Chapter 20

CHAPTER 20

“ I f you’re quite finished flirting with every gentleman in London,” Arthur growled, dragging her into an empty library and closing the door with more force than necessary, “perhaps you’d care to explain what that display was about?”

Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, casting silver shadows over her gown. Even angry— especially angry—she was breathtaking.

“Display?” She jutted her chin in that defiant way that made him want to kiss her senseless. “I danced one quadrille with a gentleman of good standing. As any proper duchess would.”

“Proper?” He advanced on her, satisfaction curling in his chest when she retreated until her back hit a bookcase. “Was it proper the way he devoured you with his eyes? The way he leaned too close during the turns?”

“You’re being ridiculous,” she huffed, but her breath hitched when he braced his hands on either side of her head, caging her between his arms. “Lord Woodford was perfectly courteous.”

“Perfectly covetous, you mean.” He lowered his head until his lips nearly brushed her ear. “Did you enjoy it, wife? Having another man’s attention? Making your husband watch while you smiled and flirted?”

“I did no such?—”

Her protest turned into a gasp as his teeth grazed her earlobe.

“No?” His hand ghosted over her collarbone. “Then why do I feel you fighting yourself every time I’m close? Like a moth hesitating between fear and flame?”

“Arthur…” His name was half plea, half protest on her lips.

“Say it again.” He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “Say my name like that. Like a prayer, a confession.”

“We shouldn’t…” But her hands had found his shoulders, her fingers curling into the fine wool of his evening coat. “Someone might…”

“Might what?” He pressed closer until the length of his body pinned her to the bookcase. “Might see the Duke of Meadowell kissing his wife?”

Her eyes dropped to his mouth, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. The sight nearly shattered his self-control.

“Arthur, please…”

“Please what?” He brushed his lips against hers, the touch feather-light, maddening. “I do so enjoy hearing you beg, wife. Yet, you are not clear.”

“You know very well which?—”

He silenced her with a kiss that was anything but gentle.

He poured all his fury at watching her dance with Lord Woodford, all his need to claim her as his, into that kiss.

She made a small sound of surrender that shot straight to his loins, her lips parting under his onslaught.

His hands found her waist, pressing her harder against him as he deepened the kiss. She tasted like wine and sweetness, her fingers threading through his hair as though she couldn’t get close enough.

The bookcase creaked ominously as he ravished her, but he couldn’t seem to stop, couldn’t seem to get enough of her soft sighs and eager responses.

“Mine,” he growled against her throat, nipping the sensitive skin there. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

“Yours,” she gasped as his hands roamed lower, finding the curves his rivals had only dared admire from afar. “Only yours.”

The admission snapped what remained of his restraint. He lifted her against the bookcase, and her legs wrapped around his waist as though they’d done this a thousand times. Her head fell back, offering her throat to his hungry mouth as his hands found the fastenings of her gown.

“Should have done this that night in the music room,” he muttered between kisses. “Should have shown you exactly who you belong to.”

“Show me now.” Her voice was breathy, desperate. “Please, Arthur…”

Once he unfastened the buttons, he pulled her dress down and undid her stays.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, brushing his finger over her nipple.

“Arthur,” she whimpered, arching her back.

The way she said his name, caught between innocence and desire, nearly made him spend in his trousers.

He’d heard his name from countless women’s lips before, but never like this—like a prayer, like a surrender, like…

Trust.

Arthur’s lips closed over her breast, and she gasped, tugging on his hair.

The sensation was like nothing she could have imagined, but she wanted—no, she needed more.

When his hand slid up her leg, she shivered. Her heart rate quickened as his fingers danced up her thigh without touching her core. He was denying her the one thing she wanted. Instead, his mouth remained on her breast, nipping it gently.

Isolde could bear it no longer. She gasped out his name. “Please, Arthur. I am begging you…”

He lifted his head and gave her a wicked smile. “Patience.”

Isolde groaned in protest, but before she could speak, he lay her on her back on the chaise and slid his fingers into her.

She cried out in pleasure. She lost her ability to think as she opened her legs to allow him entry.

“Not yet,” he whispered. “Patience, darling wife.”

His mouth found her core, and she had never thought such heights of pleasure would be possible. As his tongue flicked against her nub, her hips bucked. Her breaths came in quick gasps as he brought her closer and closer to climax before pulling back and slowly trailing kisses back up her body to her breasts.

“Arthur, please… I need you. All of you.” Isolde could barely whisper the words.

Arthur lifted his head again, and their eyes met. “Are you sure?”

Unable to speak, she nodded. She wanted this.

Arthur pushed himself into her. Discomfort halted her pleasure, and she let out a whimper. He stilled and withdrew slightly. His hand slid down between them, and he stroked her nub with his thumb.

This time when he slid into her, there was no pain. Arthur moved slowly at first, establishing a gentle rhythm. She moved to match it, lifting her hips to draw him deeper inside her. The pleasure returned, and she began to meet his thrusts. Their bodies grew slick as they drew closer to release.

Arthur bent his head and gently nipped her shoulder, tipping her over the edge. Stars burst behind her eyes as her walls fluttered around him. He thrust into her faster, and she cried out as his body jerked.

This was what Isolde had wanted, but it was so much more. The waves of pleasure seemed to go on for an eternity.

When her heartbeat finally slowed and she came down from her high, she opened her eyes to find him gazing down at her. His expression was unreadable.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked softly, brushing a stray curl from her damp forehead.

“Yes,” she whispered, though ‘all right’ seemed a paltry description of how she felt.

Everything had changed, yet she couldn’t read in his expression whether he felt it too.

He helped her straighten her gown, his movements surprisingly tender. When she opened her mouth to speak—though she wasn’t quite sure what she meant to say—he pressed a finger to her lips.

“The ball,” he reminded her, his voice husky. “We should return before we’re missed.”

She nodded, unable to trust her voice as he stepped away to adjust his clothing.

The space between them seemed to grow with each passing second, filling with all the words left unspoken.

The next morning, sunlight crept into Arthur’s bedchamber at Meadowell, gilding the tangled sheets and warming Isolde’s bare skin.

Isolde propped herself up on one elbow, studying her sleeping husband’s face. In repose, all his sharp edges softened—the usual sardonic curl of his lips and the furrow between his eyebrows.

After their heated encounter in the library, they barely managed to say their goodbyes to their hosts before practically running to their carriage. The rest of the night had passed in a blur of passionate discoveries, Arthur’s hands and mouth teaching her pleasures she’d never imagined possible.

Now, as she watched the morning light dance across his features, Isolde noticed things she’d missed before—a small scar near his temple, the shadows his dark lashes cast on his cheeks, the slight curl of his hair when it wasn’t perfectly arranged.

As if sensing her scrutiny, his eyes opened, emerald green catching the sunlight.

“Good morning, wife.” His voice was husky with sleep as he pulled her down for a sweet kiss.

“Good morning.” She couldn’t quite hide her smile against his lips.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder. “No regrets?”

“None.”

And it was true. Whatever this was between them—not love, not yet, but something more than mere duty—it felt right. Natural.

He pressed a kiss to her temple, and then her cheek, his breath warm against her skin.

“We should rise soon. Crawford will be scandalized if we miss breakfast.”

“Let him be scandalized.” She curled up against him, savoring the warmth of his skin. “I’m quite comfortable here.”

His low chuckle vibrated through her. “Careful, my dear. A man could get used to such sweetness.”

It wasn’t a declaration of love. It wasn’t even a promise. But as Arthur pulled her in for another kiss, slower and deeper than before, Isolde felt something shift between them—something that felt almost like hope.