She cried out, and he sealed his mouth over hers, silencing her with another kiss. His tongue was in her mouth. Another furious pump of his hips, and he groaned, stiffening beneath her touch. A hot spurt of warmth flooded her as she clamped on him, holding him. Her legs were locked around his waist, her arms around his neck. She never wanted to let him go.
He broke the kiss, caressing her cheek gently, his gaze searing hers. “Isabella, I—”
A knock at the study door ended whatever he had been about to say. “Your Grace?”
Reality came crashing down upon Isabella. She froze, aware of the precarious nature of her situation. She had just been deflowered by the Duke of Westmorland on his study desk in the midst of the morning. And now someone was at the door.
He slid from her body as if he had been caught committing a crime, tucking himself back into his trousers and fastening them. “What is it?” he asked curtly.
As if he had not just been inside her.
As if her world had not just forever changed.
Stunned, the mind-numbing pleasure vanquished by the interruption, she flipped down her skirts and shimmied from his desk. Good God, where were her drawers?
“An urgent message has arrived for Your Grace,” reported Young from the other side of the door. “It would seem there have been several explosions.”
“Bloody fucking hell,” Benedict growled, raking a hand through his hair as his gaze remained fastened upon Isabella. “Just a moment, Young.”
At last, she found her drawers, a bright reproach cast upon the dark wool of the Axminster. What had she been thinking?
“Isabella,” he said softly, his hand upon her shoulder as she bent to retrieve her drawers. “I must see to this. But we need to talk.”
She snatched up her drawers, stepping into them as if she were an automaton. “There is nothing to talk about,” she denied, her pride belatedly returning to her.
“There is everything to talk about,” he countered grimly. “I lost my head. I had no intention of… By God, I ought to be horsewhipped for this.”
She turned her back upon him as she lifted her cumbersome skirts to button the waistband of her drawers. Her modesty, like his obvious regrets over what they had just done, came too late. What had happened between them could not be undone.
“I lost my head as well,” she murmured. “Think nothing of it. You must go, see to your messenger.”
Reports of explosions could only mean one thing: the Fenian menace had struck again.
Hands clamped on her waist, spinning her about as her hems fluttered to the floor. His expression was grim, uncompromising. He was starkly beautiful, and she had never loved him more.
“I will return as soon as I am able, and we will discuss this,” he vowed.
“There is nothing to discuss.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “What happened was a mistake. It will not be repeated.”
For the sake of her heart, it could not be.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Like hell it will not be repeated. You are mine, Isabella Hilgrove.”
Yes, she was. Far more than he knew.
“I am mine,” she countered with a calm she did not feel. “You must go, Benedict.”
“Yes.” He kissed her again, swiftly, and she kissed him back, fool that she was for him. “But I will return, and when I do, we will talk.”
With that stern edict, he turned and strode from the study.
Chapter Fifteen
Benedict returned home far later than he had intended, nearing midnight.
He was weary to the bone after having spent the entire day caught up in investigations following bombings in the armory at the Tower of London and the House of Commons. The Fenians had brought their campaign of destruction to a whole new, devastating low.
Worse, he was likely to blame for it.
He had diverted a notable number of his agents and Scotland Yard detectives, tasking them with finding the men responsible for Isabella’s abduction. Innocents had been injured. The damage at Westminster was great—the Peers’ gallery had been decimated, great pieces of stone and wooden beams dislodged and blown apart. A fire had spread in the wake of the Tower of London bomb.
Only one suspect had been arrested, the man presumably responsible for the Tower bombing. The villains who had laid the bombs in the House of Commons and the Westminster crypt had seemingly slipped away. Also his fault.
His conscience was heavy as he made his way to his chamber. The lights had already been lowered for the evening, with only a footman still awake to greet him when he returned, but the darkness enrobing the halls fit his mood. Guilt threatened to eat him alive. Not only had he failed in his duty, but he had also taken Isabella’s maidenhead on the desk of his study and then promptly fled.
What must she think of him?
Christ, he scarcely knew what to think of himself.
She had never strayed far from his thoughts throughout the course of the day. With every moment, as he had coordinated between the Special League, Scotland Yard, and the Home Office, he had been contemplating what he would do.
The answer that came to him was always the same.
He was going to make Isabella Hilgrove his duchess.
Benedict crossed the threshold of his chamber, closing the door at his back. The lights were low in anticipation of his return. He stripped off his coat and waistcoat, deciding to forego ringing for his valet to assist him. After the day he had just endured, going from the bliss of making love to Isabella, straight to the fires of Hades as he scrambled to chase down leads and witnesses along with the team of London’s finest, he wanted to be alone.
He
