Delight and Desire (3 page)

Yet another tedious ball!

Robert sighed heavily, but turned back to the glass to finish fastening his dress uniform. He was not at all sure why he had accepted Mrs Rougely’s invitation, for she did not move in the highest levels of society. He supposed he was bored. Over these past weeks in London, he had discovered that the huge wealth of the Anstruther estates attracted every purse-pinched parent with a daughter to dispose of. He had met dozens of them. The pretty ones were empty-headed and vain; the more thoughtful ones were plain and humourless. Not one had a fraction of Isobel Lang’s extraordinary qualities. Isobel Lang was passionate about life. One day, she would make some lucky man a passionate wife.

Not for the first time, he wished that he had not heeded her wishes. He had not watched her leave, nor followed her home. Admittedly he had enquired after gentry families called Lang, but the only Langs in the area were tradesmen. So Isobel Lang was not a lady. And he was duty-bound to forget her.

He had tried, but the delicious image of Isobel Lang refused to leave him. He remembered her standing on the top of Murdoch’s tower, her image fuzzy in the sunset with the red-gold light around her, and later, in the twilight, gleaming softly like a muted star. He remembered the feel of her in his arms, her kiss on his lips. That innocent kiss had touched him to the core. She had made his blood fizz and boil like shaken champagne. In his memory, she was radiantly beautiful, and so very desirable. She had all the qualities to make a man a splendid wife.

All except birth.

His beautiful nymph was forbidden to him. Let her remain a magical, unattainable dream.

Considering the early hour, the room was remarkably full, though no one was yet dancing. He paused in the doorway to take the measure of the place, and of the company.

And then he saw her.

Isobel Lang was standing in the midst of a group of young men. Robert fancied he had met one or two of them before, but he was too focused on gazing at Isobel to recall their names. She had been beautiful at Caerlaverock, but in the latest London fashions, she was transformed. She looked utterly radiant in a simple ball gown of daffodil-yellow over a white slip. Tiny jonquils were nestling in her red-gold curls. She wore no jewels at all, but she had no need of them. He found himself longing to stroke her lustrous, pearly skin.

He strolled over to the group surrounding her. The young men parted politely, though reluctantly, to make way for him. As Robert bowed to the company, one of them said, ‘Why, it’s Major Anstruther. Welcome, sir. You won’t remember, but I’m Digben. We met briefly at the shooting gallery last month. May I introduce you to—?’

Robert cut him off with a dismissive wave. ‘Thank you, Digben, but the lady and I are already acquainted. And I could tell from across the room that she needed rescuing from a horde of young rascals like you.’ He smiled amiably round at them. None of them would dare to contradict a man ten years their senior.

He bowed to Isobel and held out his hand. It was a challenge. Their gazes locked. It was if they were totally alone. And remembering that first touch. ‘May I have the honour of this dance, ma’am?’

She had become as white as her slip. Was she afraid that he might speak of what had happened between them that first day? He realised with a start that she was no tradesman’s daughter after all. She had been admitted to a society ball. She really did have a lady’s reputation to lose.

He threw her a long, meaningful look. She had trusted him before. She must do so again.

Her courage was undimmed. With the briefest nod towards a turbanned old lady seated by the wall, she took a step forward and laid her fingers on Robert’s open hand. Then she smiled serenely at the younger men and said, ‘You will excuse me, gentlemen? I think the music is about to begin.’

He closed his fingers around hers and drew her arm through his. Despite layers of fabric, he could feel the pulsing, living heat of her. She was so very desirable. And he would prove to her that she had nothing to fear.

The dance was almost half over by the time Isobel mastered her panic. She needed to plan. She had to speak to him, to explain who she really was, but she did not dare to do so in the middle of this dance. What if there were a confrontation between them? Here, in public? That would spell ruin. She must wait.

But when the dance ended, he would escort her back to her chaperon. And then there would be proper introductions and—

Isobel took a deep breath and felt her pulse slow. She had to find another way of being alone with him. She crossed the set at that moment, just laying her hand on his as they turned together. Even through their evening gloves, she felt the warmth of his touch and the hidden strength of him. It crept along her arm and spread through her unresisting body. In that instant, she understood, deep in her innermost being, that he was no monster. He was an Anstruther, but he was a fine, honourable man. She had let her stupid prejudices win, even when her whole being had known they were bound together by that first, magical encounter. She had told herself she was no Juliet with her forbidden Romeo, tumbling into love on sight. She had told herself that, unlike Juliet, she would marry the man her family chose, that she would do her duty.

But now he was here, touching her, and now she was become Juliet all over again, forgetting family, and feud, and duty.

She dared to smile up into his face. Hoping. But his answering smile was polite and fleeting. She could not reach him here. She must find another way.

The dance ended. The ladies curtsied and the gentlemen bowed.

‘Miss Lang, I—’

‘Major Anstruther, I—’ They broke off at the same moment. Isobel swallowed nervously. He was waiting courteously for her to speak first. ‘Thank you for the dance, Major. But it is exceedingly hot in here, do you not agree? Perhaps there is somewhere cooler, where I might take the air?’

The glance he gave her was eloquent. He was too well mannered to comment on such an obvious—and improper—ploy. Instead he ushered her across the ballroom and through tall curtained windows that led to a deserted terrace and a rather overgrown garden. He turned to leave.

‘Major?’

He turned back. ‘I assumed you would wish me to fetch your chaperon, Miss Lang. You would not wish to be discovered out here alone with a man.’ His voice sounded strained, as if he were preventing his emotions from bubbling through by sheer force of will. Was he remembering, perhaps? As she was? He was avoiding her eyes now, concentrating instead on ripping off his gloves.

‘Major, I would wish…’ Without thinking beyond her ungovernable desire for one last touch, she held out her hand to him. ‘I pray you will allow me to explain.’

‘There is no call for any explanation. You are a lady. You are not accountable to me. Not for anything you do.’ His voice was barely under control. His eyes were blazing with passion. He
was
remembering. But he was keeping his distance. He bowed stiffly. ‘If you will excuse me—’

‘No!’ She crossed the space between them in two quick steps and seized his arm with both hands. ‘There are things I must say to you. Please?’

She thought she felt a tiny tremor in the muscles of his forearm. He glanced over his shoulder at the curtained window and then down into the garden. ‘You must not be found alone with me here on the terrace. If you are determined on this…?’ At Isobel’s decisive nod, he shrugged and laid his free hand briefly on hers. ‘As you wish. Let us go down into the garden. We must not be seen.’

Before she could say a word more, he hurried her along the terrace and down the stone steps to the garden below. ‘It would be best if we avoided the gravel path, Miss Lang. Too much noise. There is no dew on the grass, so your evening slippers will not be spoiled.’

She laughed nervously. She could not help it. ‘You have done this sort of thing before, I collect, sir?’

There was precious little light down here. She could barely see his face, but she thought she saw a brief smile twist the corner of his mouth.

‘I have learned the importance of moving silently. But it has generally been in order to avoid the enemy.’ He was no longer so distant. He sounded almost like the man who had once kissed her into ecstasy.

This was the man she could deal with. ‘Only
generally
, sir?’ Her tone was flirtatious. She was behaving like a wanton all over again. And she did not care. For a fleeting moment, she allowed her fingers to press the flesh of his arm. This time, she was not mistaken about the tremor that ran through him.

‘Miss Lang.’ The strain was back in his voice.

The warning was clear. She was testing his self-control. Good. ‘Have I said something wrong, sir?’ Her tone was innocent. The way she clung to his arm was not. She wanted him to feel the warmth of her body, to sense her urgency. More than anything, she wanted him to kiss her again. To rekindle those wonderful feelings just once more.

Robert was conscious only of the twilight and the wide-eyed way she was gazing up at him under a sliver of moon and a canopy of stars. They were beautiful, but not as beautiful or as bright as Isobel’s eyes.

He led her into the shadow of some tall bushes. ‘Well, Miss Lang?’ His tone was rather stern, but it was the only way he could control his desire for her. She was too innocent to understand just how tempting she was. ‘You wished to…er…speak to me?’

She took a deep breath. Even in the gloom, he could see her white bosom swelling above the neckline of her gown. His body began to heat yet more.

‘I have deceived you, Major. I am not who you think I am. For that, I apologise.’ She paused, avoiding his gaze. ‘But I am not sorry! For if I had told you the truth when we met again, you would have turned from me.’

What on earth was she talking about? ‘I accept your apologies, of course, ma’am. But I am no wiser than before.’

She swallowed. Her eyes grew even wider as she stared up at him. ‘You will think me very odd, sir. I had been taught from the cradle that all Anstruthers were wicked ogres. Yet you seemed to be a perfectly ordinary gentleman. That is— I mean, when we met that second time, you—’

‘I restrained my inner ogre?’ That surprised another nervous laugh from her. He put a hand over hers. ‘Did you fear it?’ He was very serious now. He needed her to recognise that. That special enchantment was seeping into his veins, stoking his desire for her all over again.

‘You know I did not.’ Her voice was a barely audible whisper. And her hands were shaking. She felt it, too. She was his nymph again.

It was too much. ‘Oh, God! Isobel!’ Robert hauled her into his arms and began to kiss her. That first kiss—a lifetime ago—had been unlike anything he had ever known. He needed that magic again.

The moment his lips touched hers, there was a moan of pleasure in her throat and she began to respond eagerly, sliding her arms around his body and pressing her breasts against him. Within moments, they were kissing with deep and mutual passion. And Robert was stroking his fingers across the top of her breasts, where they strained to be free of her stays. Her fingers on his back were scrabbling up under his coat, desperately trying to reach his flesh. They were on fire. Both of them.

He must not do this. They would be in full view of anyone who might wander out into the garden. She was being driven by desire. But she was also a lady, and an innocent, and much too young to know what she was risking in the throes of her first experience of passion. She was too far gone to stop herself. Only Robert could save her.

He did not want to think about that. He continued to explore her luscious mouth and to stroke her body. She groaned again and pulled him even closer, their lips still exploring. Tormented beyond endurance, he picked her up in his arms and carried her as far as possible from the terrace and unwelcome intruders. In the corner of the garden, hidden by trees and shrubs, he came upon a stone seat. As if it had been placed there to welcome them.

He sat down and settled her on his lap. That incredible kiss still continued, unbroken. He wanted her, so very much. She was, without doubt, the most desirable woman he had ever held in his arms.

The bodice of her gown was too tight to be pushed aside without damaging the fabric. He could only cup her breasts through the fine silk, but he could feel her nipples rising against his palms. Her desire, her passion was very real. If he could not touch her naked flesh there…

He laid his palm against her inner ankle. Skin on skin, separated only by the flimsiest silk stocking.

She gasped against his mouth. Then she clung to him. Slowly, slowly, he caressed his way up the inside of her leg until he reached her stocking top and her ribbon garter. He fingered it. Smooth, shiny, delightful. He allowed one finger to stray above to touch naked skin. Much more delightful. She was not resisting his advances. There was a tautness in her muscles, but he knew it was anticipation. She would follow his lead, just as she had done that first time. The way above was open to his questing hand. He stroked higher.

She gasped his name into his mouth. ‘Robert. Oh, Robert.’

‘My sweet Isobel.’ With a single long caress, he stroked up into the core of her. She was wide, and wet, and wanting. He could take her now, and she would welcome their joining. His body was aching for her, urging him on. They were both more than ready. Why not?

Because she was an innocent.

He stroked a finger across her moist heat, once, twice. She shivered. Once, and again. She was almost there.

He pushed a finger deep inside her, withdrew, pushed again. And stayed. He touched the ball of his thumb to the tiny nub. Once. His kiss was still deep, his tongue probing where the rest of his body could not. He stroked her again. And again. Her scream of ecstasy was swallowed in his kiss. The spasms gripped her, held her taut, and then she collapsed against him with a gasp and a long groan.

It was over for her. And it must be over for him, too.

He had given her fulfilment, without risk of ruin. Anything more would dishonour them both.

He stroked her skirts and petticoats back to their proper place and sighed deeply. She was nestled in his arms like a trusting kitten. And he must not abuse that trust. ‘Isobel?’