She reached for another letter, this one shorter, more desperate, its ink uneven as though written in haste.
Sir,
You must cease this at once. You have no understanding of what it is you ask, and if you persist, you risk unleashing something neither of us can hope to control.
I will not grant you access to her. You will not have her.
Do I make myself understood?
Thomas Barrett
* * *
Her hand fell to her lap, her pulse thrummed, her breathing uneven. You will not have her. The words clanged in her mind like hammer blows.
The meaning was clear, sharp as broken glass. It wasn’t her father’s skills or knowledge that Rhys Caradoc had wanted. It was her.
Papa had been afraid, not for himself, but for her.
A draft threaded icy fingers under her collar. She tucked her chin and held still until the shiver passed, then she sank down onto the chair, confusion and dismay rolling through her. But layered beneath those emotions was something else, something raw and angry.
What did Rhys Caradoc want with her, and why had it frightened Papa so? Did it have something to do with Mr. Caradoc’s time at St. Jude’s, or the reason he had been treated there?
But then why had Papa claimed she was unwell?
The instinct to flee, to run from this room, this house, rose sharp and hot.
She surged to her feet once more, a thousand thoughts whirling, colliding. Answers. She needed answers, and the man who held them wore a mask of civility.
As if her thoughts had conjured him, the deep timbre of Mr. Caradoc’s voice resonated from the doorway, wrapping around her, silk and velvet. “Miss Barrett.”
Isabella froze, her grip tightening on the letter in her hand.
Rhys Caradoc stood framed in the doorway, impeccably dressed, coat buttoned, cravat secured, waistcoat crisp, one hand braced against the carved wood. He looked every inch the gentleman he was supposed to be.
“Forgive me,” he said after a brief pause, his voice soft and low. “For my inappropriate lack of attire last night.”
She blinked, startled by his apology. “You needn’t?—”
“I must,” he interrupted gently. “It was unforgivably improper.”
His words brought the image of their encounter to the forefront of her thoughts. The hard planes of his naked chest and shoulders, painted silver in the moonlight. The trail of dark hair bisecting the ridges of his abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his breeches. The way his hair had fallen loose around his face, framing those sharp cheekbones and that mouth…severe, full, sensual. She had wanted to press her mouth against his throat, feel the thud of his pulse beneath her lips, taste his skin beneath her tongue.
Heat washed her cheeks. Something about Rhys Caradoc made her think things, want things, she had never wanted before.
As if something in her expression betrayed her inner secrets, his attention sharpened, his gaze flicking to her lips then back to her eyes. The air between them seemed to crackle, charged and electric. For one raw, unguarded moment, his expression was not that of a gentleman, but of…something else. Something hungry.
Isabella wet her lips, snared in his silver gaze. Heat coiled low in her belly, her pulse fluttery and uneven. It was inappropriate, even indecent, and yet she couldn’t stop herself.
His gaze pinned her, and she was certain, absolutely certain, that he knew what she felt.
She hated that he knew. Hated that she wanted him to.
Chapter Ten
Rhys took a step closer.
The pulse at Isabella’s throat fluttered against her skin.
