His Wicked Embrace (25 page)

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Authors: Adrienne Basso

BOOK: His Wicked Embrace
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“I know it's absurd to feel so disappointed,” Isabella said, slumping dejectedly. “I'm sure Aunt Agnes has read these letters a hundred times over, yet for some reason I thought the answer would leap out at us.”
“Let's look through the other items, Isabella,” Damien said soothingly.
She grudgingly nodded her agreement and picked up two boxes. Keeping the smaller jewelry box in her lap, she gave Damien the larger writing box.
“Damnation!”
Damien's husky voice jarred Isabella. Glancing up, she saw his strained expression. Her stomach did a somersault. “What is it? What have you found?”
“The writing paper,” Damien said quietly, holding up a single sheet of parchment toward the firelight.
“It's blank,” Isabella replied, knitting her brows together.
“Yes,” Damien said. “And because it is not written on, I can easily read the watermark. I recognize it.”
Isabella rose to her knees and awkwardly shuffled toward him. “I don't understand,” she said, peering closely at the parchment. “I thought these watermarks were woven into the paper by the manufacturer to denote quality.” She fingered the heavy cream colored paper. “ 'Tis obvious this is a superior vellum.”
“Aside from crediting the paper maker, watermarks of heraldic themes and armorial shields showing the bearing of the aristocratic owner are often used,” Damien explained. “The paper I use is marked with a replica of my family coat of arms.”
Isabella frowned. “Lord Poole wears a gold ring bearing his family heraldry. I don't recall the design exactly, but I am certain it does not resemble this mark.”
“Of course not. If Poole's father and your mother were lovers, he would not have been foolish enough to present her with something containing his coat of arms.”
“Yet you said you recognized this paper,” Isabella said. “How?”
“Emmeline refused to use my parchment for her correspondence, preferring her family's unique creation.” Damien traced the outlines of the watermark to emphasize his point. “The bull's head is a common symbol, but rising between the horns is a supporting symbol, a star. This paper is made exclusively for the Poole family. It cannot be purchased by anyone else. Finding it among your mother's personal effects establishes a firm connection between her and them.”
“Good Lord.” Isabella sank back unsteadily on her haunches. “I don't believe it.”
“I agree the evidence is hardly conclusive, but given all the other circumstances, in conjunction to your striking physical resemblance to Emmeline, I believe we have finally discovered the truth.”
“The truth!” Isabella jerked herself up to her knees, swayed drunkenly, then sat down hard on the floor. She looked at Damien's solemn face, and a cold, empty fear invaded her heart.
He would grow to hate her now because of who she was. Gone forever was the chance, the hope, that he would one day return her love.
Her vision blurred. The tears were close to the surface, and Isabella knew she was about to disgrace herself. Yet she couldn't seem to gather the strength to leave.
“Sweetheart.” Damien reached down and lifted her into his lap. “Shhhh, don't cry.”
Isabella hiccuped back a sob. Damien smiled affectionately and kissed her temple. He rocked her slowly back and forth. She took a shuddering breath and rubbed her cheek against the soft silk of his waistcoat. He felt wonderful. Yet the turmoil in her heart continued.
Isabella felt disjointed, somehow out of touch with her true self. She absently twisted one of the gold buttons on the earl's jacket until the thread snapped. With a mute, apologetic glance, she handed him the button and he slipped it inside his pocket. Then his fingers began to stroke her head and shoulders in a soothing motion that gradually calmed her panic. And raised her passion.
Suddenly she wanted to kiss him. Everywhere. She wanted to loosen his cravat and nibble at the base of his throat, where his pulse beat strong and sure. She wanted to remove his jacket and waistcoat and shirt and run her fingers across his naked flesh. She wanted to make love to him. Now. But after all that had happened, would he still want her?
Isabella let her hand slide over the rock-hard muscles of Damien's arm and gave a firm squeeze. Then she bent herself seductively back over his other arm in a calculated pose of utter abandonment.
The earl squirmed in the chair, and her heart sang when she felt a familiar hard pressure against her bottom. She turned her head and looked him straight in the eye.
“The carpet might be scratchy, my lord, but your desk top looks invitingly smooth.”
A dark brow arched up. “Are you suggesting that we test that assumption, my dear?” The heat in his eyes and the sexy timber of his deep voice stole her breath away.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered in his ear.
“Right now?”
“Please.” Her voice was husky and thrillingly coaxing.
Damien hesitated a mere fraction of a second, then lowered his head and took her lips in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Isabella immediately responded by thrusting her tongue inside the warmth of Damien's mouth. She kissed him deeply, drinking in all of his heat and hunger. They kept kissing until her lips felt swollen, until the desire rose between them thick and urgent, tightening every nerve in her body.
Tearing her mouth free from his, Isabella drew her lips along the square line of his jaw, then flicked her tongue behind the lobe of his ear. Damien quivered and held her tighter against his chest. Even through the many layers of clothing, his body felt wonderful—strong, hard, and solid, offering her the comfort and security she so desperately needed, so desperately craved.
But she needed more. She needed to feel his naked skin against her own. She pushed Damien's jacket off his shoulders, released his waistcoat and cravat, and practically ripped his shirt away. Together they worked the buttons of her gown. She felt mindlessly insatiable, almost feverish, as the last button fell open. Naked, she rubbed her swollen breasts with their rigid nipples against Damien's chest in an agitated rhythm.
Her frantic urgency drove him wild. He caressed her breasts with his tongue until she was sobbing with pleasure. He pulled her skirt up to her waist and plunged his hand between her legs. Ripping away the fragile barrier of her undergarments, his fingers sought and found the slick wetness of her desire.
“More,” she pleaded, pushing herself closer. “I need to
feel
you.”
Her raging hunger threatened to consume them both. Damien grasped Isabella's wrist and placed her hand on the front of his breeches. She felt his swollen manhood straining against the fabric. With unsteady fingers, she unbuttoned his pants and he spilled into her palm, thick, hot, and full. He growled deep in his throat, growing larger and more rigid as she pulled and stroked him.
“I can't wait,” Damien said breathlessly.
He swept Isabella up in his arms, stood shakily on his feet, and quickly carried her across the room. He laid her across the desk, reached for her hips, and slid her to the edge. Isabella laughed. The wood did indeed feel smooth on her naked derriere.
Damien pushed her thighs wide apart and stepped between them. She bent her knees and lifted herself to receive him. He thrust himself inside her and she closed her eyes, rolling her head from side to side as he filled her, pounding hard against her with each exquisite stroke. Faster. Harder. Deeper.
It didn't last long. Isabella felt him begin to shudder and she tightened her legs, holding Damien closer. He cried out as he reached his peak, and she too let herself go, feeling wave upon wave of blissful sensations wash over her entire being.
Still breathing hard, they sagged together, clinging to each other in the turbulent aftermath of their passion. They stayed joined together for several countless minutes. Isabella felt wonderfully languid and numb. She barely stirred as Damien gently adjusted her clothing, covering her naked and still heated flesh.
He pulled her upright and she perched on the edge of the desk, her feet dangling. Framing her face in his large hands, Damien fingers brushed aside the damp tendrils of her hair before softly kissing her temple. Isabella sat patiently as he calmly rebuttoned her gown, her eyes never once straying from his beloved face. He tried repinning her hair, but the errant locks refused to cooperate.
“Let me do it.” Isabella held out her palm expectantly, and he obediently deposited the hairpins in it.
She could feel his eyes intently studying her every move, and her fingers grew clumsy. How foolish to feel embarrassed in front of him
now,
after what had just occurred between them. She lifted her head, her lovely violet eyes shining brightly.
Damien gave her a heart-melting smile. “Christ, Isabella,” he whispered softly. “We didn't even lock the door.”
 
 
Isabella raised the wine goblet to her lips, startled to realize it was empty.
How odd,
she thought,
I just filled the blasted thing.
Shrugging her shoulders, she reached for the bottle of claret on her dinner tray. She juggled the glass and the bottle awkwardly on her lap, then raised both knees to steady her hands.
She clutched the glass upright between her legs and took a deep breath. Squinting her eyes, Isabella carefully adjusted her aim and succeeded in replenishing her glass. She took a cautious sip, pleased that the taste no longer made her grimace.
Isabella lolled her head back against the chair and sighed. Her mind was totally confused. After Damien had made the startling connection between the writing paper and her mother, she had nearly lost control of her reason.
Yet Damien had remained concerned about her, kind, sympathetic, loving. In fact their wild, uncontrollable passion was exactly what she had needed at that moment. An intense, emotional escape from the truths of the past. But once she was fully dressed and her hair neatly pinned in place, Isabella had shocked them both by racing from Damien's study as if the hounds of hell were on her heels. A most cowardly and unladylike exit, to be sure.
Isabella was at a loss to understand her own feelings. She had fantasized for years about her natural father. She thought she was prepared to learn the truth—nay, she thought she would welcome it. But it had overwhelmed her and thrust her into such a dark state of confusion and despair that she felt compelled to hide herself.
Her bedchamber offered Isabella a small measure of sanctuary, and she had not ventured from the room for the remainder of the day. At her request a dinner tray had been prepared, but it lay untouched, except for the rich claret.
A sharp knock at her door sent her heart thumping. She attempted to rise, but the room began swaying with an irregular motion. Isabella stumbled back into her chair and called out breathlessly, “Come in.”
The earl crossed the threshold, and Isabella straightened her spine. Damien's unexpected presence dispelled her gloom.
“Damien.” Her smile was a joyful welcome. “How delightful to see you. Please, join me.” She indicated a chair near her own, but the earl remained on his feet. “I would offer you some wine, my lord, but I'm afraid there is no more. It must have been a very small bottle of claret. Shall I ring for another?”
“I don't think that would be a prudent idea, Isabella.” Damien knelt before her chair and regarded her intently. “I came to see how you are faring. Are you all right?”
“I am fine. Perfectly fine.” Isabella waved her arm through the air in what she hoped was a carefree manner. The dramatic gesture caused her eyes to cross and her head to swim. She shut her eyes tightly to stop the spinning. It didn't work.
Isabella sighed deeply, rested her elbow on the cushioned arm of her chair, and rested her forehead against the palm of her hand. It helped quell the dizziness. Slightly.
Damien was speaking. She raised her head, then frowned at him in exasperation. “I would appreciate it, Damien, if you would please stand still instead of dancing about the room. It makes my stomach alarmingly queasy.”
“You should be in bed.” His voice was hard, but his expression soft.
Isabella was instantly contrite. “What a lovely notion.” She stood up, and the room immediately began spinning. Isabella swayed as the floor seemed to drop out from beneath her feet. She threw her arm back and braced herself against the chair. “I definitely owe you an apology, Damien. Apparently the room is moving, not you.”
She heard his deep laugh and smiled. He had such a wonderful laugh—rich, smooth and merry. Damien's handsome face blurred before her eyes. Damn! If only the room would remain still, she could kiss him.
Isabella was having great difficulty setting one foot ahead of the other until she felt a strong supporting arm guiding her. She sighed with gratitude at the assistance, since she could not, for the life of her, remember where she was going or why.

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