He toyed with the high neck of her gown as he spoke, his fingers grazing over her bare skin just above it. She shivered. But she was not cold. The ache between her legs returned, and her nipples were hard beneath her corset. Her body was a traitor. Fortunately, her mind was not.
“You know as well as I that a duchess cannot be the proprietress of a Ladies’ Typewriting School.” She swallowed as his fingertips danced over her skin, undoubtedly finding her racing pulse.
Her heart beat so fast.
His delicious scent filled her senses.
His strength and heat burned into her body.
And her body…well, in return, it burned for his.
“The Duchess of Westmorland can be whatever she wishes,” he said softly.
She wanted to believe him, fool that she was. But she had learned her lesson long ago. “My mother’s family largely disowned her when she married my father. If I were to marry you, I would be a social outcast from the onset because of who I am. Imagine the scandal of a duchess running a school.”
“There have been worse scandals.”
“You are not taking this seriously,” she accused, at sixes and sevens.
“I have never been more serious about anything in my bloody life, woman,” he rasped, his voice low. “There are dynamitards running about London, and I am here, with you, when I am needed in a dozen different places.”
“Why?” The whispered question left her before she could rescind it.
His brow furrowed. “Why am I serious about marrying you? Or why am I here with you when I have a mountain of duties awaiting me?”
“Neither of those.” She knew she should stop touching his jaw, but she could not seem to refrain from caressing him there, the sharp, tense edge where he held all his stress. “Why do you want to marry me, truly, if not because of some sense of guilt or obligation?”
He hesitated, seeming to struggle inwardly. “Because I have never felt for another woman the way I feel for you. I will be honest, Isabella. It frightens the hell out of me. God knows I never expected to feel this way about anyone, let alone you. My parents had a loveless match. They grew to hate each other. I do not want that for myself. I do not want a passionless, emotionless union.”
He had feelings for her. Her stupid heart swelled with hope, although he had said nothing of love. And of course he would not have.
“You…” She struggled to maintain her composure. Her resistance was dissipating fast. “I still do not understand.”
“Isabella.” He kissed her forehead, her nose, the corners of her lips. “Marry me.”
She should tell him no.
Common sense dictated her refusal.
She relished her independence. She had no wish to be a duchess. She did not care for society.
He kissed her cheek. Her ear. “Say yes.”
“No,” she whispered.
He bit her earlobe. “Stop being so bloody stubborn. There is nowhere you can go that I shall not follow. You were made for me, and you know it.”
His words made molten warmth roll through her, pooling at her core. She was made for him. Weak for him. Wild for him. Foolish for him.
“Benedict,” she protested as he licked the shell of her ear, then tongued the hollow behind it.
“Tell me you do not care for me,” he dared, kissing down her throat, all the way to the stiff, lace-trimmed collar of her gown. “Tell me you feel nothing when I touch you. When I kiss you.” Gently, he nipped the sensitive cords of her neck. “Tell me to go.”
She could. She should. It was one word.
Her head tipped back.
He dragged his lips across her skin as if he fashioned her a necklace of kisses. “Tell me you do not want me, sweetheart.”
She could not, and she knew it. Worse, he knew it as well.
She wrenched herself away from him, summoning all her will to do so. Her heart thumped in her breast, her breath ragged. Need coursed through her. All her good intentions had been cut to ribbons.
“I need time,” she told him. “Time to think.”
His lips tightened into a grim line. “Time.”
“Yes.” It was not the answer he wanted to hear. Nor was it the one she wished to give. If she had any strength at all, she would tell him no. She would put an end to this madness once and for all.
But something had changed between them. His concessions were not lost upon her. Still, she needed space to breathe, quiet to think. She needed to contemplate her next move very carefully in this chess game of her life.
“How long?” he bit out, his jaw tightening.
How long indeed?
“One week,” she said, thinking seven days surely ought to garner her enough space and distance. Enough room to make her decision without his maddening presence and delicious kisses to influence her.
“Too long,” he clipped flatly, his displeasure at her response apparent.
“Five days,” she relented.
He kissed her again. Long and slow and sweet. Unlike the urgent kisses he had given her earlier, this one was gentle. Tender. He fitted his lips between hers and sucked on her bottom lip.
Making a sound of frustration, she wrapped her arms around his neck, rising on her toes to kiss him more fully. Her breasts crushed into his chest, and even with the barrier of her corset’s stiff boning keeping her from the muscled walls she had melted into last night, it felt…right.
Wonderfully right.
He felt right, too.
Kissing him? Yes. Making love with him? Yes. Marrying him?
Yes, said her heart.
Hush, she told her heart.
She kissed him harder, taking out all the confusion swirling within her upon his lips. He did not seem to mind. His hands went to her waist, grasping her in a possessive grip, anchoring her to him. It was not enough. She traced the seam of his mouth with her tongue.
He opened for her on a groan, and she took advantage, sliding her tongue into his mouth. Which one of them was winning this
