Read Online The Earl's Mistress by Liz Carlyle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Liz Carlyle
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now looked soft, his bottom lip faintly swollen.
Something like lust went shivering through her.
“Isabella,” he said huskily. “It’s Isabella, yes—?”
She nodded.
“Isabella, I want you beneath me,” he rasped. “In my bed.”
“In your bed?” Isabella echoed witlessly.
“Or wherever you prefer,” he amended, his voice dropping.
Isabella’s eyes flew wide. “I cannot,” she said, this time jerking free of his grip. “Not in Northumbria. And not here.”
He did not follow her but watched her warily instead. He had wicked eyes that glittered like shards of blue ice.
“I’m sorry.” She forced down a hard swallow and shook her head. “I’ve made a foolish, foolish mistake.”
But her foolish mistake, Isabella knew, had more to do with what she did want than with what she did not.
She wanted him. A man who was dangerous, demanding, and, unless she missed her guess, a little cruel. And she wondered, fleetingly, if she had lost her mind. If something inside her was simply not . . . normal .
“Made a mistake, have you?” he murmured. “I certainly haven’t. I find you more desirable now, my dear, than ever. And though you don’t like me a great deal, you do want me.”
“How very confident you are,” she whispered.
“But not, I think, overconfident,” he replied, studying her. “Your eyes are wide, your lips damp and slightly parted. Your gaze—and a moment ago, your hands—were drifting in directions that, strictly speaking, a lady’s do not.”
Isabella could only stare. She wanted to slap him again, but she had the most frightful realization that what he said was true; that her hands had slid down his shoulders and back, and that this time she’d even caressed—
Lord Hepplewood saved her the shame, for he was suddenly looking up at the wintry sky. “In any event, it will be dark by five,” he said with annoying calm, “and quite likely wet. You came by carriage, I assume?”
Numbly, she nodded.
He jerked his head toward the back door. “Go inside,” he said, not unkindly, “and pour yourself a brandy. The parlor is to the front. I’ll see to the bags and carriage. You cannot possibly leave here tonight.”
Fear must have flashed across her face. Lord Hepplewood caught both her arms in a strong grip. “I’ve never needed to force myself on a woman, Mrs. Aldridge—well, none save my wife—and I’ve no interest in forcing myself on you.”
She gaped at him. “And how am I supposed to trust—”
But her words broke, her face flooding with heat, for Isabella wasn’t sure which of them she trusted least.
Hepplewood knew it, too. He leaned into her again, his mouth low. This time, however, he did not quite kiss her. Instead, he captured the swell of her bottom lip, drew it between his own, and lightly suckled until her most private places throbbed.
When at last he lifted his mouth, his eyes were hot and knowing. “Yes, my dear,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over her face, “if you come to my bed, you will assuredly do it on my terms. And by God, you’ll do my bidding whilst you’re in it. But the choice to come?” He shrugged. “That will be entirely yours.”
Then he let her go, turned on his boot heel, and strode around the house.
Fingertips flying to her bruised lips, Isabella watched him go, still trembling.
Good heavens, was ever a man so insolent?
But then, a nobleman could afford to be insolent—particularly to someone like her.
Attempting to gather her wits, she smoothed her hands down her dark purple dress as if she might sweep away the evidence of his kiss. She still stood in the back garden, though it seemed surreal now.
Beyond the fence, the carriage house and stable were unchanged, even though her world had just turned topsy-turvy. A pile of large, unwieldy fieldstone lay to one side of the mounting block, and to the other, a pile of smaller, more manageable pieces.
Hepplewood had been at it a while, exhausting his demons,
Something like lust went shivering through her.
“Isabella,” he said huskily. “It’s Isabella, yes—?”
She nodded.
“Isabella, I want you beneath me,” he rasped. “In my bed.”
“In your bed?” Isabella echoed witlessly.
“Or wherever you prefer,” he amended, his voice dropping.
Isabella’s eyes flew wide. “I cannot,” she said, this time jerking free of his grip. “Not in Northumbria. And not here.”
He did not follow her but watched her warily instead. He had wicked eyes that glittered like shards of blue ice.
“I’m sorry.” She forced down a hard swallow and shook her head. “I’ve made a foolish, foolish mistake.”
But her foolish mistake, Isabella knew, had more to do with what she did want than with what she did not.
She wanted him. A man who was dangerous, demanding, and, unless she missed her guess, a little cruel. And she wondered, fleetingly, if she had lost her mind. If something inside her was simply not . . . normal .
“Made a mistake, have you?” he murmured. “I certainly haven’t. I find you more desirable now, my dear, than ever. And though you don’t like me a great deal, you do want me.”
“How very confident you are,” she whispered.
“But not, I think, overconfident,” he replied, studying her. “Your eyes are wide, your lips damp and slightly parted. Your gaze—and a moment ago, your hands—were drifting in directions that, strictly speaking, a lady’s do not.”
Isabella could only stare. She wanted to slap him again, but she had the most frightful realization that what he said was true; that her hands had slid down his shoulders and back, and that this time she’d even caressed—
Lord Hepplewood saved her the shame, for he was suddenly looking up at the wintry sky. “In any event, it will be dark by five,” he said with annoying calm, “and quite likely wet. You came by carriage, I assume?”
Numbly, she nodded.
He jerked his head toward the back door. “Go inside,” he said, not unkindly, “and pour yourself a brandy. The parlor is to the front. I’ll see to the bags and carriage. You cannot possibly leave here tonight.”
Fear must have flashed across her face. Lord Hepplewood caught both her arms in a strong grip. “I’ve never needed to force myself on a woman, Mrs. Aldridge—well, none save my wife—and I’ve no interest in forcing myself on you.”
She gaped at him. “And how am I supposed to trust—”
But her words broke, her face flooding with heat, for Isabella wasn’t sure which of them she trusted least.
Hepplewood knew it, too. He leaned into her again, his mouth low. This time, however, he did not quite kiss her. Instead, he captured the swell of her bottom lip, drew it between his own, and lightly suckled until her most private places throbbed.
When at last he lifted his mouth, his eyes were hot and knowing. “Yes, my dear,” he murmured, his gaze drifting over her face, “if you come to my bed, you will assuredly do it on my terms. And by God, you’ll do my bidding whilst you’re in it. But the choice to come?” He shrugged. “That will be entirely yours.”
Then he let her go, turned on his boot heel, and strode around the house.
Fingertips flying to her bruised lips, Isabella watched him go, still trembling.
Good heavens, was ever a man so insolent?
But then, a nobleman could afford to be insolent—particularly to someone like her.
Attempting to gather her wits, she smoothed her hands down her dark purple dress as if she might sweep away the evidence of his kiss. She still stood in the back garden, though it seemed surreal now.
Beyond the fence, the carriage house and stable were unchanged, even though her world had just turned topsy-turvy. A pile of large, unwieldy fieldstone lay to one side of the mounting block, and to the other, a pile of smaller, more manageable pieces.
Hepplewood had been at it a while, exhausting his demons,
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