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Authors: Liz Carlyle
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tolerate.” He set a large, very firm hand on her forearm. “Do we understand one another?”
But the word coincidence was slowly seeping into her consciousness.
“Surely you don’t mean to claim—” Isabella cut off her words and tried to draw back. “Surely you aren’t suggesting this is purely—”
“Accidental?” He gave an odd half smile. “Little in life is. I saw a woman I wished to bed, but alas, she declined. Still, women, to my mind, are very nearly interchangeable. It was no great inconvenience to ask the resourceful Mrs. Litner to find me another raven-haired, violet-eyed beauty willing to slake my lust. Imagine my surprise when she wrote that I should expect you .”
“Dear God.” Isabella tried to back away, but the hand on her arm did not relent. “I don’t believe it.”
“Mrs. Aldridge,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over her face, “you approached Louisa Litner with every intention of marketing yourself in just the fashion I suggested. And she has sent you to—well, let’s be blunt—to charm and to flirt and to almost certainly warm the bed of one Mr. William Mowbrey, a gentleman of very specific tastes. What can it possibly matter to you that I have turned out to be Mowbrey?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Isabella tried to think. “It just does.”
“Does it?” His voice dropped, his eyes suddenly heavy. “My dear, you intrigue me.”
“I don’t wish to intrigue you,” she managed, setting a hand against his chest. “I want n-nothing to do with you.”
But she knew it wasn’t true; not entirely. More than once during the long drive from London, she had remembered their almost-kiss and wondered what this man next would be like. Would his eyes flash with fire? Would his touch singe her through her clothes?
Oh, yes. It would.
And she, apparently, was an idiot.
Hepplewood had caught her chin and was holding it none too gently. “No, Mrs. Aldridge, I was not mistaken in you,” he murmured, his voice thickening. “You are a stunning creature—and very much in need, I think, of being tamed.”
Isabella had the sense of slipping over a mossy cliff; as if she were falling, her stomach bottoming out. His mouth was nearly over hers, his intent plain, and she would not escape it a second time.
“Just a taste, my dear,” the earl murmured, his lashes lowering. “Yes, merely that—for now .”
Isabella knew she should run; that to kiss him would be surrendering something of herself. But her feet were frozen, his grip relentless.
Hepplewood pulled her hard against him, surrounding her in the scent of male sweat and something even more primitive. He settled his lips over hers, gently at first, and Isabella let escape a faint whimper.
The sound elicited a deep groan, and Hepplewood opened his mouth over hers, thrusting deep on the first stroke. Blood seemed to well up, roaring in her ears, and it was as if the garden and the world around them spun away.
His heat and the overpowering weight of his body surrounded Isabella. Sliding his tongue deep, the earl drew her firmly against him, one hand settling boldly on her hip, urging her against him as he thrust.
Isabella had been kissed, but she’d known nothing like this. It was raw and vulgar and wonderfully knee-weakening; a rush of hot desire that threatened to swamp her. His fingers, she dimly realized, no longer held her arm but had instead plunged into the hair at her nape, forcing her to hold still. His left hand was cupped beneath her hip, lifting her slightly against his groin as her will went weak with a longing that frightened her.
The tip of his tongue stroked the roof of her mouth in the lightest, most erotic of caresses. Inexplicably, the raw hunger it engendered jerked Isabella from her confusion. She wedged both hands flat against his chest and shoved.
To her shock, he stopped, lifting his lips an inch, his eyes still heavy with desire. His mouth, which she would have called thin and a little cruel,
But the word coincidence was slowly seeping into her consciousness.
“Surely you don’t mean to claim—” Isabella cut off her words and tried to draw back. “Surely you aren’t suggesting this is purely—”
“Accidental?” He gave an odd half smile. “Little in life is. I saw a woman I wished to bed, but alas, she declined. Still, women, to my mind, are very nearly interchangeable. It was no great inconvenience to ask the resourceful Mrs. Litner to find me another raven-haired, violet-eyed beauty willing to slake my lust. Imagine my surprise when she wrote that I should expect you .”
“Dear God.” Isabella tried to back away, but the hand on her arm did not relent. “I don’t believe it.”
“Mrs. Aldridge,” he murmured, his eyes roaming over her face, “you approached Louisa Litner with every intention of marketing yourself in just the fashion I suggested. And she has sent you to—well, let’s be blunt—to charm and to flirt and to almost certainly warm the bed of one Mr. William Mowbrey, a gentleman of very specific tastes. What can it possibly matter to you that I have turned out to be Mowbrey?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Isabella tried to think. “It just does.”
“Does it?” His voice dropped, his eyes suddenly heavy. “My dear, you intrigue me.”
“I don’t wish to intrigue you,” she managed, setting a hand against his chest. “I want n-nothing to do with you.”
But she knew it wasn’t true; not entirely. More than once during the long drive from London, she had remembered their almost-kiss and wondered what this man next would be like. Would his eyes flash with fire? Would his touch singe her through her clothes?
Oh, yes. It would.
And she, apparently, was an idiot.
Hepplewood had caught her chin and was holding it none too gently. “No, Mrs. Aldridge, I was not mistaken in you,” he murmured, his voice thickening. “You are a stunning creature—and very much in need, I think, of being tamed.”
Isabella had the sense of slipping over a mossy cliff; as if she were falling, her stomach bottoming out. His mouth was nearly over hers, his intent plain, and she would not escape it a second time.
“Just a taste, my dear,” the earl murmured, his lashes lowering. “Yes, merely that—for now .”
Isabella knew she should run; that to kiss him would be surrendering something of herself. But her feet were frozen, his grip relentless.
Hepplewood pulled her hard against him, surrounding her in the scent of male sweat and something even more primitive. He settled his lips over hers, gently at first, and Isabella let escape a faint whimper.
The sound elicited a deep groan, and Hepplewood opened his mouth over hers, thrusting deep on the first stroke. Blood seemed to well up, roaring in her ears, and it was as if the garden and the world around them spun away.
His heat and the overpowering weight of his body surrounded Isabella. Sliding his tongue deep, the earl drew her firmly against him, one hand settling boldly on her hip, urging her against him as he thrust.
Isabella had been kissed, but she’d known nothing like this. It was raw and vulgar and wonderfully knee-weakening; a rush of hot desire that threatened to swamp her. His fingers, she dimly realized, no longer held her arm but had instead plunged into the hair at her nape, forcing her to hold still. His left hand was cupped beneath her hip, lifting her slightly against his groin as her will went weak with a longing that frightened her.
The tip of his tongue stroked the roof of her mouth in the lightest, most erotic of caresses. Inexplicably, the raw hunger it engendered jerked Isabella from her confusion. She wedged both hands flat against his chest and shoved.
To her shock, he stopped, lifting his lips an inch, his eyes still heavy with desire. His mouth, which she would have called thin and a little cruel,
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