Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

“The roses are particularly lovely this year,” Isolde remarked, trailing her fingers across a crimson bloom. “Though I confess I prefer the white ones near the fountain.”

“Do you?” Arthur’s hand settled on the small of her back as they strolled through the garden, his touch sending warmth spiraling through her despite the layers of muslin between them. “Then we shall have more planted there.”

The morning sun painted everything in soft gold, making the dew-kissed flowers sparkle like jewels. Isolde was acutely aware of Arthur’s proximity, of the way his thumb traced small circles on the small of her back as they walked.

“I used to help Papa tend to the roses at our country estate,” she said, leaning slightly into his touch. “Mama loved them, apparently. He planted them after she died so I would have something of her.”

Arthur’s hand curled around her waist. “Tell me more about yourself.”

“Well, after Mama died, Aunt Jessamine practically moved in with us.” Isolde smiled at the memory. “She’s quite formidable, you know. All proper manners and decorum, but she has the kindest heart. She used to give me sweets when Papa wasn’t looking and tell me stories about Mama when they were girls.”

They paused by the fountain, the sound of splashing water a pleasant background to the morning birdsong.

Arthur turned her to face him, his fingers brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “You have her smile, I wager.”

“So everyone says.” She caught his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm. “What about you? What were you like as a boy?”

Arthur was quiet for so long that she thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then, he said in a voice as soft as summer rain, “I had my mother’s hands, allegedly. Made for music.”

Isolde twined her fingers with his, noting the elegant length that seemed at odds with his otherwise masculine features.

“Is that why you play so beautifully?”

“She taught me.” His eyes grew distant, focused on some memory she couldn’t see. “Even when she was ill, she would sit with me at the pianoforte for hours. Music speaks what cannot be expressed, she used to say.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “She had a way of making everything beautiful, even the darkest days.”

“She sounds wonderful.” Isolde squeezed his hand gently. “I wish I had met her.”

“Oh, she would have liked you.” The words seemed to surprise him as much as her. “She loved poetry and roses and…” Arthur trailed off, that familiar wall descending behind his eyes.

“And?” Isolde prompted softly.

“And she believed in love,” Arthur almost spat. “A fat lot of good it did her.”

The sudden shift in his mood made her chest ache. “Your father⁠—”

“There’s nothing to say about him.” The warmth had vanished completely from his voice now. He dropped her hand, turning to study the fountain with sudden intensity. “Nothing worth telling.”

“Surely that’s not⁠—”

But he was already moving, pulling her toward the towering hedges of the maze. “Have you explored the labyrinth yet?”

“Arthur—”

“I had it restored last spring.” His playful tone sounded forced, but his eyes held a challenge that made her pulse quicken. “Care to test your navigational skills?”

“What do you propose?”

His smile turned wicked. “A game. You have fifteen minutes to find me at the center.”

“And if I succeed?”

He drew her close, his lips grazing her ear. “Then you may claim whatever prize you desire.”

Heat pooled in her belly at his tone. “And if I fail?”

“Then I claim my prize instead.” He nipped her earlobe, making her shiver. “Though I suspect we’ll both enjoy either outcome.”

Before she could respond, he released her and disappeared into the maze, leaving her breathless and wanting.

“Fifteen minutes starts now!” his voice called back.

Gathering her skirts, Isolde plunged into the labyrinth. The hedges rose well above her head, their carefully trimmed walls creating an emerald sanctuary.

Left or right?

She chose left, remembering something about keeping one hand to the wall…

Ten minutes later, she was thoroughly lost.

Every turn seemed to lead to another identical path. She could hear Arthur’s low chuckle somewhere ahead, the sound drawing her forward like a siren’s call.

“Running out of time, my dear,” he taunted from somewhere nearby.

“Insufferable man,” she muttered, though she couldn’t quite suppress her smile.

Another turn revealed a glimpse of his coat disappearing around a corner. She quickened her pace, only to find herself at another dead end.

His laughter drifted over the hedges again, closer now.

Finally, with barely a minute to spare, she rounded a corner and found herself in the maze’s heart.

A classical folly stood in the center of a circular clearing, its white marble columns gleaming in the morning light.

Arthur was leaning against one of the pillars, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Cutting it rather close, aren’t you?”

“You cheated,” she accused, advancing on him. “You kept moving.”

“Did I?” He caught her around the waist, pulling her against him. “And here I thought I was merely… encouraging you.”

“Is that what you call it?” she huffed, but her mock outrage dissolved as his lips found that sensitive spot beneath her ear.

“Mmm.” His hands slid lower, making her gasp. “I call it ensuring my victory.”

“So sure of yourself?” She tried for haughty, but the words came out breathless as his clever fingers began undoing the buttons of her morning dress.

“Always.”

He gently pushed her back against the cold stone column, his touch sending shivers down her spine. His eyes, darkened with desire, locked onto hers, holding her captive in their intensity.

“Especially when it comes to making my wife surrender…”

His words, laced with a hint of possessiveness, sent a thrill through her veins. At that moment, she could feel the electric tension between them, as if the air itself crackled with their shared passion.

He leaned in closer, his breath mingling with hers, creating a heady concoction of anticipation.

Boldness surged through her. She lifted her gaze and slowly popped the top button of his trousers.

“Will it be me who surrenders, or you?” she asked.

Arthur let out a low growl as he grabbed the ties of her gown and tugged on them.

Isolde undid the second button on his trousers and allowed her fingers to trace his growing arousal.

He leaned forward and nibbled on the hollow of her neck as he unlaced her stays. When he was done, he lifted his head. The look in his emerald-green eyes was decidedly wicked.

Isolde bit her lip. She would not lose this game. He would surrender to her. She undid the last button and took his manhood in her hand.

Arthur moaned, and she ducked her head to hide her smile. Her hand began to stroke him.

“Isolde,” he hissed.

He reached out and cupped her breast in his hand, allowing his thumb to slowly stroke her nipple.

Her fingers tightened around him, and she delighted in his sharp intake of breath. Pearly liquid glistened at the tip, and she touched it.

“Shall I continue, or would you like to surrender?”

“You are a little minx, wife,” Arthur growled.

He kissed the base of her throat and then captured her lips with his. His hand pushed her gown down her hips with ease, and as he slipped it off of her, she felt the cool breeze kiss her thighs.

He caught her hand and scooped her up into his arms. He carried her out of the folly and laid her down on the grass. He notched the tip of his manhood against her sex and gently rubbed back and forth, making waves of pleasure dance through her veins.

Isolde gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she bit back a cry. She parted her legs, and in one swift move, he entered her.

He was not gentle this time. Isolde welcomed the roughness as he thrust deeper into her. Her hips bucked against him. Arthur moved faster, and she cried out his name as he spilled inside of her.

Spent, he lay down next to her on the grass. When their breathing had slowed, Isolde rested her head on his chest and allowed the sun to be their blanket.

Her hands traced the contours of his chest. She saw a scar on his arm, and her finger lightly traced it.

“How did you get this?”

He was quiet for so long that she thought he wouldn’t answer.

When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. “I received it as a boy. For protecting something I cared about.”

“It looks like it was painful,” she murmured, still tracing the scar gently.

His arm tightened around her, but his next words were lighter, deflecting. “Most valuable lessons are.”

Then, as if catching himself, he captured her wandering hand and lifted it to his lips.

“Although I can think of far more pleasant things to discuss right now.”

“Arthur—” she began, hearing the pain beneath his casual tone.

“Not yet,” he whispered against her palm. “Some stories are better left for another time.”

She nodded, understanding that he wasn’t ready to share the story of that particular wound. Instead, she leaned up to kiss him softly, hoping to convey that she would listen whenever he was ready.

The distant sound of voices and clinking gardening tools made Isolde jump up, her hands flying up to cover herself.

“Arthur—”

“No.” He caught her wrists gently, prying them away from her body. His eyes roamed over her with such reverence that it made her breath catch in her throat. “You’re like Aphrodite rising from the sea foam. Perfect. Radiant. Never hide yourself from me.”

Something shifted in Isolde’s chest at his words, at the tender way he brushed his lips across her knuckles.

This was what she’d always dreamed of—not just passion, but poetry. Not just desire, but devotion.

She stayed perfectly still as he helped her dress, each touch somehow more intimate than their passionate encounters. His fingers lingered on every button, smoothing the fabric with careful attention.

When he reached out to fix a wayward curl, the gesture felt almost… loving.

“There,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Almost presentable.”

“Almost?” She raised an eyebrow, though her heart was still racing.

“Well…” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “You do look thoroughly kissed.”

“His Grace is quite observant.”

“His Grace is quite satisfied with his handiwork.” He extended his arm with an exaggerated flourish. “Shall we brave the maze again, darling?”

They were nearly at the exit when the voices grew closer. Isolde bit her lip to suppress a giggle as they huddled against a hedge, waiting for the gardeners to pass.

“’Round the other side, Jim!”

“Aye, these roses need trimming something fierce…”

Arthur’s shoulders shook with silent laughter as they darted through the exit—only to come face to face with three startled gardeners.

“Y-Your Graces!” The oldest nearly dropped his shears as they all bowed hastily.

“Good morning, Lawrence.” Arthur’s voice was perfectly steady, though his eyes danced with mirth. “The maze is looking particularly fine today.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Lawrence managed, clearly trying not to stare at his Duchess’s rather rumpled gown.

Arthur reached out casually, plucking something from Isolde’s hair. “Ah, it seems you’ve acquired a souvenir, my dear.”

He held up a small green leaf with exaggerated solemnity.

Isolde felt her face redden even as laughter bubbled up in her chest.

The gardeners suddenly became very interested in their tools, though she could have sworn she saw Jim hiding a smile.

“Come along, wife.” Arthur tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “I believe breakfast awaits.”

They managed to maintain their dignity until they rounded the corner of the house. Then, Arthur pulled her into an alcove, and both of them burst into helpless laughter.

“Did you see their faces?” Isolde gasped, holding on to his coat.

“Poor Lawrence will never look at the maze the same way again.” Arthur pressed his forehead against hers, still chuckling. “It was worth it, though.”

And as he led her inside, still trading whispered jokes about wayward leaves and scandalized gardeners, Isolde knew she was falling hopelessly, irrevocably in love with her rake of a husband.