Must Love Breeches (41 page)

Sweat broke out on her skin, chilling her. His warm, male scent filled the small space, causing her nerves to squirm. She squelched her physical reaction.
Be strong
.

Aaaand silence.

Be prepared. He’ll accept your offer for an out. It’s for the best.

A small part of her cheered her on for being so brave. She waited for his reply and for her life’s course to change. Again.

He cleared his throat. The sound drew her gaze to his.

Mistake. His piercing, multi-hued eyes made her fall back into the corner, pinning her. Her breath hitched, and she feared his answer even more.
He’s going to be honest.

“Do you wish to dissolve this engagement for yourself?”

“No,” she whispered. Why couldn’t she tear her gaze away? She needed to expand on her answer, though, to be absolutely clear. She swallowed. “I mean, yes. I don’t want to spend my life with someone who’s with me out of a sense of obligation.”

“And this is the only reason you avow that you wish to cry off? There is no other?”

A small flicker of anger stirred within. Why did he have to drag out her agony?

“Yes,” she answered, tight lipped. She gripped her purse.

His shoulders relaxed and Isabelle realized his whole body had been rigid with tension. He yanked her from her seat to his.

What in the world?

He crushed her mouth in a searing, hungry kiss.

A kiss that made her stomach drop away, that demanded an answer even as it sought to reassure.

Her body leapt in response, every nerve ending tingling. She clamped her arms around his neck and curled her fingers into his rich, dark hair.

The panic and fear Phineas harbored in his chest flamed into a relief so poignant, so overwhelming, it incited him with the desire to possess her immediately, right there in his carriage. She was like water to him, his desiccated existence had become rich again. The swirling eddies she caused disturbed his calm, calculated layers, shaking him up, stirring him back to life, back to his full sense of self. And he had thought she was leaving him.

“Isabelle,” Phineas groaned. “Don’t do that to me again. I cannot—”
I cannot lose you.
He slanted his mouth on hers, enveloping it, claiming it, tasting it. Tasting
her.
Like water? No. She was like some exotic elixir specially crafted for his senses. She tightened her fingers on his scalp, the delicate scrape of her nails enflaming him further.

Ever since they had made love, Phineas had ached for her. Ached to learn every curve. Ached to learn every secret desire. Ever since, he had denied himself, reluctantly accepting her desire for distance. Ever since, he had learned how much she meant to him. Now that they were truly engaged...

She caressed his neck, and every touch of hers brought his skin to life in its wake. Christ. He wanted her to trace his whole body with her miraculous fingers, complete his resurrection. Urgency pounded through him. He gripped her waist and dragged her onto his lap, straddling him, her skirts billowing. Her spectacles he gently removed and placed on the opposite seat. He framed her face with his hands and in the dim light of the carriage, he saw the same urgency, the same desire reflected in her eyes. He claimed her sweet mouth again.

A low moan escaped her. In response, blood surged and heated his body. He tore his mouth from hers and licked her ear’s delicate rim, inhaling her unique scent, like a drug. Remembering how she responded last time, he nibbled on her ear lobe, the warm, velvety button of skin a soft, delicate brush against his tongue. Her body shuddered against him. Devil take it, he could not get enough of her. He pushed a hand under her frothy skirts and stroked her luscious, luscious calf.

“You cannot, what?” She fumbled with his cravat.

“What?” With his other hand, he yanked her bodice down. A tiny tearing sound cut through the rasping of their breath. What was she talking about?

He kissed and nibbled his way to her exposed breasts. The light from the carriage lamp cast shadows, highlighting her delightfully sculpted body. He drank in the graceful curve of her long neck, the notch in her collarbone, the gentle slope of her breasts, the nipples already firm.

She was so perfect, perfect for him. Under his gaze, the peaks tightened further. The carriage’s rhythmic swinging brought one rosy nipple closer and farther away with each undulation, and it captivated him. It symbolized their relationship: external forces kept bringing her closer and tugging her farther away, and he was powerless to stop them, powerless to keep her close always. At the next sway sending her backward, he growled and jerked her back to him, his mouth capturing the taut, elusive breast.

Exultation sang through his veins, heating him further.

“Oh!” gasped Isabelle. Trembles shook her body. Her hand gripped the back of his head, cradling him. She squirmed on his lap, causing his enflamed erection to leap.

He groaned. At this moment, he wanted to be buried so deep in her he was incapable of further thought. He quested up the skin of her thigh and cupped her bottom, clasping the sweet juncture of her warm sex against his aching length. Her hips rocked slowly, sensually, stoking the hunger clawing up his spine. He suckled her breast, flicking and laving it with his tongue, tasting her, glorying in her tantalizing response.

She yanked his shirttails free from under his coat and her soft, warm hand stroked up the small of his back, the satiny glide of her gloved hand feeling scandalous on his sensitized skin. “I forgot what we were saying,” she whispered.

They had been talking?

The carriage’s motion rocked them, but he held her firmly, incorporating the sensual movement into the rhythm of their dance.

He would not let her go. He had to have her. The need to possess her so thoroughly that she would never want to leave him pulsed urgently through him. He tore his mouth from her exquisite breast and tugged on the fall of his pantaloons, freeing his painful erection. He grabbed a fistful of her skirts in his lap, hands shaking. The carriage turned a corner, jolted her against him—using the motion, he lifted her and embedded himself deep inside her hot channel in one swift, hard stroke.

“Oh, my God, holy shit.” She arched back, his hands the only force holding her up.

Chuckling at her blasphemy and moaning at the exquisite sensation of her warmth sheathing him, Phineas paused, held her desperately, and savored the moment of their union while the carriage gently swayed. So hot and slick and tight against his swollen flesh, he nearly spilled his seed. He gritted his teeth. If she moved, that would be it.

She did not, but the carriage turned another corner, embedding him more fully. He shuddered, gripped her around the waist, and tumbled them both onto the floor—her below him, taking his weight, taking him.

Oh, God, he couldn’t—his control shattered. He stroked into her hard and fast, the sweet friction scorching through him, obliterating any last shred of self—all sensation arrowed into the sublime feel of her liquid heat, her acceptance, her responsiveness. Isabelle. His.

Each stroke a testament, a promise, a coming home. Her nails raked his back through his shirt as he pumped back and forth, the tantalizing pressure building, driving him, increasing in urgency.

“OhGodPhineas!” Her legs gripped his waist, allowing him deeper access.

He couldn’t hold back much longer. Another bump from the carriage and she tightened around him, convulsed, as her release swept through her, milking him.

Thank Christ.

His muscles humming, he held her face, held her gaze, watched her flush, and rammed into her one more time and exploded, his mind searing. He collapsed on her, the aftershocks of his release bucking his body several times, his skin slick with sweat.

While he drifted, two thoughts trickled in, disturbing his well-being. One: he had lost control, acted like an animal, and two: she held something back. He had seen it in her eyes just before her release.

Dammit. Isabelle was very much afraid she was in love with Lord Montagu.

She toyed with the eggs on her plate, pushing them into different formations. Vivid replays of his passion in the carriage last night continued to flash in her mind, causing heat to bloom on her skin. He had seemed entirely serious about not wanting to end their engagement, and yet... She blew out a harsh breath. Wow. Okay. Hard to admit, but yeah, it bothered her that he hadn’t said he loved her. Could she commit herself to someone she feared she loved desperately if he didn’t? Where only physical passion existed on his part? Passion faded, after all. Would he then still want to be with her? Could she deal with him turning away? Also, did he pursue the case so diligently because it was the only honorable way to sever their relationship?

Erg. She dropped her silverware onto her plate with a clatter. She needed to think.

However, no place existed where she felt comfortable, where she could surround herself with the familiar and
think
.

She groaned, remembering her disastrous trip to Guildford, hoping to find that sense of place she craved to focus her thoughts. Perhaps the British Museum this time? Even though the building was not the same as the one she’d worked in, she’d been there once before. Maybe the familiarity of being surrounded by artifacts would be enough.

The footmen were otherwise engaged, so she asked a maid to accompany her and set out in a hack she hired a block away. The maid sat in the seat opposite, hands clasped in her lap. This society wouldn’t even let Isabelle do a simple thing like this alone. She tapped her heel against the floor and glared out the window. This particular maid was laxer than the others, so maybe she would stay far enough behind to give Isabelle a simulated sense of freedom.

At the museum, Isabelle wandered the rooms. The spot where she’d shared that searing kiss with Lord Montagu pulled like a magnet. A fresh wave of heat swept through her.
Not helping.

She spun around. Why was she freaking out about this? She’d said she’d marry him. To calm her mind, she sought pieces she remembered from her own time working at the museum. She made it into a game and meandered the echoing halls on her quest. It succeeded in calming her, though so far she’d found only a handful on display that were familiar.

“Quite an interesting piece, is it not?” a gravelly voice said behind her.

Isabelle jumped. She’d been so absorbed in looking at the pre-Columbian ceremonial mask that she’d not heard anyone approach. She peered around to see the kind and elderly face of Mr. Mendley. “Oh, you scared me.”

Mr. Mendley bowed politely and murmured his apologies. The nickname she and Ada had for him sprang to mind: Mr. Mumbley. Always kind, he suffered from a case of the mumbles. It certainly forced his listeners to lean closer to try to make out what he said. Unfortunately, leaning closer came with a cost: Mr. Mendley had a sharp and distinct odor that reminded her of the unpleasantness of growing old and feeble.

Isabelle felt sorry for him. “Yes, I love pre-Columbian artifacts. Pretty much anything that has to do with the Americas.”

He smiled. “Certainly, that makes sense. Have you seen the ones in the gallery upstairs?”

She hadn’t, and so she enjoyed a pleasant hour or so strolling through the museum with her new guide. He proved to be knowledgeable and quietly shared his expertise.

When they left the museum, she thanked him for her pleasant afternoon. He bowed and mumbled something in reply.

He stepped away, but turned back, hesitant. “My dear Miss Rochon. I wonder. Have you seen the items in Mr. Stern’s shop? Oh, I’m sure you have. Of course,
mumble mumble
silly.” He turned away.

“Wait.” Isabelle grabbed his coat sleeve. “Actually, I haven’t. I didn’t know about it.”

Mr. Mendley’s blue eyes lit up. “Oh, well then, dear, we simply must visit. That is, of course,
mumble mumble
want to.”

Assuming it was an invitation, Isabelle said, “I would love to, let’s go.” This friend of Babbage’s posed no threat, plus the danger had passed—the men after her had gotten what they wanted.

“Excellent, my carriage is right here, if you want to
mumble
with me?”