“Benedict,” he corrected her, drawing her more firmly against him. Although he was exhausted to his soul and wading in his own self-hatred, his need for her had never diminished. He was hard as a marble bust.
He ground himself against her, his cockstand pressing into the softness of her belly. Her maidenly dressing gown and night rail did nothing to hide just how much he longed to be inside her. She had been so tight, so wet. Her heat had been perfection. She had been everything he had imagined she would be so many nights as he took himself in hand. Only, she had been more.
Her eyes were luminous now, the jet discs of her pupils wide and dilated with the evidence of her own desire. She could deny him, but she could not hide the way she wanted him.
“This madness cannot continue,” she whispered.
But as she spoke, her hands were traveling over his chest. She was caressing him through his shirt, reminding him that he, too, had been stripped of his civility. He was clad in his shirtsleeves and trousers.
“Walk away from me, then,” he dared, knowing full well she would not. “Go, Isabella. Run. Flee this library and me, and never look back.”
A frustrated cry tore from her, and she bit her lower lip once more in an action he was coming to recognize betrayed her inner turmoil. “Why do you do this to me?”
“Because I want to make you my wife.” That was the easy explanation. The finite one. The real explanation was far more difficult to decipher, rather like Egyptian hieroglyphics. But this one would have to do.
She plumbed his gaze with hers, seeking something—answers, he supposed. “I will not be your wife out of duty or guilt.”
“Then be my wife because I want you more than I want my next breath.” His hands moved with a life of their own, caressing the fragile strength of her neck, his fingers caressing her nape, plunging into her chignon. He wanted to muss her perfection. To take down her hair and her resistance as one. “Because you are the only person in my life I cannot fathom living without, aside from Callie. Because I am yours, and you are mine, but you are too bloody stubborn to admit it.”
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You speak such pretty poetry. But what will you say when you tire of me? When you are shunned for marrying a woman so far beneath you?”
If she believed he would ever grow to resent her, she did not know him at all.
“I am not a poet,” he told her, spreading his fingers through the heavy, silken threads of her hair. Pins scattered to the floor with dull little thumps. “I am a man. Not even a duke. I was never meant to be Westmorland. This library, this house, the title—it was meant to be my brother’s. Never mine. I hated the day I had to take up his burdens.”
She stilled, her expression questioning.
He realized it was the first time he had ever mentioned Alfred to her. His beloved brother was not a subject he discussed with anyone save Callie.
Until now.
“You and Callie had a brother?” she asked softly, her hand coming up to cradle his cheek in a touch so tender, he could have wept.
But he kept his composure by the barest measures. “We did. He died a year ago, quite unexpectedly. So you see? I was never meant to be duke. You cannot hold it against me.”
“You are a duke’s son, a duke’s brother, and now a duke yourself.” Her thumb stroked his cheek. “I am sorry, Benedict.”
At last, his raw grief won him her use of his given name. It was a hollow victory.
“I do not want your pity, my love, but your understanding,” he bit out. “Along with your promise to become my wife.”
She froze. “You have my understanding, but I cannot make you a promise I cannot keep.”
“Keep it then,” he gritted.
“Benedict, you—”
“Enough,” he interrupted, and then the frayed rein he had kept upon his control snapped.
He covered her lips with his. He kissed her with everything in him. All the love, the need, the desire, the frantic, cursed want. She had him broken apart, like a ship beating upon rocky shoals in a violent storm. She decimated him.
She kissed him back, her mouth moving with the same urgent hunger she had always shown him, kissed him so sweetly and desperately. With her lips, she saved him. With her kiss, she gave him hope again.
Simple kisses between them were no longer enough. Not after what had happened that morning. He licked into her mouth. She tasted of wine and Isabella, and nothing had ever been more delicious. Her tongue writhed against his, stroking boldly. A delicious sound of surrender tore from her throat.
Yes. She could deny him all she wanted. She could say she would not marry him. She could call him a duke and herself a mere proprietress of a lady’s typewriting school all she wished. But this kiss made a lie of all her words.
Her every protestation fell at their feet like dust motes.
Visible in sunlight. Gone with the wave of a hand.
The sun had set. The moon was high over London. Darkness blanketed the city. And tonight, he would have her in his bed. It would be the first of many such nights, he vowed.
He broke the kiss, breathing harshly as he plucked the final pin from her hair. Freed from her ruthless chignon, her hair cascaded over her shoulders and down her back like liquid gold. Her eyes were limpid pools of fire.
“Come with me.” The demand emerged from him. Not a question. Not
