Passion's Song (A Georgian Historical Romance) (24 page)

“
I am not your guest, Lord
Hartforde, I am here at your sister’s invitation.” She took a deep
swallow of the brandy and barely managed to suppress a cough as the
liquor burned down her throat.

“
Whether you are here at the
invitation of my sister, or anyone else, does not make the
slightest difference. Must I remind you I can forbid your presence
here? This is my house and it is on my sufferance alone that you
are permitted to carry on this ridiculous game of yours.” His eyes
swept disdainfully over her.

She didn’t respond to his spiteful words; instead,
she drained her glass and held it out to him. He refilled it
without getting up from his comfortable seat. “Sir, I apologize for
endangering your reputation as a gracious host.” She took another
gulp of the brandy before continuing. “You force me to admit the
truth. I asked those ruffians to stop me and, yes, I planned for my
driver to die in my defense so I might be robbed and killed myself.
Why, as soon as I saw them, I told them they ought to rob me. I was
a fool to think you wouldn’t find me out. But, I promise your
lordship, the next time I am set upon by thieves, I shall endeavor
to do so as far away from you as possible. And should things go
well, I won’t be so unlucky as to be rescued.” She swallowed half
the contents of the glass and blinked as she suddenly began to feel
the effect of the brandy. She gulped most of the rest of the
glass.

“
Don’t compound your errors by
becoming drunk,” he said dourly.

“
I don’t see how it’s any concern
of yours.” Really, she thought, he had no right to talk to her as
though she were some sort of errant child!

“
It is if I have to carry you to
your bed. You are trouble enough sober.”

Isobel took a step past him, heading for the bottle,
only to have him stop her by grasping her forearm. “My lord, I have
had about as much of your shocking rudeness as I can take,” she
said as primly as she could. “I am cold, I am tired, and in case
you haven’t noticed, I am dripping water all over your lovely
carpet. If you won’t allow me to change into some dry clothes, I
shall catch my death, and rest assured, I shall see to it the full
blame for my demise is placed on you. Now, are you going to let me
alone, or not?”

“
My dear Miss St. James”—he did
not let go of her arm—“I am not stopping you from changing out of
your clothes. Be my guest! There is a dressing gown over there.” He
pointed with his free hand. “But, I do insist that you not drink
anymore. You have had quite enough.”

“
Then may I suggest you let go of
me, my lord? Where may I change?” she asked after he
complied.

“
Here is perfectly all right with
me,” he said.

“
You may go to the devil, sir!”
She drained her glass and held it out until he took it. If his
lordship wanted her to undress in front of him, then he might just
as well have his wish. And if he so much as laid a hand on her she
would bring the house down with her screams. She strode over to
where a dressing gown was draped over a chair and began working at
the buttons of her frock coat. She let it fall to the floor and in
another moment had shrugged out of her waistcoat. At the last
minute, she found that, in spite of her intention to humiliate him,
she could not undress in front of him, so she took the dressing
gown and walked past him into his bedchamber.

“
Blast it, woman!” He jumped up
from his chair and in two strides was at her side.

“
I thought you said I might get
out of my clothes,” she said, taking a step backward when he
reached her.

“
You should have told me you were
hurt.”

“
What?” She followed his glance to
her arm and was surprised to see that blood stained the sleeve.
“Oh,” she said softly. “What are you doing?”

He grabbed her arm and when she looked up at him she
felt her head swimming. Whether it was from the sight of blood on
her shirt or from his being so close to her, she did not know.

“
Your arm needs to be looked at. I
can call a physic, if you insist, but I rather expect you would
prefer the staff should not find out about this.” He raised his
eyebrows at her and then continued, not having expected an answer.
“Now, just be quiet for once, would you?” He shrugged off his own
coat and threw it on a chair. Guiltily, she noticed he was dressed
to go out; he had obviously taken a great deal of care with his
appearance. She felt a sub of jealousy as she thought he had
probably been on his way to see Angelica Vincent. She knew she was
staring at him, but she couldn’t seem to look away. “Sit down,” he
ordered.

“
Where?” She didn’t like the way
he addressed her as though she were a servant, and, really,
couldn’t he be even the least bit sympathetic? After all, she was
wounded! She looked at her arm and suddenly felt the throbbing all
the more acutely.

“
Anywhere!” He pushed her down on
the bed and scowled at the look of resentment on her face. From the
sideboard, he retrieved a bowl of water, and on his way back to
her, he picked up a chair. He pulled her upright from her supine
contemplation of the folds in the canopy. Lines of worry creased
his forehead, and she sucked in her breath as he gathered up the
material to tear the shoulder. “Hold still!”

“
It hurts,” she moaned. And
really, now that she could see the blood, it did hurt, like the
very dickens.

“
Would you rather I take it off?”
he asked sarcastically.

“
Yes!”

Sighing, he went into the other room, then came back
with one of the glasses and the bottle of brandy. He splashed some
into the glass, drank it himself, then refilled it and handed it to
her. He began undoing her cravat as she drank, and when their hands
briefly tangled he gave the sigh of one whose patience was being
sorely tried. He waited for her to empty the glass before finishing
the job and pulling open the neck of her shirt. The wound was
impossible to get at without pulling the shirt off at least one
side of her. Isobel sat with her eyes closed, while he tried to
pull the other half of the shirt down over her exposed torso.

“
It would appear, milord, that
modesty cannot be effected without risking my strangulation,” she
intoned while opening one eye to see if he had appreciated her wit.
He had not.

“
Sit here.” He stood up to change
places with her, turning her sideways on the chair as he began to
dab at her arm with the cloth he had dampened in the bowl of water.
She winced in pain. “You look ridiculous with that thing strapped
to your belly!” he snapped, jerking his head toward the pillow tied
around her stomach.

“
All right, then.” She struggled
to get the rest of the shirt off, while keeping her other arm
still. Using her good arm, she managed to undo the fastenings that
held the pillow to her. “I hope I don’t offend you now, Lord
Hartforde.” She threw the pillow away. To her amazement, she
discovered she was having trouble sitting up straight and she
wondered if, just perhaps, the brandy might have gone to her head.
She watched him bending over her arm, fascinated first by the shape
of his jaw, then by the pulse beating in his neck. She wanted to
trace the firm lines of his face and she flushed when their eyes
met briefly. With sudden clarity she remembered the way his lips
had once taken hers.

“
Be still, damn you!” He dabbed
some more at the wound, softening his touch when she gasped in
pain.

“
It’s rather close in here, don’t
you think?” she asked as he wiped away the remaining blood. He did
not bother to respond. “How odd. It barely hurts now.” She looked
down at her arm, puzzled that it should be so, since not five
minutes ago it had hurt like die devil.

“
It’s all the brandy, love,” he
said gently. “I don’t think it’s very deep, just a scratch.” He
folded her cravat into a strip and wrapped it around her
arm.

She looked down at the neat bow he tied. “Will I
live, then?” She looked at him and thought he was more beautiful
than the drawing of Michelangelo’s David she had once seen. She
blushed at the direction her thoughts were taking. Really, it was
far too hard to concentrate!

“
Yes, I think so,” he said, making
no attempt to lift his gaze.

“
What a disappointment it must be
to you.” She flushed anew as she realized where his gaze was fixed
and how very little of her shirt was covering her body. Mortified,
she pulled at the material and crossed her arms over herself, not
taking her eyes off the floor until he stood up to fetch his
dressing gown.

“
Here, cover yourself if you feel
that modesty is suddenly necessary.” The expression on his face was
an odd one, though she could tell it was not anger. She grabbed at
the dressing gown he tossed at her. It slid off her lap onto the
floor.

“
I don’t annoy you on purpose,
Lord Hartforde,” she said in a small voice. She was remembering,
however unwillingly, the way he had touched her, the play of his
muscles under his skin, how his lips on hers had made her
giddy.

“
I know you don’t.” He drew in a
deep breath as she picked up the garment, watching her struggle to
find the top of it. She had grabbed it by the hem, and if he hadn’t
been so exasperated he would have thought her expression comical.
“If you don’t cover yourself, Miss St. James, I won’t answer to the
consequences,” he warned.

Her face went scarlet with shame when at last she
had to shake the dressing gown to find one of the sleeves. She rose
a little unsteadily as she thrust her good arm through it. She was
gingerly doing the same with her other arm when he reached out and
yanked it closed. He expelled a sharp sigh, suddenly aware he had
been holding his breath. She swayed and he was still grasping the
material in his hands when she put her hands to his chest to
balance herself.

“
You would find me more than you
bargained for, Isobel,” he growled when she did not move away from
him but continued to stare up at him.

“
Would I?” she whispered. She
wondered again if she was drunk, she felt so wonderfully
light-headed! But she didn’t care if she was, because at that
moment all she wanted was for him to kiss her. When she leaned
against him she felt his heartbeat quicken, the proof of his
desire. His eyes seemed to darken at her words and she felt a
thrill go through her as she saw the answer to her question.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lowered his head to hers, and when
she lifted her face to his, he groaned. Her befuddled mind knew
only that he was responding to the pressure of her hands on the
back of his neck by leaning forward and kissing her urgently, his
lips firm and demanding against hers. She felt a giddiness overtake
her and she relaxed against him. Surely this was as close to heaven
as it was possible to get without actually going to the trouble of
dying. Her head swam as he picked her up and carried her the few
steps to the bed. Nothing could be more like heaven than to have
this man kissing her. She wanted it to go on forever.

“
I would give anything, Isobel, if
I could just stop thinking about you,” he said fiercely as he
pulled off her shoes and hose. His fingers trembled as he pulled
open the dressing gown to unbutton her breeches and pull them off
her.

She meant to protest at what he was doing, but
suddenly his warm hands were stroking her bare legs, moving up to
capture her aching breasts, and when he gently pulled the heavy
silk robe off her, careful not to hurt her arm, she shivered as
cool air whispered over her nakedness. He was crooning her name in
her ear and then his tongue ran wetly down her throat to linger at
the top of her chest. His hands moved over her, his fingers pressed
into her, his clothes scraped her skin and sent little shivers up
to center in her belly. She let out a ragged breath when she felt
his fingers on her breasts, brushing lightly over her nipples until
she could think of nothing but his touch. She moaned when his hands
moved away from her breasts, only to gasp at the sensation of his
lips replacing his hands. She opened her eyes and focused her
attention on Alexander’s golden hair. The thought that this was
wrong began to penetrate her fogged mind, but somehow, it was hard
to believe it when she felt as though she might melt right into the
bed from the pleasure of his touch. She had once believed she could
never be tempted to fall, and now she was finding out how
enormously, wonderfully wrong she had been. Her head was spinning
and all she could think of was how thoroughly he overwhelmed her.
He trailed kisses up to her throat, and when he finally covered her
lips with his, she felt all the tension go out of her as she gave
herself up to the pleasure his hands were creating in her. Nothing
mattered except that she was in his arms….

Alexander was surprised at how tense she was, and he
was equally surprised when he suddenly felt her relax. He deepened
his kiss as she moaned and arched herself against him. He gently
ran his tongue over her teeth and then into her mouth, and his kiss
became one of triumphant possession. She was his and he meant to
take her as she had never been taken before. His hands stroked her
gently rounding breasts, and when he felt her becoming taut under
his fingers, he bent his head to a nipple. He felt a visceral spark
fanned into flame by her groaning response to his touch. He reached
up to pull off her ridiculous man’s wig, loosening her hair until
he could twine his fingers in the golden curls that spilled over
the bedcover. “I’ve wanted this for so long…. You know that,” he
whispered into her ear, tracing its delicate outline with his
tongue before taking her mouth again. His hands stroked down her
sides before moving over to the triangle between her legs, covering
her for a moment before he sat up and, eyes locked with hers, began
to unfasten his clothes so he could feel her against him without
the nuisance of any covering. A smile pulled at the corner of his
mouth when he saw that her eyes never left him while he undressed,
though they briefly dropped downward when his breeches and
underclothes dropped to the floor. He slid next to her on the bed
and pulled her on top of him, throwing one lean leg over hers and
groaning at the feel of her warm skin on his. She seemed to weigh
practically nothing, yet when her breasts pressed against his chest
the weight of her was nearly unbearable. He could taste the brandy
on her mouth as she kissed him, her hair falling like a golden veil
around their heads. His hands pulled her waist tightly against him
and he arched his hips so she would feel the hardened length of him
pressing into her. He continued kissing her, marveling, while his
hands searched her curves, that any woman could be as perfectly
shaped as she was. She moved her hips against him in answer to the
pressure of his hands on her. Still holding her, he rolled over to
press her into the soft mattress. She seemed not to know what to do
with her hands, and because he was mad to have her touch him as he
did her, he placed them on his back. “Touch me, Isobel,” he ordered
softly. Her fingers lightly stroked his shoulders, then, so slowly
it was almost a torture, traced the muscles of his back down to his
waist. “You are perfect,” he groaned, lowering his lips to a
breast. He heard her gasp as he lightly bit one nipple, then the
other. “A moment, love,” he said softly after she tried to pull him
back when he got up to douse all the candles but the one on the
bedstand. Her skin gleamed palely in the darkened room. He ran a
finger down her long legs, watching the shiver that followed his
touch. “I’ve dreamed of you often, Isobel,” he said in a low voice,
“but the reality far exceeds my imagination.” He bent to kiss her
again, and when she pulled him down to her and curved against him
he found the passion he was arousing in her was more powerfully
erotic than the passion she wrought in him, and soon he could not
tell the difference.