Good God, yes. Though he could argue she was brave. What she had endured yesterday, only to calmly walk herself home in the January cold…that was true courage.
Before he could voice his approval of such a plan, she replaced her finger with her mouth. All further thought ended.
Everything was Isabella.
His Isabella.
Lord help them both.
Lord help her, she was kissing the Duke of Westmorland. Kissing Benedict. She had started this. Alone. But she was not alone in participating. From the moment her lips settled upon his, he had responded. Somehow, her arms had looped around his neck. His were wrapped around the small of her back, his big hands flattened on the curve, holding her to him tightly.
But aside from the way he kept her anchored to him, he seemed content to allow her to control the moment. So control it she did, without a thought for what would happen should they be interrupted once more. Without a hint of regret. Because kissing him was bliss. Angling her lips over his, taking his succulent lower lip in her teeth and nipping him there, kissing the corners of his mouth, filled her with a heady sense of power.
She wanted more. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips and slid inside the velvety heat. He tasted of the sweetness of his breakfast tea. Sugar and mystery and Benedict. Darkness, too. Desire. The forbidden.
He was a duke.
She was common.
None of that mattered when he groaned, his restraint at last collapsing under the brunt of her hunger for him. He kissed her back, sucking her tongue. He clasped her face in a gentle hold, consuming her as if she were a delicacy. As if he were ravenous for her.
And perhaps he was. God knew she felt the same for him. She could not get enough of this man, no matter how hard she tried. The same pulsing ache throbbed to life between her thighs. She remembered him touching her there, the way he had stroked her until she had exploded.
She wanted that again, only this time she wanted…more. She was not entirely certain what that entailed. Her mother had explained to Isabella what she could expect from the marriage bed. Still, the pallid description left her with a painful dearth of knowledge. It had never bothered her before, for she had been content with her lot in life as she had perceived it.
She had been content with her school. Content to remain alone. Content to be an independent woman. Until the Duke of Westmorland had somehow found his way into her heart.
Into her heart?
She jerked her head back, ending the kiss as the realization slammed into her. Their gazes met, her lips stinging from the ferocity of his kiss, and she knew in that moment that she loved him. Somehow, against all reason and logic, she had fallen in love with the Duke of Westmorland.
How horrible.
How wonderful.
How terrifying.
“Isabella?” he rasped, cupping her face. His gaze devoured her in the same way his lips had.
Not enough. She was insatiable for him. It seemed that something inside her had shifted. Perhaps it had been the conversation between them, his frank admiration of her school. Mayhap it had been the way he tended to her in the bath. Or the way he had kissed her just now.
Or her love for him.
Whatever the reason, she needed more. She could not stop here, not with this.
“No more talking,” she ordered him, and then she tugged his head back down to hers.
This kiss was impatient. It was ravenous. His hands found her waist, and he lifted her from the floor. Without breaking the seal of their mouths, he walked them backward, to his desk. She told herself she should stop him. But she wanted him too much.
He held her to him, kissing her voraciously, feasting on her lips, as he waved one arm behind her. The sound of papers and books fluttering and thumping to the floor reached her. It was the orangery, redux. But this time was different. This time, she could not blame her weakness on the magic of the night or the spell of the moonlight seeping through the windows overhead or the surprise of colliding with him where she had not expected him to be.
This time, there were no excuses. There was only want. Need. Desire.
This time, she was not going to stop.
The surface of the desk was hard, crushing the bulk of her skirts and underpinnings into her, but she gave it little heed when his hands made their way beneath her layers. His warm, knowing hands stroked up her legs, urging them apart. She opened for him, sucking his tongue into her mouth as he had done to her.
Need thundered through her, pounding between her thighs. Every part of her was swollen, aching. Wanting him. Later, she would wonder how she had lost herself so thoroughly. She would ask herself how she had gone from calmly typewriting to spreading her legs while the Duke of Westmorland’s fingers trailed up her inner thighs.
Still, he needed to know something.
She broke the kiss, her breaths ragged, her heart pounding. “I will not be your mistress.”
This was…she did not know what it was. All she knew was that she wanted it, and him, quite desperately.
“I do not give a damn about that.” His gaze was almost obsidian. It was dark and stormy, scorching her. “All I want is you.”
“Then have me,” she told him.
On a growl, his lips claimed hers. But only for a moment. He ended the kiss abruptly, before sinking to his knees on the carpet before her. She frowned down at him, heart beating against her breast like the wings of a dove as it took frantic flight. He lifted the hem of her skirts to her waist, exposing her to him. She was nothing but boots, drawers, and stockings.
“You are a goddess,” he said roughly. “Hold
