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“So do I. It affects me so.”
And Miss Beaujeu affected him so.
He knew he should pull away, be the honourable man and bid his adieu.
But…
She made him whole this night. Her company and her compassion. She understood him, the true him, and he felt an invisible chain linking them – their mutual fervour for the rhapsodies of poets and this arc of awareness that grew evermore.
To divulge such feelings was foremost in his mind but…not uppermost.
He slid an arm to her waist, the other to the back of her head.
“I want to kiss you, Miss Beaujeu.” His declaration did not cause a startle. “Will you allow me?” he nevertheless asked.
A curve rippled her lips. “So English. So polite.”
“But I’m Welsh. Should I demand then? Take what I desire?” He shook his head. “No. So perhaps… Perhaps I ought to tell you precisely what I want to do at this moment, allow you the chance to leave.” His expression fell serious so she would believe him. “Leave this study and I vow to never again make an untoward advance…Isabelle.”
Which did cause a startle and her gaze flitted up. “How did you…”
He smiled and inched nearer. Her breast swelled. “I want to touch you, Isabelle.” His palm caressed her nape. “I want every fingerbreadth of your body to press against mine. I want to feel your smoothness and breathe in your perfume. I want to kiss you – easy and idle. Untamed and fierce.” He halted; she remained, eyes melting to a liquid silver.
Rhys was becoming aware that Miss Beaujeu may be the one he’d yearned for… Yet a feeling now surged that should he divulge it too soon, be too presumptuous, his most principled governess might slip from his grasp and vanish forever.
So instead his hand tangled in her hair as her breasts met his chest. “I want to…know the true you,” he whispered.
The gossamer wingsof that angel on Isabelle’s right shoulder thrashed in fury as the duke listed his wanton wants, but for once, Isabelle refused to be swayed, declined to leave.
For so long she’d had to act the strong, practical and sombre governess, but… The duke spoke to her as an equal and treated her as though she was precious and cherished.
This afternoon at the tower, she had confined her true longing of… Take me from here. Carry me. Allow me to rest against someone stronger.
Now, she released that longing. Would let his kiss carry her. Permit his arms to hold her, allow herself to rest against him.
She would pause life’s clock.
Just for a moment…
His lips brushed.
Back and forth. Beguiling and mellow and supple and sinful.
The angel admonished one last time, prattling on about all those years of flawless reputation, but instead of dissuading Isabelle from this path of desire, it compelled her to be reckless. Yes, she had been all that was placid and perfect for so long, but she was tired. Tired of suppressing her accent, her upbringing, her nature, her temper, her very self.
So, she returned the duke’s kiss.
Balsamic sandalwood with a hint of rich brandy packed her senses and Isabelle chased his lips, pressed her body against him as he’d wanted.
And then the kiss wasn’t so mellow.
The duke’s grip tightened in her hair and the hand at her waist wrenched her yet closer, forcing Isabelle to clutch at his linen shirt, her palm to curl against his upper arm, her nails to dig into his skin.
A thick growl caused a shudder to course, and she parted her lips to his insistent mouth, felt the slip of his tongue.
Abandoning her waist, his hand swept lower, and she gasped as he palmed her buttock, thrusting her near till she could feel each shifting sinew.
His kiss now bordered on savagery, demanding a response.
