabella said quietly. She clasped her hands in her lap. “A scandal of such proportions that—”
“We’d have to marry.” His words were as quiet as her own had been. His eyes held hers, his stare intense, as if he looked inside her. He wasn’t offering, she knew he wasn’t offering, and yet, dear God, she was mad enough to want him to.
“I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry.” The words blurted from her. “Am I?”
She knew she wasn’t; he’d told her precisely what he wanted—youth, and a yielding nature. And I have neither of those.
Isabella felt a stab of jealousy for Clarissa Whedon, as sudden and intense as it was shameful. She looked down again, at her lap, at the crumpled fabric of her gown, at her hands clasped tightly together. Tell me I’m not what you want.
“I . . . uh—”
The door to the library opened again.
Major Reynolds ducked his head. He slid further back behind the armchair and reached for her, pulling her close, shielding her.
Footsteps entered the room. She heard the stealthy clink of decanters, furtive male voices, laughter. Servants stealing a little brandy.
The servants were quicker than the lovers had been. Barely two minutes passed, while she leaned into the major’s warmth and listened to his heartbeat.
More laughter came, then the sound of the door opening and closing. They were alone again.
Major Reynolds released her. He stood.
Answer my question, Major. Am I someone you could marry?
The major held out his hand. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
She let him pull her to her feet. “Nicholas—”
He tightened his grip on her hand and drew her across the library. His mouth was grim. “This was one of my more stupid ideas.”
He released her, opened the door a few inches, and glanced out. “It’s clear.”
“Nicholas . . .”
Major Reynolds reached out to touch her cheek, freezing the words on her tongue. His mouth twisted wryly. “We must stop this,” he said, as his gloved thumb moved across her skin, stroking, caressing.
Stop it?
His head dipped, his lips touched hers, and then he glanced out the door again and opened it more widely. “You first,” he said. “I’ll wait a few minutes.”
Isabella hesitated. You haven’t answered my question.
“Quickly,” the major said.
The urgency in his low voice made her obey. She slipped through the opening.
The door closed behind her.
Isabella stood for a moment in the corridor. Absurdly, she wanted to cry. She turned away from the ballroom, heading for the ladies’ dressing room.
Damn you, Major Reynolds. You didn’t answer my question.
* * *
Nicholas collected his hat and walked down the steps to the street. He stood for a moment in the light of the flambeaux. He’d kissed Lady Isabella in the library. He winced, disgusted by the depth of his stupidity. I should have known better than to take such a risk. He did know better.
Except that when it came to Lady Isabella, it appeared that he didn’t.
I look at her and my wits dribble out my ears,he thought sourly, hunching his shoulders against the cold night air and beginning to stride in the direction of Albemarle Street. The sound of his footsteps echoed flatly, thrown back at him by the tall stone fa?ades of the houses.
He shook his head. No more. No more risks. No more kisses at balls. No more kisses at the opera.
At the opera.
He winced again in memory. He’d kissed Isabella at the opera of all places, in the back of a box, where anybody could have walked in and seen them. “I’m mad,” he muttered. “Mad!”
A pedestrian, approaching, shied away, giving him a wide berth.
Nicholas scowled at him.
I’m a fool. A smitten, besotted fool, taking appalling risks for a few kisses, a few seconds holding her.
The scowl faded as he recalled the softness of Isabella’s lips, the warmth of her mouth. Memory looped through his head: the leather-and-paper scent of the library, the dark shadows, the glimmer of diamonds in her hair, the way her lips had parted for him.
Nicholas turned into Albemarle Street. He halted outside his house and closed his eyes a moment, savoring the memory of Lady Isabella’s kiss and the wash of heat that came with it. Kiss me, he’d said. And she had.
And then, afterwards, she had said, I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
Nicholas’s eyes came open.
He stood for a moment, frowning, and then he climbed the steps slowly and let himself into the house. It was silent inside; he’d told the servants not to wait up for him. He stood for a moment in the dimness of the entrance hall. The silence and the shadows suited his mood.
I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
Nicholas grunted. Did she expect an answer?
He lit a candle from the lamp in the hall and climbed the stairs, shielding the flame with his hand. In his bedchamber he shrugged out of his coat and sat down to remove his shoes. Her question ran in his head, endlessly repeating itself as he untied his neckcloth and pulled his shirt over his head. I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
How the hell was he supposed to answer a question like that?
He fell asleep to the sound of her voice and woke several hours later with her question still turning in his head. I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
Nicholas stared up into the darkness. Clarissa Whedon was the bride he wanted. He could mold her into the perfect wife.
Lady Isabella was merely...
Epiphany came then, so bright that it seemed to light up the room. The flash of it seared across his retinas, making him blink. Isabella Knox was merely perfect.
The perfect friend, the perfect lover, the perfect wife.
I’ve been so blind.
Nicholas sat up abruptly and threw back the covers. He strode across to the window and jerked the curtains back. Moonlight streamed in.
The answer to her question was Yes.
He stared down at the empty street, frowning at the pool of light cast by the gas lamp. What made him think she’d say Yes if he asked her? Isabella Knox didn’t want to marry; she had told him why, quite plainly, at the Worthingtons’ masked ball. She had turned down many offers, from men far wealthier and more highly born than he was. Why would she choose to marry a scarred ex-soldier with a modest fortune?
Nicholas chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. Her question turned in his mind. I’m not the sort of woman you’d like to marry. Am I?
Why had she asked it? Did it mean what he thought it did? And what would Lady Isabella’s answer be if he asked her that same question? Am I the sort of man you’d want to marry?
* * *
Nicholas woke to sunlight slanting in through the window—and with the sunlight, doubts. Was Isabella Knox really perfect? She was a Society lady, a darling of the ton. She enjoyed the whirl of the Season. Would she be happy on a country estate with no more excitement than being a wife and mother?
It seemed extremely unlikely.
Nicholas climbed out of bed and walked over to the window. He stared out at Albemarle Street, at the tall houses and the blank windows, the gray stone, the steep roofs, the coalsmoke smeared across the sky. Noises drifted up to him: the rattle of a hackney’s wheels, the shrill shout of a crossing-sweeper.
We could live here, in London.
His reaction was deep and instinctive: a shudder, a No in his chest. He wanted expanses of blue sky, he wanted hills and valleys, meadows and woods. He wanted to inhale air that was rich with the scents of the countryside. He wanted his children to grow up climbing trees and fishing in creeks. He wanted them to know the smell of grass, of leaf mold, of hay drying in the sun.
Nicholas turned away from the window. If I could have Isabella Knox, how much would I have to give up?
* * *
Major Reynolds was frowning when Isabella stopped the phaeton for him that afternoon. The frown faded when he saw her, but his expression was unsmiling and almost stern as he stepped up into the carriage.
“Major,” she said, in greeting. “How are you?”
“Very well.” But the faint crease between his eyebrows and the set of his mouth belied the words.
Isabella set the horses in motion and wondered for what must be the hundredth time today how to get him to answer her question.
Should she be blunt? Major, do you remember I asked you a question last night? I’d like to know the answer.
Or should she try to turn it into a joke? You never answered my question last night, Major. And then a little laugh. I’m curious as to your answer.
She glanced sideways at him. He was patting Rufus.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, just ask him!
Major Reynolds looked up and met her eyes. The frown still sat on his brow. “Lady Isabella,” he said abruptly. “You enjoy town life.”
Isabella blinked. “Yes. I do.”
“Would you ever consider living in the countryside?”
Isabella blinked again. She transferred her attention to the horses. What an odd question. “The countryside? Of course!”
“But . . . you said that you like being in London, that you enjoy the Season.”
“I do. But if you recall, Major, what I said was that I dislike being idle. One can be busy equally well in the country as in town.” She glanced at him. His brow was no longer creased in a frown. If anything, he looked slightly taken aback. “I spend quite half the year in the country, you know.”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t know.” His fingers rubbed Rufus’s head. “Ah... you enjoy it?”
“Yes.” A barouche had halted by the side of the drive. Isabella guided her team neatly between it and the curricle coming in the opposite direction. “Very much. My eldest brother, Julian, lives in Derbyshire. I visit him often. In fact I’ve only just returned.” And on her journey home, she had encountered Harriet Durham. Isabella bit her lip. She glanced at Major Reynolds. Should I tell him now?
No. Privacy would be best for that disclosure. To tell him now, under the gaze of the ton, would be the height of folly.
Isabella smiled brightly. “My other brother has a home in Kent, and of my sisters, one lives in Suffolk and the other in Somerset. You may believe that I spend a lot of time in the country.”
“Somerset?” Major Reynolds said, a note of interest in his voice. “My estate is in Devonshire.”
“Not far from my sister Amabel, then.”
“No.” His gaze was intent. He seemed on the verge of saying more.
Isabella glanced ahead. The landaulet approaching was a familiar one. “Lady Jersey.”
An expression of frustration crossed Major Reynolds’ face. He shifted slightly, so that they weren’t sitting quite so closely together.
Lady Jersey had a lot—and very little—to say, as was her custom. It was quite ten minutes before they were able to part from her.
Isabella glanced at Major Reynolds. The polite smile he’d favored Lady Jersey with was gone. In its place was a small frown.
“Major—”
“Lady Isabella—”
Major Reynolds opened his hand. “After you.”
“Will you tell me about your estate?”
The frown vanished from his brow. His eyes seemed to brighten with pleasure. “It’s called Elmwood,” he said, reaching down to pat Rufus. “I had it from my maternal grandparents. It’s not large, but it has everything one could want.”
Isabella drove slowly, nodding and bowing to acquaintances, enjoying the timbre of Major Reynolds’ voice, the enthusiasm with which he described Elmwood. He loved his estate, that was very clear. She listened to his description of a lake and woods, the coastal cliffs, the salt tang of the breeze, hayricks in rolling fields, the red brick Jacobean house with its high ceilings and light-filled rooms. I could be happy there.
“It sounds very beautiful.”
“It is. I hope . . . I hope my wife will love it as much as I do.”
“How could she not?” Isabella said lightly. “Your wife will be very happy.”
“I should try to be a good husband.” His voice was diffident, and when she glanced at him she saw that he was looking at Rufus, not at her. “To, er... not treat my wife as if I own her.” Major Reynolds’ gaze lifted. His eyes met hers.
The intensity of his stare was unnerving. Is there more to this conversation than I realize?
Isabella moistened her lips and glanced ahead. Her groom stood beside the driveway. She drew the horses to a halt several yards distant from him. “Major Reynolds,” she said, fingering the reins. “You are, by your own confession, an autocrat.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “I am?”
“Yes. At the Worthingtons’ masked ball you said—”
“Ah . . .” Major Reynolds grinned. “So I did.” As he looked at her, his grin slowly faded. His eyes were green and very intense. “I was joking. My wife will be free to be herself.”
“But . . . you said that you would mold her—”
“I’ve changed my mind.”
Is he saying what I think he is?
Isabella swallowed. “Major Reynolds ...Nicholas ... last night...”
She glanced down. Her groom was standing beside the phaeton.
“Yes,” Major Reynolds said.
Her eyes flew to his. “Yes?”
“The answer to your question.” Major Reynolds looked down at the groom, and then back at her. “I have a question for you, too, but now is neither the time nor the place.”
Isabella clutched the reins more tightly. Her heart began to beat loudly in her chest.
“Tonight I dine with Colonel Durham.” The major grimaced briefly. “Tomorrow... may I call on you?”
Isabella nodded, unable to speak.
“Two o’clock?”
She nodded again.
Major Reynolds made a slight movement, as if to lean over and kiss her, caught himself, nodded briefly to her, and descended.
Isabella watched him walk away. She felt dizzy, breathless, euphoric.
The groom climbed up into the phaeton and settled himself in the place Major Reynolds had just vacated.
“You drive, Cobb,” Isabella said, handing him the reins. “I’m feeling...” Quite light-headed. “A little faint.”
She sat back in the seat and clasped her hands tightly together. Nicholas said yes.
But mingled with the euphoria and the dizzy breathlessness was dread. Tomorrow... tomorrow she had to tell him about Harriet.