Chapter 16

CHAPTER 16

“Your posture is everything,” Arthur murmured as they entered the music room. “Sit straight, but keep your shoulders relaxed.”

Isolde settled onto the bench, acutely aware of his presence as he sat beside her. The narrow seat forced them to sit close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body and smell the traces of brandy and sandalwood that clung to his evening coat.

“What shall we play?” Her voice was steadier than she felt.

“Mozart, perhaps. Something simple to start.” His fingers demonstrated the melody, and Isolde held her breath at the grace of his movements. “Try it.”

She positioned her hands the same way, but the notes came out hesitant, discordant.

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. “I warned you I was barely proficient.”

“Here.” He moved behind her on the bench, his broad chest pressing against her back as his arms came around her. “Like this.”

His hands covered hers, his long fingers guiding hers over the keys. The melody emerged pure and sweet, though Isolde could barely concentrate on the music. Every breath she took was full of his scent, every slight movement drew him impossibly closer to her.

“Relax,” he whispered, his breath stirring the curls near her ear. “Let the music flow naturally.”

But how could she relax when his thumbs were drawing small circles on her wrists? When every note seemed to reverberate through both their bodies? When the heat of him surrounded her so completely?

Together they coaxed the melody from the keys, his strength gentled to match her lighter touch. The music swelled around them, filling the moonlit room with something that felt dangerously like magic.

As the final notes faded, a smile of genuine delight curved her lips. “That was beautiful.”

She turned her head to thank him properly, but the words died in her throat. His eyes had darkened to forest green, fixed on her face with an intensity that made her breath catch.

“You’re even more beautiful when you smile,” he murmured, one hand leaving the keys to trace her cheek. “Did you know that?”

“Arthur—”

But whatever protest she might have made was lost as his lips claimed hers. This kiss was different from the others—slower, deeper, more deliberate. His hands slid from her wrists to her waist, turning her fully toward him on the bench.

She should stop this. Should remember all the reasons why giving in to him was dangerous. But when his tongue traced the seam of her lips, asking for entry, she found herself yielding.

The throbbing in her sex grew as the kiss deepened. His fingers nimbly untied the top of her dress, exposing her breasts to the silvery moonlight.

His lips trailed down her neck until he reached her nipple. Slowly, his tongue flicked out, and her back arched as a delicate and sweet shiver coursed through her.

Isolde’s breath hitched as Arthur lifted the hem of her gown.

“W-Wha…” she mumbled incoherently.

Her hand instinctively moved to stop him, but he lifted his head from her breast, and the heat in his gaze stopped her protest. Instead, she found herself parting her thighs to allow him access to her sex.

His hands slid up her legs until they found the nest of curls that protected the center of her pleasure.

Finally, he touched her. The pleasure took her by surprise, making her jerk back.

“Relax,” Arthur said, his voice low. “Allow yourself to experience it.”

Isolde breathed out. He slid a finger inside her and stroked, causing her walls to clench as tendrils of joy danced through her.

She reached out and clutched his shoulders as her body began to move in rhythm with his touch. Her breathing quickened.

Isolde had never felt anything like this. All she knew was that she didn’t want it to end.

Arthur’s thumb stroked her sensitive bundle of nerves. A moan escaped her lips, and she tangled her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck.

She wanted more. She parted her legs further and leaned back against the keys.

There was only this. Him. She only could feel the sensations that his touch was coaxing.

He kissed her again as his fingers stroked her walls. When the rhythm increased to an almost unbearable beat, fire erupted inside of her. Her sex clenched around him as the pleasure washed over her like a wave, stealing her breath.

Even so, she wanted more. So much more.

When her fingers moved to the buttons on his waistcoat, he caught her wrists gently. “That’s enough for tonight.”

“But—”

“Enough.” His voice was rough, but he released her hands as if they had burned him. “Go to bed, Isolde.”

She stood on shaky legs, acutely aware of her disheveled state and burning cheeks.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go… this clinical dismissal after such intimacy. In her novels, lovers whispered sweet words to each other and held each other close—shared tender moments after an intimate encounter.

But this wasn’t a novel, was it? And Arthur wasn’t a romantic hero.

So she ran back to her chambers.

Martha was waiting in her chambers, her expression neutral as she helped Isolde out of her wrinkled gown. She made no mention of her mistress’s disheveled gown, her swollen lips, or her trembling hands.

“Shall I brush your hair, Your Grace?”

Isolde caught her reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair had escaped from its pins, and her eyes were too bright.

She looked exactly like what she was: a woman who’d just been thoroughly kissed and pleasured by her husband, then dismissed like a maid who’d completed her task.

“No, thank you, Martha. That will be all.”

Once alone, a single tear rolled down her cheek.

She’d known this marriage would be one of convenience, had told herself she was prepared for a life without love. But somehow, in that moonlit music room, she’d let herself hope for something more.

The moonlight streaming through her window painted patterns on her coverlet, reminding her of how it had illuminated his hair as he played, transforming him into someone she barely recognized.

That was the trouble, wasn’t it? Every time she thought she understood him—the rake, the Duke, the cold aristocrat—he revealed another layer. His hands, so demanding in passion, had moved across the piano keys with such gentle grace. And when he’d touched her…

She shivered, remembering the tenderness of his caress before he’d pushed her away.

But why had he stopped? Was she truly so undesirable? Or was it something else—something in the way his eyes had softened as he played, something in the way his walls had quickly slammed back up when she’d responded to his touch?

How foolish to let herself imagine that this could be more than a marriage of convenience. Arthur had made his position clear from the start. He could offer physical pleasure, but anything deeper? That wasn’t part of their arrangement.

Exhausted from the day’s emotional turmoil, Isolde changed into her nightgown, her movements slow and deliberate.

Martha had already prepared the bed, turning down the crisp linens and placing a glass of water on the bedside table.

Isolde pulled back the covers and crawled into bed, the cool sheets a welcome comfort against her heated skin.

A soft breeze stirred her curtains, carrying the lingering notes of his music.

She turned her face into her pillow, trying to silence the treacherous voice in her head that whispered maybe, just maybe, there was more to her husband than she’d allowed herself to believe.

More dangerous still was the whisper that suggested she was already falling in love with him, despite her resolve to guard her heart.

Sleep proved elusive as her mind kept returning to that moment when passion and tenderness had mingled in his touch, leaving her aching for something she dared not name.

She pressed her fingers to her still-tingling lips and wondered if this ache in her chest would ever go away.

Arthur remained at the pianoforte long after Isolde fled, his hands gripping the edge of the bench until his knuckles turned white.

The echo of her soft sighs seemed to linger in the air, tormenting him.

He’d stopped her for her own safety—he’d seen the yearning in her eyes, the dangerous hope. Better to end it now than let her believe this could be more than what it was.

He wasn’t built for tender moments or whispered endearments. His father had seen to that.

“Your evening coat, Your Grace?” Fields emerged from the shadows, the valet’s discretion evident in his averted gaze.

Arthur allowed himself to be guided through the familiar routine—coat removed, boots handed over for polishing, cravat carefully untied. Each motion was a reminder of his position, his responsibilities.

A duke’s marriage was about duty, not desire. Not… feelings.

“Do you need anything else, Your Grace?”

“No.” His voice was harsher than he had intended. “That will be all.”

Alone in his chambers, Arthur paced like a caged beast. He could still feel her trembling beneath his hands, taste the sweetness of her surrender. The way she’d reached for him with such innocent eagerness…

That’s why he’d stopped her. Because at that moment, watching her face transformed by passion, he’d wanted more than just physical release. He’d wanted to gather her close afterward, to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, to be the kind of man who could offer her the romance she craved.

But he wasn’t that man. Could never be that man. His father had beaten such weakness out of him years ago.

“Love is for fools and poets, boy,” his father’s voice echoed in his head. “A duke needs heirs, not tender feelings.”

Still, as he stared at the closed door between their chambers, he couldn’t quite silence the treacherous voice in his head that whispered to him.

She was so close—just on the other side of that door—yet somehow more untouchable than ever.