To Love a Wicked Scoundrel (20 page)

He did not miss her sharp intake of breath, nor how she remained perfectly motionless, a smile on her face enhanced by a touch of wonderment.

‘It is so lovely. I do not know where to look first. It is as though an artist spilled his paintbox.’ She scanned the fields and spoke to him over her shoulder. ‘It must take a huge staff of gardeners to keep the landscape so breathtaking and pristine.’

Before them, for as far as the eye could see, verdant fields of bluebells, cowslip, mallow and poppy blended in a wild flower mosaic of vivid beauty. Con had painted the picturesque landscape many times, never able to capture the remarkable loveliness evident when standing at this crest. Now his eyes never left Isabelle. Every shilling he had paid any gardener was worth its weight in gold upon witnessing her reaction.

‘Let’s go.’ He reached for her hand and moved to where stone stairs led to a cobblestone path, through a tree-lined garden, and further to a folly at the rear of his property. Long-forgotten memories wriggled up to the surface: the endless hours he’d spent in the fields as a boy, and how the sanctity of the gardens brought him peace...and relief.
Safety.
He opened his mouth to speak, but discarded the thought with a brisk turn of his head. He had never shared the sordid facts of his past. No one enjoyed a sorrowful tale.

‘What is over there?’

Isabelle pointed to the left, where a low stone wall formed a square enclosure, far beyond the colourful gardens. It was as if she knew the path his thoughts had followed and prodded him to speak of unpleasant things.

‘Nothing of importance.’ He cleared his throat. His father did not deserve the smallest plot of ground afforded to his gravesite. It remained the one area of the estate left unkempt, akin to the parenting of the man buried there. To withstand verbal abuse at the hand of one’s haughty sire was not uncommon among aristocracy, but physical abuse from one’s parent was unconscionable. Myriad heavy emotions clawed themselves towards the surface but he refused to allow them to break through. When he returned his eyes to Isabelle, her brow creased with curiosity, but she did not question him further.

They walked on and the silence between them did not matter. He offered his arm as they manoeuvered the slate stones where England’s fickle weather had eroded the slabs into glass. Isabelle held firmly to his elbow and the trust in her touch caused a rush of emotions to whip through him. His blood stirred in sexual response. Caught up in his reaction, when she spoke her words caught him unaware.

‘Highborough House is very impressive and the furnishings are exceeding well done. These gardens are exceptional. Were they your parents’ handiwork or am I completely mistaken and nature, like everything else, has given you a generous gift?’

Provoked by curiosity, she had no idea how her question disturbed him. His mother left before his sixth birthday; a result of his father’s philandering. When he became of age and sought his mother’s whereabouts, he’d learned she’d died, stuck down in a carriage accident soon after leaving Highborough House. He wished his memories of her were stronger. If they did exist, they remained inaccessible, stifled by hatred for his father.

‘My father was not a very warm man.’ Isabelle reached forward and ran her fingertips over a nearby bloom. ‘He rarely spared a kind word.’

‘Nor was mine.’ In that, they were two sides of the same coin.

She continued, her expression as melancholy as her words. ‘My mother…I was told I was too much for her.’ She faltered before she finished. ‘I believe my father blamed me for her death.’

Her steps slowed, but she did not stop walking.

‘I am sorry. It must have been very difficult to grow up in a household such as you describe.’ Of that he knew well. The commonality of their childhoods urged him to comfort her. ‘Had you no great aunt, no grandmother during those young years?’

‘No, just my father.’ Emotion laced each word. ‘He reminded me as often as possible that I was not what he wanted. A huge disappointment, actually. He disliked my unconventional appearance and rude colouring – ’

‘The breathtaking combination of your ivory skin and amaranth hair?’

She did not look at him, although her head bowed in modest acceptance.

‘And my unfortunate figure.’

She crossed her arms over her chest, whether in a gesture of comfort or to suppress a shudder, he could not tell.

‘Isabelle, everyone notices when you enter the room.’

‘For all the wrong reasons, no doubt.’ Her tone turned practical.

He took her hand in his and gently opened the two pearl buttons at her wrist. Under the close scrutiny of her soft grey gaze, he removed first one glove, then the other, and tucked them out of sight in his trouser pocket. Then before she might object, as he suspected she would, he raised one palm to his lips and pressed a kiss to the delicate skin over her pulse. Her shiver in response to the caress tremored through his entire body.

‘As much as I loathe to contradict a lady, you could not be more wrong.’ He released her hand and leaned closer. The scent of rosewater perfume assailed him even though they stood surrounded by fields of flowers. ‘Your lush curves make me hunger to discover what is under all those layers of muslin and cotton. There is nothing at all displeasing about you. Do not force me to defer to my reputed extensive knowledge of the fairer sex.’

His final word hung in the air between them, naughty and ever so tempting. He recalled her powerful response to their intimacy in Lady’s Stanton’s garden. A vibrant, passionate woman lived in her soul.
What would it take to draw her out?

‘You are an accomplished charmer.’

Velvet grey eyes under feathery lashes held him entranced.

‘But are you as fleet as you are clever, sir?’

The folly lay ahead and he’d noticed how the structure caught her interest as soon as they turned the curve on the path. Now she eyed it with speculative interest as if she had solved a puzzle or strove to measure the distance.

‘I will race you to the folly. Do you think you can keep up?’ She laughed as she proposed the challenge, and did not allow him to answer before she hitched her skirts above her ankles and set off in a flutter of yellow.

His long strides caught her with ease although he held back and allowed her the win. She climbed the marble steps and strolled between the columns as a surge of recollection more than emotion rushed to the forefront. He remembered himself as a boy, hiding in the folly after one of his father’s frequent tirades, his tears and sobs lost in the enclosure, safely tucked away from the rest of the world. Little reason provoked his father to mete out punishment. His jaw tightened as he recalled a severe beating he’d received for ruining his leather boots. He spent hours in the folly avoiding his father that particular afternoon, although it proved a waste of time. His father waited him out, knowing he would return once darkness fell. Then the late earl punished him with zeal. Constantine smoothed his hair away from his face and used both palms to erase the image at the same time his fingers coasted over the scars of his past. Not long after that episode he had schooled himself to live in the moment, taking pleasure wherever it presented itself.

Chapter Fifteen

Isabelle set back against the smooth, marble column and watched Con approach the folly. He had allowed her to win, but that would not prevent her from celebrating the victory. The run had left her breathless and she was thankful for the extra minutes she’d gained. She pressed her fingers to her flushed cheeks aware her bun likely looked a mess, and an unexpected exhilaration coursed through her. At one turn, she confessed her most painful childhood memories and the next her heart soared with his tender compliments. Regardless, she refused to allow the scoundrel to plant hope in her heart. She knew tomorrow would come and she would return to Wiltshire. Then he would resume his usual habits and she would be nothing more than a memory, if that.

Unwanted questions pushed forth like weeds in a garden, but she refused to allow them to take root. Was this maelstrom of emotions the very essence of falling in love? Whatever the cost, it was time she stopped pursuing reason to solve every problem in her life. This moment begged for living and she would relish it for what it presented; an adventure of the heart. Con might easily forget their two days spent together, but she’d cherish the experience for ever.

‘You allowed me the win and to think I’d heard you weren’t a gentleman.’ She offered a confident smile and a sense of freedom took hold with the flirtatious words. If this was the manner in which Constantine lived, she could begrudge him little. ‘I like this place.’

He craned his neck to the domed ceiling above her and then down to where she stood, her back rigid against the marble column. His heated gaze continued over her as thoroughly as he’d examined the structure and she shifted under his scrutiny. All kinds of ridiculous feelings rioted inside. What was wrong with her?

‘Ah, the folly. My father built everything to the extreme. Including his reputation.’ A muscle jumped in his jaw before he continued. ‘He prided himself on these extensive grounds and the grandeur of Highborough House. I have refurnished the interior of the estate since his death, but I have not touched this structure. Some places are too full of memories.’ He paused then flicked his gaze upward. ‘Did you notice the lion at the peak of the dome?’ He pointed his finger towards the roof where a lion sculpted of white marble donned a king’s crown and sat atop the dome.

‘When I was a child I fancied I could land a rock inside the crown. I spent endless hours attempting the feat, although I don’t believe I ever achieved my goal.’

He bent and collected a small stone, then arched his arm and took aim. From his expression and the skittering sound against the roof, Isabelle knew he did not succeed. It would take precise skill and a good bit of luck to land a stone with such perfect accuracy.

Con brushed his palms together and entered the enclosure.

‘There’s a little pond beyond the folly.’ He indicated vaguely to his left. ‘I used to go there and swim in the nude.’ Then he smiled a slow, sensuous curve. ‘Sometimes I still do.’

‘Really?’ Isabelle pushed the words past her lips and a lick of heat unfurled as her heart answered the husky intimacy in his words. Damn her foolish imagination as it conjured his image, all smooth skin, droplets of water coasting over the hard planes of his broad chest, his golden hair glistening from the swim. She swallowed reflexively as her body responded with stunning awareness, each of her senses in tune to this man: his masculine heat, his spicy warm scent, the strong shadow of his body as he paced closer to the column where she stood. Motionless. She melted under his gaze, her heart first, her knees quick to follow.

‘I believe you owe me a kiss.’

He advanced with measured steps, although his words reached her with beguiling finesse.

‘How is it I find myself for ever in your debt?’ She tried to suppress the memory of their intimacy in Lady Stanton’s gardens. Much to her dismay, it persisted. His one kiss tempted her to abandon an entire lifetime of lessons in etiquette, virtue, and morality. That evening, she’d discovered his hot velvet mouth was a sensation born purely from sin.

How much was she willing to give and still protect her heart? She had already offered him every advantage when she poured out her innermost thoughts concerning her dismal childhood. Their discussion, one of intimacies usually shared between a husband and wife, proved her careless naivety. ‘You make up rules whenever they suit you.’

He smiled as if she had complimented him.

‘I brought you safely to Highborough House, off the dark dangerous roads of the countryside.’ His honeyed words floated to her as he took a final stride forward.

‘You ambushed my carriage. I had no choice.’ Her voice sounded breathless and the latter part of her objection lacked conviction.

Constantine dismissed her protest with a quirk of the lips and leaned in.

Isabelle pressed back against the column, but gained little, his irresistible mouth a breath away.
His mouth. Sculpted by the Devil, no doubt.

Her eyes followed his hand as he tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear and his fingertips lingered at the skin beneath her lobe, where her pulse thrummed in tune to her traitorous heart.

‘You behave like a child,’ she said in a vexed tone. ‘You persist and persist until you get what you want.’

‘I assure you, I am no child.’

His low murmur vibrated against her cheek to prick every nerve ending into immediate awareness. Desire, need, curiosity: all three unfurled in a flutter of insistence, deep in her chest, and lower still.

He moved his hips closer to her skirts. Why didn’t he just kiss her and have done with it?
Why?
That one tiny word plagued her and brought havoc to her usual intellect. Why did he wish for two days of her time? It was the logical question to ask and yet she could not voice it, fearful of the answer. He had everything,
everyone,
at his disposal. Why would he want her? The question begged an answer and she snapped at him with misplaced impatience.

‘You have the world on a string.’

He chuckled, a deep throaty rumble that skittered over her skin to remind her how near he stood. She didn’t bother to object when he released her hair from its bun and tossed the pins in a nearby hedgerow. His eyes searched her face and came to rest on her mouth.

‘True, I hold the world on a string, but you, love, have me tied up in knots.’

‘I rather doubt that.’ She gasped as his head dipped, just the slightest movement.
The perfect angle.
‘You can have any woman you choose.’

‘An intriguing assumption…’

His lips hovered over hers and each syllable of his husky whisper pressed warm and wonderful against her mouth.

‘I choose you.’

He captured her mouth in a rush of pure heat, a glorious mixture of possession and temptation that swept into her body and touched her soul. Each pinnacle of her body awakened. Time ceased to matter. Passion and urgency took control as he tangled his fingers in her hair. She whimpered with pure pleasure. He held her neck firmly while his thumbs stroked her cheeks as gentle as the caress of a butterfly’s wing; the contrasting pressure provoked an onslaught of delicious sensations coursing through every inch of her body. His wicked tongue allowed her no quarter and rubbed with determined finesse, intent on breaching all resistance. He succeeded with ease.