Secrets of a Proper Countess (23 page)

Gilbert smiled apologetically at Isobel. “Alas, Countess, while it would be my pleasure to be of assistance, I have only my horse. I doubt you'd want to ride pillion down Bond Street.”

The idea was so ridiculous that Isobel giggled. She cast a glance at Phineas and the happy sound died on her lips. He was regarding Gilbert with a steely frown.

“I would be happy to lend you my carriage, Mr. Fielding,” Marianne suggested.

“But Phineas's coach is right outside, the horses already harnessed,” Adam said. “It would be no trouble for him to see Isobel safely home.”

“It would be my pleasure to take you wherever you wish to go,” Phineas said. Isobel felt her knees weaken at the double meaning.

“I really can't—” she started, but Marianne leapt in.

“Really, Mr. Fielding. It is no problem at all to call out my carriage. You could tie your horse to the back.”

“This is Mayfair, not a country village, Marianne,” Adam said.

“Perhaps it would be best if I—” Isobel tried again.

“I daresay you're keeping Fielding from his usual afternoon pastime, Marianne,” Phineas said. “The eligible young
ladies ride in the park at this time of day, don't they, Fielding? Can you afford to miss the opportunity of a sunny afternoon to find a wealthy bride?”

“Phineas!” Marianne puffed up with indignation at the insult to her guest. “Aren't you in the market for a bride as well? I hear Lady Amelia rides every afternoon.”

“And who would be left to take Isobel home?” Phineas drawled.

Isobel had had enough of Blackwood's incomprehensible behavior. If he was angry with her, then there was no need to take it out on Mr. Fielding. The poor man had gone quite red at his insult.

“I can see myself home, Lord Blackwood. I hope you will have a care in the park. Your reputation is likely to frighten away your potential bride, if your insulting manner does not,” Isobel snapped.

She kept her eyes locked with his and dared him to look away first. He held her gaze.

After a long moment Gilbert cleared his throat and Marianne set her teacup down with a clatter.

Isobel dropped her eyes, mortified that she'd let him goad her. She concentrated on smoothing her expression—and her unruly passion—to placid nothingness, but her heart was pounding in her throat.

“I think Mr. Fielding should see to Isobel, since he was here first,” Marianne said.

“Hardly,” Phineas muttered, looking at Isobel. She knew exactly what he meant.

“It's a simple matter, gentlemen,” Adam said. “It shouldn't have to come to a duel to decide it. Perhaps we should let Phineas take Isobel home, Mr. Fielding. I daresay it would improve his reputation, and hopefully his temper, to be seen with such a fine and moral widow.”

Fielding gave Isobel a bemused look, as if he wondered
what all the fuss was about. She was wondering herself. She smiled at him, if only to irritate Blackwood.

“I am ready to leave whenever you are, Countess Ashdown,” Blackwood said coldly, rising to his feet, sketching a mocking bow.

“Let her finish her tea at least, Phineas,” Marianne snapped. “She'll also need to send a note to Lady Honoria. Perhaps you'd like to visit the conservatory as well, Isobel. I'll get a basket and you can pick some cherries for Robin's tea.” She rang the bell to summon pen, ink, paper, and basket.

“Would you like to join us, Mr. Fielding?” she asked, pointedly turning her back on her brother.

“Er, no, thank you, my lady. I really must be going,” he said politely, bowing over Isobel's hand. “I look forward to seeing you again, Countess, and discussing our mutual recollections of Kent.”

“That will be a pleasure.” Isobel curtsied as his lips brushed her knuckles impersonally.

Phineas plucked her hand out of Fielding's grip in a proprietary gesture.

“Your note, Countess?” Isobel felt her pulse increase at the simple touch that was too hot, too familiar, too disturbing in the crowded room. “Shall I dictate?” he offered. “If you hurry, we could follow Gilbert through the park. Perhaps you'd like to advise Honoria and Charles you'll be bringing him home to dine.”

She blinked at him. Now what on earth did that mean?

P
hineas handed Isobel into his coach and settled himself across from her. She hadn't looked at him since they left the morning room, but the hot color in her cheeks had told him she was very aware of his presence.

Damn Marianne and her matchmaking, and while he was at it, damn Adam for his permission to seduce Isobel. And damn Gilbert Fielding, and damn Isobel for being charmed by the handsome, respectable, penniless fool.

And damn himself too. Isobel brought out emotions he prided himself on being incapable of feeling. He'd never been jealous before in his life, if that's what this was. Perhaps it was just lust. Watching her eat a cherry was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. The last time they'd shared the fruit in the dark, both of them were half naked. At tea, in company, he'd been as hard as a bloody pole the moment she bit into the lush fruit. He'd barely restrained himself from dragging her across Marianne's morning room and taking her on the tea table.

His famous self-control was in tatters, and his mind was turning to mush.

“Isobel…” he began, and she turned to meet his eyes. The same desire shimmered there, and he groaned, catching her as she threw herself across the coach and into his arms with a cry.

He pulled her close as her mouth landed hard on his.

She still tasted of cherries, and he devoured her like a starving man, unable, unwilling, to resist. He felt her hands on his cravat, ripping at Burridge's carefully tied knot. After that all rational thought vanished.

Isobel was on fire. The moan she had been holding in all afternoon escaped as he cupped her breast through the dark muslin of her gown, a throaty, needy sound she barely recognized as coming from herself. She wished she were allowed to wear pretty, low-necked gowns, so she could feel his bare palms on the warm, naked weight of her breasts, but the dress wouldn't budge. Inventive man that he was, he suckled her nipples through the fabric of her ugly gown, driving her mad.

“Blackwood!” she gasped as he lifted her and set her astride his hips. She tugged her gown out of the way with shaking hands and pressed her naked flesh against his erection. He still wore his breeches, and the rough fabric and the jostling of the coach made it almost unbearable. She fumbled for the buttons, but he laid his hand on hers.

“Allow me, sweetheart. It's broad daylight.” He opened them with one hand as she watched, freeing himself. With the other, he caressed the warm wet petals of her flesh with maddening slowness.

“Blackwood,” she whimpered again, pleading this time, rubbing against his hand.

He didn't need a second invitation. He grasped her hips and impaled her, filling her with one hard thrust. She moaned and arched, settling him more deeply inside her, joined to him at last, filled.

He dragged her forward and kissed her, sucking her lips and her tongue, and she could taste cherries on their mingled breath. Then she was lost to the desperate friction.

“Isobel!” he groaned, coming deep within her body in a heated rush.

She clung to him, resting her forehead on his, kissing his sweat-soaked face, and felt his heart beating against her breast. Still embedded in her, he reached between their bodies and stroked her, and she gave herself up to the pleasure of what he was doing.

Phineas watched the muscles of her throat tense as her skin flushed. She cried out his name as her release claimed her. Unmasked, in daylight, she was more beautiful than he had ever imagined. He gathered her against his chest and held her, her breath warm on his neck. He stroked her hair, her back, the silk of her thighs, not wanting to let her go. Too soon, he felt the coach turn a corner and slow.

He knocked on the roof. “Drive through the park,” he ordered the coachman. “Or we could find an inn,” he murmured in her ear.

She sat up, still perched on his lap, her body still joined to his, and blushed as if she'd realized for the first time where they were.

Masculine pride swelled. In his arms, she'd forgotten everything, her pride, her stiff sense of propriety, and especially bloody Gilbert Fielding.

Isobel wriggled off his lap, her face flaming, and he let her go. She sat on the edge of the seat opposite and straightened her clothing. He had a tantalizing glimpse of white thighs before she tugged her dark skirts over them. Her bonnet was askew, and a pretty frill of displaced hair framed her flushed cheeks under the black straw. Her mouth was swollen from his kisses, her eyes still wide. She looked like a woman who'd been pleasured in the back of a coach, and he'd willingly bet it was the first time for that.

“I know an inn just outside the city,” he said. “We could spend the rest of the afternoon there. I want you again, Isobel, every lovely inch of you, naked, and in a real bed.”

She bit her lip, looked tempted for a moment, then shut her
eyes, as if she could dispel desire so easily. “I am expected at home,” she said. “I didn't mean to—”

“I'm very glad you did,” he drawled.

She blushed. “I meant I did not expect to see you today,” she said, watching as he buttoned his breeches. His cravat was a hopeless mess, so he pulled it off and tucked it into his pocket. “That is, I didn't plan on
this
happening. I went out to take tea with Marianne and Mr. Fielding, not to—”

The sound of Fielding's name set Phineas's teeth on edge.

“And I did not expect to see you with Gilbert Fielding,” he said, and cursed himself for sounding like a jealous fool. She looked at him with dull surprise, as if he hadn't the right. He recognized the simple truth that Gilbert was much more suitable for a respectable widow than a rake like him. Didn't she deserve to be happy?

Hell, didn't he?

“You seem to like Gilbert,” he said, striving to keep his tone even as his anger grew. “Were the two of you acquainted as children?”

“No not at all, but he is a pleasant man, and it appears we have much in common.”

Much in common?
What in hell did that mean? He searched for some common ground
he
shared with Isobel. They shared passion and fire. She'd reduce a milksop like Fielding to ashes.

“Do you intend to take Gilbert Fielding as your next lover?” he asked bluntly, wanting her to feel a little of the pain, the frustration, that roiled in his breast. “Is that why seeing me—and this—was so unexpected?”

“What kind of woman do you think I am?” she gasped.

“I know exactly what kind of woman you are, Isobel.” His eyes scorched her mouth, her breasts, to make his point.

“Well, I doubt Mr. Fielding is that type of man,” she said
in a strangled voice, looking away. A flush of color bloomed over her throat and face.

He wanted her to look at him, to see him and not think of goddamned Gilbert bloody Fielding, but he had to know. “You mean he's the marrying kind, I suppose. You do know he wants to marry money?”

She looked confused. “Yes, I've been told that. Still, I think he will make a pleasant enough husband.”

The hard knot of jealousy grew like a tumor. “Good God, Isobel. Do you have hopes he will offer for you? Make
you
a pleasant husband?” he demanded, the question tearing itself out of his throat.

“He has not made any such offer!” she protested.

“He will. He's desperate. He'll propose the instant he smells money.”

Her jaw dropped at the insult. He had meant to direct it toward Gilbert, but it came out wrong.

“How dare you? What does it matter to you? You're going to marry Lady Amelia. I hear she has plenty of money—”

Rage burned through him. “We're talking about you, Isobel. Answer me. Do you intend to marry Fielding?” He waved a hand to indicate her dowdy, love-rumpled gown. Despite her dishevelment, she held herself with dignity. “I thought you were still grieving for Maitland. You must have loved him very much to mourn this long.” He wanted to be loved like that.

Suddenly, it mattered more than anything else.

Her eyes kindled with anger. “That is not your affair, my lord.”

“Ah, but it is, Isobel. Our lust is mutual, sweeting, every single time we meet. You offered to be my mistress, and if you intend to marry, have the courtesy to let me know. I am not above adultery, but—”

With a cry of fury she drew back her hand and struck him. It wasn't a ladylike slap. He felt his lip smash against his teeth and burst. The iron taste of blood filled his mouth.

She pressed a hand to her own lips, anger and wounded pride at war in her eyes. “Order the coachman to stop. I wish to get out.”

“No. I won't let you run from me again. Damn it, Isobel, ever since I met you I've dreamed of nothing else but you, I haven't touched another woman. I haven't
wanted
any other woman. If you want to marry again, then marry me.”

Her eyes widened in shock. “What?”

His heart thumped against his ribs. For an instant his tongue refused to move. He hadn't meant to propose, but he knew at once that it felt right. It was what he wanted.

“Marry me, Isobel. Be my wife.”

She blinked at him, her throat working, her eyes filling with tears. He waited for them to overflow, for her to fall into his arms and say yes.

“No.”

It came out in a whisper, and he thought he'd misheard her.

His heart turned to lead.

Her eyes were wild and she fiercely dashed her tears away. “I cannot marry you! I should not even be in the same room with you, or the same coach. The price is too high.”

“Isobel, I don't understand. I thought you knew that I'm not what I appear to be.”

“
You
don't understand, Blackwood! It is
I
who am not what I seem!”

What the hell did that mean?

She scrabbled at the door handle, her tears flowing unchecked now, and he watched her, numb, bewildered. “Isobel, wait. Surely I deserve an explanation!” he said, trying to catch her hands, to stop her and make her look at him. She
shook him off, and her attempts to open the door grew even more frenzied.

He didn't understand. He, the man who prided himself on reading people, knowing what they were thinking, feeling, what they wanted, had no idea why she'd rejected his proposal.

“Let me go, Blackwood, please,” she begged as the door opened. He barely had time to knock on the ceiling to stop the coach before she half tumbled, half jumped from the vehicle and disappeared into the crowds. He pressed a knuckle to his split lip, but the pain of her parting souvenir hardly mattered.

 

Jane Kirk stepped out of the milliner's shop in time to hear a savage curse as a gentleman reined his horse to avoid a woman fool enough to jump from a carriage in the middle of the street. The woman didn't even notice, just ran on, sobbing. Jane almost dropped her parcels as she recognized Isobel. She glanced around, wondering where the countess had come from so suddenly and in such a state. Her eyes narrowed.

The Marquess of Blackwood sat in the open doorway of his coach staring after the widow. Jane smiled until her lips hurt.

She checked to see if Lord Philip's latest letter was still tucked securely in her bodice. It wouldn't do to lose that. Honoria was waiting for it. The paper crackled reassuringly under her fingers. She hurried on her way, looking forward to delivering the note, now that she had a most titillating tale to tell as well.

Isobel and the Marquess of Blackwood. My my.

This changed everything.