Delight and Desire Page 3

  ‘Major, I would wish…’ Without thinking beyond her ungovernable desire for one last touch, she held out her hand to him. ‘I pray you will allow me to explain.’

  ‘There is no call for any explanation. You are a lady. You are not accountable to me. Not for anything you do.’ His voice was barely under control. His eyes were blazing with passion. He was remembering. But he was keeping his distance. He bowed stiffly. ‘If you will excuse me—’

  ‘No!’ She crossed the space between them in two quick steps and seized his arm with both hands. ‘There are things I must say to you. Please?’

  She thought she felt a tiny tremor in the muscles of his forearm. He glanced over his shoulder at the curtained window and then down into the garden. ‘You must not be found alone with me here on the terrace. If you are determined on this…?’ At Isobel’s decisive nod, he shrugged and laid his free hand briefly on hers. ‘As you wish. Let us go down into the garden. We must not be seen.’

  Before she could say a word more, he hurried her along the terrace and down the stone steps to the garden below. ‘It would be best if we avoided the gravel path, Miss Lang. Too much noise. There is no dew on the grass, so your evening slippers will not be spoiled.’

  She laughed nervously. She could not help it. ‘You have done this sort of thing before, I collect, sir?’

  There was precious little light down here. She could barely see his face, but she thought she saw a brief smile twist the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I have learned the importance of moving silently. But it has generally been in order to avoid the enemy.’ He was no longer so distant. He sounded almost like the man who had once kissed her into ecstasy.

  This was the man she could deal with. ‘Only generally, sir?’ Her tone was flirtatious. She was behaving like a wanton all over again. And she did not care. For a fleeting moment, she allowed her fingers to press the flesh of his arm. This time, she was not mistaken about the tremor that ran through him.

  ‘Miss Lang.’ The strain was back in his voice.

  The warning was clear. She was testing his self-control. Good. ‘Have I said something wrong, sir?’ Her tone was innocent. The way she clung to his arm was not. She wanted him to feel the warmth of her body, to sense her urgency. More than anything, she wanted him to kiss her again. To rekindle those wonderful feelings just once more.

  Robert was conscious only of the twilight and the wide-eyed way she was gazing up at him under a sliver of moon and a canopy of stars. They were beautiful, but not as beautiful or as bright as Isobel’s eyes.

  He led her into the shadow of some tall bushes. ‘Well, Miss Lang?’ His tone was rather stern, but it was the only way he could control his desire for her. She was too innocent to understand just how tempting she was. ‘You wished to…er…speak to me?’

  She took a deep breath. Even in the gloom, he could see her white bosom swelling above the neckline of her gown. His body began to heat yet more.

  ‘I have deceived you, Major. I am not who you think I am. For that, I apologise.’ She paused, avoiding his gaze. ‘But I am not sorry! For if I had told you the truth when we met again, you would have turned from me.’

  What on earth was she talking about? ‘I accept your apologies, of course, ma’am. But I am no wiser than before.’

  She swallowed. Her eyes grew even wider as she stared up at him. ‘You will think me very odd, sir. I had been taught from the cradle that all Anstruthers were wicked ogres. Yet you seemed to be a perfectly ordinary gentleman. That is— I mean, when we met that second time, you—’

  ‘I restrained my inner ogre?’ That surprised another nervous laugh from her. He put a hand over hers. ‘Did you fear it?’ He was very serious now. He needed her to recognise that. That special enchantment was seeping into his veins, stoking his desire for her all over again.

  ‘You know I did not.’ Her voice was a barely audible whisper. And her hands were shaking. She felt it, too. She was his nymph again.

  It was too much. ‘Oh, God! Isobel!’ Robert hauled her into his arms and began to kiss her. That first kiss—a lifetime ago—had been unlike anything he had ever known. He needed that magic again.

  The moment his lips touched hers, there was a moan of pleasure in her throat and she began to respond eagerly, sliding her arms around his body and pressing her breasts against him. Within moments, they were kissing with deep and mutual passion. And Robert was stroking his fingers across the top of her breasts, where they strained to be free of her stays. Her fingers on his back were scrabbling up under his coat, desperately trying to reach his flesh. They were on fire. Both of them.

  He must not do this. They would be in full view of anyone who might wander out into the garden. She was being driven by desire. But she was also a lady, and an innocent, and much too young to know what she was risking in the throes of her first experience of passion. She was too far gone to stop herself. Only Robert could save her.

  He did not want to think about that. He continued to explore her luscious mouth and to stroke her body. She groaned again and pulled him even closer, their lips still exploring. Tormented beyond endurance, he picked her up in his arms and carried her as far as possible from the terrace and unwelcome intruders. In the corner of the garden, hidden by trees and shrubs, he came upon a stone seat. As if it had been placed there to welcome them.

  He sat down and settled her on his lap. That incredible kiss still continued, unbroken. He wanted her, so very much. She was, without doubt, the most desirable woman he had ever held in his arms.

  The bodice of her gown was too tight to be pushed aside without damaging the fabric. He could only cup her breasts through the fine silk, but he could feel her nipples rising against his palms. Her desire, her passion was very real. If he could not touch her naked flesh there…

  He laid his palm against her inner ankle. Skin on skin, separated only by the flimsiest silk stocking.

  She gasped against his mouth. Then she clung to him. Slowly, slowly, he caressed his way up the inside of her leg until he reached her stocking top and her ribbon garter. He fingered it. Smooth, shiny, delightful. He allowed one finger to stray above to touch naked skin. Much more delightful. She was not resisting his advances. There was a tautness in her muscles, but he knew it was anticipation. She would follow his lead, just as she had done that first time. The way above was open to his questing hand. He stroked higher.

  She gasped his name into his mouth. ‘Robert. Oh, Robert.’

  ‘My sweet Isobel.’ With a single long caress, he stroked up into the core of her. She was wide, and wet, and wanting. He could take her now, and she would welcome their joining. His body was aching for her, urging him on. They were both more than ready. Why not?

  Because she was an innocent.

  He stroked a finger across her moist heat, once, twice. She shivered. Once, and again. She was almost there.

  He pushed a finger deep inside her, withdrew, pushed again. And stayed. He touched the ball of his thumb to the tiny nub. Once. His kiss was still deep, his tongue probing where the rest of his body could not. He stroked her again. And again. Her scream of ecstasy was swallowed in his kiss. The spasms gripped her, held her taut, and then she collapsed against him with a gasp and a long groan.

  It was over for her. And it must be over for him, too.

  He had given her fulfilment, without risk of ruin. Anything more would dishonour them both.

  He stroked her skirts and petticoats back to their proper place and sighed deeply. She was nestled in his arms like a trusting kitten. And he must not abuse that trust. ‘Isobel?’

  ‘Mmm?’ It was more a purr than anything else.

  ‘You must go back to the house. If you should be found here with me—’ Her sharp intake of breath proved that reality had overtaken her at last. She must be blushing scarlet, but it was impossible to tell in the gloom. ‘Take a little time to compose yourself, ma’am. Walk around the garden in the cool air for a few moments before you return to the ballroom.
It will calm you.’ He put his hands to her waist and set her on her feet. Then he stood, too. ‘I will remain here where I cannot be seen. No one will know that we have been together. Go now.’ He gave her a little push.

  ‘That is all you have to say? Is that all there is, Major Anstruther?’ His trusting kitten was spitting angrily. ‘I have disgraced myself, I know. But you—’

  He caught her back to him and held her close. ‘That is not all there is, Isobel. Unless you do think me an ogre?’ She shook her head. Her curls caressed his chin in the most seductive way. He forced himself to ignore it and to laugh softly. ‘I am glad of it. But now you must go in.’

  ‘Yes, I see that. I…Robert, I have to tell you that—’

  He silenced her with a long, gentle kiss on the lips and stepped back, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to go further. ‘Will you save me the supper dance? I would deem it an honour.’ His voice was unrecognisable in his own ears.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She nodded. And then she fled, her yellow gown ghostly pale in the dim light.

  Chapter Four

  Isobel gazed around the noisy dining room. She had known it was a risk to have the supper dance with Robert Anstruther, for someone might mention his name to her Aunt Carmichael. But the old lady seemed more interested in playing cards than in acting as chaperon. After that first dance, she had hardly been in the ballroom at all.

  Isobel embraced her good fortune, determined to ignore the seed of doubt that was trying to take root in her mind. She would find the right moment to tell Robert the truth. Later. Surely he was too honourable to blame her for a stupid feud? Especially after everything they had shared.

  She had danced with him, and she had spent those precious minutes in the garden with him, when he had… Mmm. Yes. It had been even more wonderful than that first kiss, in the magic mist of Caerlaverock. She would remember everything that had happened between them, but later, slowly, when she was alone.

  Robert was making his way back from the supper table, carrying two laden plates. He did not need to catch her eye. She could not help gazing at him. How fine he looked in his dress uniform—tall, strong, resolute, and yet so caring underneath. He was—

  ‘I was not quite sure what you might like, and so I brought you a little of everything.’ He grinned as he took his place opposite her at the little table and beckoned a waiter to fill their glasses. ‘Do you—?’

  ‘Isobel!’ Lady Carmichael had appeared out of nowhere. Isobel could have sworn she was nowhere near the supper room and yet, here she was, looking like a dark thundercloud about to drench everyone with freezing rain. ‘We must leave!’

  ‘But Aunt, I—’

  Robert rose and bowed to the new arrival. ‘Forgive me, ma’am. I should introduce myself. I—’

  Lady Carmichael raised her chin and sniffed loudly. ‘The Ritchie family does not consort with Anstruthers. Isobel, we must leave at once. Come, let us fetch your cloak.’ She stretched out her arm imperiously. It summoned Isobel, and at the same time it barred Robert from approaching her. He might have been invisible.

  Isobel threw one last beseeching glance at Robert’s frozen fury and followed her aunt from the room.

  Ritchie! She was Archibald Ritchie’s daughter, that old devil’s only child. She had surely been making a may-game of Robert from the moment he told her his name. She was no better than the rest of the infernal Ritchie clan.

  He looked up to see his hostess approaching his table, with one of her gawky daughters beside her. That was more than he could stomach.

  He rose and bowed. ‘Mrs Rougely, I must beg your indulgence. I have to leave. If you will excuse me.’ Without giving her a chance to reply, he hurried towards the door. He must get away from this place before it suffocated him!

  Outside, in the cooler air, he began to walk vaguely in the direction of his rooms, trying to make sense of the seething mass of ideas and emotions that was threatening to make his head explode. She was little better than a strumpet! No wonder, since she was a Ritchie!

  He put a hand to the hilt of his dress sword. Just at this moment, he wanted to draw it and run someone through. Preferably Isobel Ritchie!

  He groaned aloud. No, that wasn’t true. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. He would never be able to hurt a hair of her head. She had ensnared him at that very first meeting when she had returned his kiss with such innocent sweetness. That had been his doing, not hers. She was no strumpet.

  But what about tonight, in the garden? She had willingly gone with him. Alone. Had she been trying to seduce him? She would not be the first to try to compromise him into making an offer of marriage.

  She was just like the rest of them. She must be.

  No. She was not. He had almost seduced her, but she had not demanded marriage. She had not demanded anything. She had wanted to explain.

  He groaned aloud. He had been an utter fool! She had been trying to tell him who she was, but he had been so driven by desire that he had not let her speak. He had been overcome by his need to take her in his arms again, to kiss her till they were both mindless with passion. Which was what he had done. And more.

  Isobel Ritchie, enemy and siren, was too beautiful, too spirited, too passionate about life to be condemned without a hearing because of an ancient feud between their families. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman. Ritchie or no, she was like a drug coursing through his veins. He would never be rid of it—of the magic she had woven around him—until he saw her again and discovered the whole truth of what she was.

  Alone in the safety of her own room, Isobel was sorely tempted to throw things. Preferably things that would shatter into tiny pieces.

  Sir Hugh and Lady Carmichael had called her a disgrace to the Ritchie name. They had threatened to send her back to Scotland, though they all knew it was an empty threat. The family could not afford to waste Isobel’s one chance of snaring a wealthy husband.

  Robert was wealthy. He was the sole heir to huge estates. He held the King’s commission. As a potential suitor, he would be eligible in every way. Except for being an Anstruther.

  But Isobel’s father would never consent to her marriage to the age-old enemy of her family, even if Robert could bring himself to propose. Why would he? He was furious at her deception. He must hate her now for who she was and what she had done. She could have told him the truth. She had failed, and now she had lost him. By her own stupidity, she had lost the man she loved.

  Love?

  It should have come as a shock to realise that she loved Robert Anstruther. It did not. It was like the recognition of an old friend, a welcome reunion with a truth she had always known. He had appeared to her like a ghost from the past, emerging from the gloom of those crumbling ruins. He had walked out of the twilight and into her heart.

  But her idyll had shattered with one word. Ritchie. She would never see him again.

  Robert paced the gravel path of the Chelsea Physic Garden. Would she come?

  It had taken him two frustrating days to contrive this meeting through the old nurse. He had spent the whole time thinking of nothing but Isobel Ritchie, nymph and nemesis. Had she laid a spell on him, like a witch?

  He shook his head at his own stupidity. She was an innocent. If he was bewitched, it was his own doing.

  And still he did not know if she would come.

  He glanced up at the huge cedars. They were certainly magnificent. Unfortunately they were also famous, drawing many visitors to this exotic garden. Some of them were even beginning to throw enquiring glances at the uniformed officer who was pacing up and down the path.

  Robert slowed and forced himself to breathe deeply. He had every reason to be furious at Isobel’s deception, but he must, in honour, give her a chance to explain. Even a Ritchie might have preserved some shred of honour. And after what they had done together—

  He would not allow himself to remember that. It was enough that he had so nearly ravished her. He had no right to
question her Ritchie honour when he had betrayed his own. If she did come, it was he who should apologise. If she—

  ‘Why, Major Anstruther! What a surprise!’

  Shocked, Robert spun round. She was here! And she looked beautiful enough to rival any flower in this garden. She was wearing a sprigged muslin gown, with a vibrant leaf-green and gold shawl draped across her arms. A straw hat was perched at a jaunty angle on top of her red-gold curls and tied under her ear with a huge bow of green ribbon. She looked good enough to kiss. Or to devour.

  But her smile was uncertain and very distant.

  Robert bowed. He smiled back but made no move towards her. If only he had not chosen such a public place. ‘How delightful to meet you again, Miss Ritchie. May I say that you are wearing a very fetching hat?’ He let his gaze rest on her face.

  Her smile widened a fraction. Now, it was echoed in her eyes.

  ‘If you wish to walk around the gardens, may I offer you my escort, ma’am? I am at your service.’

  She nodded, with a fluttering of green ribbons. Then she turned to her maid. ‘You may walk behind, Annie.’ Without waiting for a response, she slid her arm through Robert’s and they began to stroll along the path.

  How very proper. A young lady walking with a gentleman in a public place, with her maid a few yards behind. Close enough to watch, but not close enough to hear.

  ‘Miss Ritchie. Isobel, I think there are matters we must discuss. About our previous meetings. You—’

  She stopped him with a slight pressure of her gloved fingers on his arm. ‘Major Anstruther, I have come to beg your pardon. For everything. And to ask for your continued discretion. You see, I—’ Her voice cracked. She swallowed, and began again. ‘Major Anstruther, I must tell you that a marriage is being arranged for me. By my uncle.’