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His broad hands no longer requested but took.
And Isabelle adored it all, matched his caresses with shy ones of her own, till he groaned his pleasure and she repeated them.
Abruptly, she was swung around, her spine meeting the panelled wall, and she was unsure why until he pressed his muscled frame as though he required more pressure, could not get close enough to her…
Now the assault came not from just his ravishing lips, or from his hands which grasped her face, securing her for his kiss, but his hips which recklessly thrust.
She knew he was heavily aroused, had read many a novel for knowledge, but even the most prurient tale failed to convey the sheer elation that surged.
Real, indulgent and utterly wicked.
“Oh, how I want you, Isabelle.” His voice was hoarse against her neck, teeth grazing a place that surely did not exist by day.
She plunged her fingers to his hair, black curls threading, and her own hips involuntarily bucked against his as he sucked on the sensitive skin of her throat, stubble unforgiving and igniting scandalous sparks. He hoisted her, one palm beneath her derrière and his arousal butted against her.
This was no longer a kiss but raw desire unleashed: the shoulder of her frock was yanked down, lips to her collarbone. She stabbed her hand between the laces of his shirt, felt the crisp hairs that adorned his chest and–
A metallic grating sound.
Muted, but it penetrated her skull and would not leave.
A clank…
“Morgan!” she gasped.
With a growl, the duke wrenched back. “You think I’m the butler?”
The colouration to his features matched the Llanedwyn coat of arms – a crimson flush upon his cheeks, eyes endlessly black. They scorched in anger and need, a limitless burning.
And abruptly the entire day overwhelmed her – that grim storeroom below the tower, her foolish weakness, Mrs Pugh’s brandy-infused chocolate, the current shock in his gaze, this forbidden passion…
Isabelle brought a hand to his lips. “No, of course not. But that’s…” The noise had brought her back to her senses – such as they were. It was only meant to be a kiss.
She should leave.
Life’s clock had resumed.
“Morgan is setting the gate in place. I-I must…retire abed, Your Grace.”
The duke’s throat bobbed and his eyes widened, doubtless examining the dishevelment caused by his roving fingers.
His ruddy flush expanded. “Hell, I should not have… I claimed to only want… But I would have…”
That last sentence fragment was the one Isabelle would’ve most liked to hear the end of.
No doubt aware he was supporting her by the derrière, the duke let her toes fall to the floor.
“Beg pardon,” he muttered, hands tidying her bodice and attempting to push curls into their plait – a fruitless endeavour yet she welcomed it, savoured the sensation of being fussed over for once, till he claimed her wrist and kissed the pounding pulse. “Thank you. Thank you for… My mood was sombre tonight and you fetched light into it with your empathy and touch…Miss Beaujeu.”
She nodded. Knew tonight was at an end for Isabelle.
The clock chimed midnight.
“Good night, Your Grace.”
“Good night, Miss Beaujeu.”
He kissed her hand once more and she twisted away on legs that appeared to be filled with English custard.
