The Birthday Scandal (14 page)

“No, no,” the duke said hastily. “I shan’t go, of course—best to save my strength. But the seamstresses from the village will be here bright and early to see to it that the ladies are properly turned out for my birthday party.”

“That’s very generous of you, Uncle Josiah,” Isabel said.

“No, it was Athstone’s idea that I provide ball dresses for you, and a thumping good notion it is, too. I’ve been racking my brain about what to give you girls for the reverse birthday gift I promised, and the answer turns out to be both simple and perfect. Ball gowns,” the duke chuckled. “Exactly what you both need.”

Emily’s small, pearly-white teeth fastened hard on her lower lip, and her big brown eyes flashed irritation as she turned to Gavin and muttered, “A ball gown? What were you
thinking
?”

Gavin swallowed hard. The duke hadn’t told an untruth exactly, for the suggestion
had
been Gavin’s—and to his chagrin, he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to set Emily off again. What was so terrible about suggesting that she and her sister would be more comfortable at the party in new dresses? “Is it bad form to speak of a lady’s garments?” he guessed.

“Just what, pray tell, will I do with a ball gown in Barton Bristow? I’ll never have cause to wear it again!”

“Astounding,” the Earl of Chiswick murmured from Gavin’s other side. “I believe that’s the first time I’ve ever heard a female complain about receiving a new gown, or fret because she might not have more than one occasion to wear it. Emily, my dear, I congratulate you.”

Her eyes went wide. “I beg your pardon, Father?”

“There are at least three gentlemen of my acquaintance for whom these new economical ways will make you even more of a prize as a wife. I wonder—should I wait to mention it until I encounter them casually, or should I dispatch letters right away?”

Emily was still grumbling about ball gowns when they went upstairs at the end of the evening, and she made it plain she would like to come into Isabel’s room to continue the conversation. “The worst of it,” she said as they climbed the stairs, “is that Cousin Gavin seemed to expect me to thank him for his thoughtfulness!”

Isabel, however, was scarcely listening. She understood Emily’s frustration, of course, for though she hated to think of herself as grasping, she was every bit as disappointed as her sister to find that their uncle’s gift wasn’t to be a nice sum of cold cash after all.

But Isabel had far bigger problems right now than what dress she would be wearing to Uncle Josiah’s birthday ball—though she could hardly admit as much to her sister. Instead, she pleaded a return of her headache and closed the door of her bedroom with a sigh of relief, glad to finally be able to let down her guard.

At least for a little while.

Maxwell had not so much as touched her all evening— yet every time his gaze had rested upon her, Isabel had felt as though her skin was scorching. Just a few minutes ago when she had excused herself to go upstairs, he had been all the way across the drawing room, leaning against the mantel and talking casually with her father—but the way he had looked at her as she said her goodnights had made her feel as if her corset had suddenly shrunk by half.

Tonight
, he had said. The mere memory of the word made her feel shaky, because of the way he had said it—as though it tasted like sweet wine on his tongue.

Tonight
…

Suddenly panicky, she pulled open her door again, intending to call to Emily to come back and keep her company—for the entire night. But Emily’s maid was coming out of her room, which meant Emily was probably in bed. Besides, Isabel could hear the rumble of male voices as a couple of the gentlemen climbed the stairs. She pushed her door closed hastily, before anyone could glimpse her standing there.

She did not ring for her own maid. No matter how tight and uncomfortable her garments felt, Isabel absolutely refused to undress. If Maxwell came to her room tonight as he had threatened, there would be no misunderstanding. He could not possibly pretend that she was willing—much less that she was trying to be seductive—if she was still fully clothed.

She sat beside the fire in a big wingbacked chair, stared at the fames, and waited.

It seemed hours before there was any movement, and then—because she was half-hypnotized by the fames—she didn’t hear the door between their bedrooms until he was closing it behind him.

She leaped to her feet, tempted to flee. But running away would solve nothing, so she squared her shoulders and faced him.

He crossed the room, unhurried but inexorable, and with every step he took Isabel felt her breath grow shorter, her throat tighter. His very gaze seemed to heat her blood.

“You are not yet dressed for bed,” he said. “Should I expect Emily to bob up from behind the curtains?”

Even though she had considered keeping her sister at hand to chaperone, the implication annoyed Isabel beyond reason. “No, for I do not wish a witness to our conversation.”

“Conversation?” he murmured. “I’d hardly call it that.” He was close enough by then that the firelight gleamed against the metallic threads in his brocade dressing gown and turned his eyes to gold. He reached out both hands to cup her head, his palms barely grazing her hair.

“And as for why I am not yet in my nightgown,” she said, “I did not agree to this. So if you expected to find me lying meekly in bed awaiting your attentions…”

“Of course I did not, Isabel. And if you were wearing a nightgown, I’d simply have to take it off—so it makes little difference to me.”

She felt the tug of hairpins pulling free, and suddenly her hair spilled down over her shoulders. “No!” But her voice wasn’t loud and firm and strong, as she had hoped.

“You made a bargain. You dictated the terms, and I accepted them. The negotiations are finished, and it is too late to say that you want more favorable terms.”

“You cannot have taken me seriously.”

“Why not? Because you admit your terms were unfair? If you would like to lessen your demands, Isabel—”

“I don’t trust you to honor your promise.”

His eyes narrowed, and suddenly his voice was edged with iron. “If you were a man, Isabel, I would knock you down for saying that.”

She took a step forward and raised her chin. “Go ahead.”

“Strike you, so you can fly to your father and brother and uncle for sympathy? No, I have a more satisfying punishment in mind.”

He didn’t sound angry, but her heart thumped wildly nevertheless. What would be worse than being beaten? Rape, of course. She drew her arms protectively across her body.

But he didn’t touch her. Instead, he walked over to the writing desk in the corner of the room, lit a candle that stood ready there, and found a pen and a sheet of parchment.

She should have been relieved—but his very unpredictability frightened her. Who was he writing to? And what was he saying?

He sanded the page, snuffed the candle, and came back to her. “Here are your terms—in writing—for you to hold safely. Now that you have proof, I must live up to our agreement or face the loss of my good name.”

If it hadn’t been for the crackle of the parchment he pressed into her hand, she would have thought she must be dreaming.

“What I have agreed to is a great deal more than any husband must—and I will abide by my word. What about you, Isabel? Are you willing to stand by the bargain you yourself proposed?”

He had tricked her, leading her step by step into the morass, until she gave her word—and then he had pounced.

She looked down at the paper she held. In the firelight, she could just make out the words. He had written out the terms, clearly and concisely. He had given her a warranty that he would keep his promise. The page she held might not be legally binding, but a gentleman’s promise was his bond.

He said softly, “The question now is whether your word is worth anything. Are you nothing but a cheat and a liar?”

Fury surged through her at the accusation—and died away as she realized he had every right to question her integrity. In this game of chess, he had taken her queen. There was no move left but surrender.

Isabel ran her tongue along her lower lip. “I have never broken my word of honor, sir, and I do not aim to do so now.”

For a long moment he simply looked at her. “Then come here, Isabel.”

He was standing less than a yard away, and yet the distance between them felt as huge and dangerous as a desert—an endless distance too enormous to traverse, especially since her feet seemed to sink into the carpet as if she were standing in loose sand. She hesitated, looking from him to the bed.

“Not yet,” he said, and sat down in a big chair by the fire.

The first step was the most difficult. Too soon, she was standing before him, uncertain what to do, what he expected from her. “I can’t…get out of my dress by myself,” she whispered.

“We’ll deal with that in good time.”

His hands clasped her waist and drew her close. This was not a great deal different from waltzing, she told herself, but she knew better. She was standing between his knees, looking down at him, feeling the heat of his hands even through her dress and corset and chemise, as though he was burning away the barriers that separated them.

Slowly, he pulled her closer yet, until there was nowhere to go. He drew her down onto his lap, shifting his position to cradle her close. Her head dropped against his shoulder and she tipped her chin down, trying to hide her face from him.

“Look at me, Isabel.” His hand rested on her throat, holding her gently but firmly. Slowly he bent his head until his lips rested on hers.

This kiss was nothing like the faint brush of his lips last night. His mouth was firm, strong, warm. Deep inside her something shifted, and her lower lip trembled.

He pulled back a fraction, using the tip of his tongue to soothe the tremor. He traced the outline of her lips slowly and carefully, as though he were thinking of drawing her, and stroked her jaw until her muscles were pliant and her mouth softened under his.

She wanted to taste him, and before she quite knew what she was doing she opened her mouth just a little and the tip of her tongue darted out to sample him. “Yes,” he said, and sudden heat swept through her as he deepened their kiss, gently probing. His hand slipped away from her throat, down to rest against the top of her breast, pushed up by the corset—which felt suddenly so tight that she could not breathe. He seemed to understand, however, for his fingertips moved on, over the swell of her breast and then around to rest against her spine.

“Let’s get you out of that prison,” he whispered against her lips, and suddenly the fastenings at the back of her dress gave way. The low neckline sagged, leaving her breasts almost bare to his gaze, covered only by the sheer lacy edge of her chemise.

She gasped. “How did you do that?”

“I had to distract myself with something throughout the evening—so I made a study of how best to defeat your dress.” But then he was kissing her again, his lips even hotter against hers. But not for long, because his mouth trailed down her throat and came to rest like a brand in the little valley between her breasts. She arched her back and felt the pressure of her corset ease—he must have untied the tapes.

Suddenly she found herself standing, the bodice of her dress pooling at her waist—somehow he had shifted her off his lap. But he was standing with her, still kissing her hungrily while he loosened the corset strings, as he pushed her dress down and out of the way, as he stripped off her corset. She sighed a little in relief, and then his hands skimmed over her body and she realized how very close to naked she was, with only her almost-transparent chemise remaining.

She broke away long enough to say, “My nightdress is in the…”

“Unnecessary.”

“But I’d like my nightdress. I’m practically—”

“You no longer make the rules, Isabel.” He bent and picked her up, lifting her out of the mess left by her gown and petticoat and corset, and carried her over to the bed.

As he joined her there, stretching out beside her, sanity returned. How could she possibly have allowed him to touch her so intimately? Even worse, she suspected that she was cooperating in her own downfall.

Isabel flung her head back against the pillows, staring up at the shadowy folds of satin that lined the great canopy. “Do what you have to, Maxwell. Just get it over with.”

He leaned over her and for a long moment he only looked. His gaze swept over her body, from the tousled locks of hair that had caught under her shoulders as he put her down to her bare toes—and how was it she didn’t remember him taking off her slippers and stockings? She trembled, still feeling the stroking of his fingers even though there was no physical contact. Then he smiled and said, “I shall,” and bent his head to take her nipple into his mouth.

The thin white fabric of her chemise went transparent, and she arched off the mattress as though he’d touched her with a red-hot spark. “You don’t need to do…
that
,” she gasped. “I’m not a fool, Maxwell. I know how babies are made!”

He cupped his hand around her breast, holding her gently but firmly. He ran his tongue around the margin of the areola and once more drew the nipple gently into his mouth. “I’m only thinking of you, Isabel. It is said that a woman who welcomes her lover conceives more quickly.”