Isabella’s face flushed from the sun and from his kisses met him in the darkness.
She’d enchanted him.
Why else would he have told her every damn thing about himself?
Why else would he have kissed her so close to the dangerous, gossiping droves?
Why else was he stroking himself to climax while the feel of her body was still imprinted across his every muscle?
She’d enchanted him, the lace of her glove weavingherinto his skin.
She’d claimed him, the touch of her tongue on his bottom lip, shy and eager, sending need for her to his very bones. She’d claimed him more deeply than that, even. Her enchantment tangled with his very soul until he could not tell what was hers from what was his. Because she saw him for exactly who he was—sailor and seamstress’s son, scared recluse—and admired him. And let him kiss her. Kissed him back.
She’d made him hers.
By wanting nothing more than the man he was.
He moved his hand faster and faster, arching into his fist with each pump, with each ghost of her touch he relived. Alone in this room but not alone. She whispered in his ear and wrapped around his heart.
Her name cried as his climax rocked through him. “Isabella,” he whispered as the only ray of sunlight visible through the tightly pulled curtain streamed across his face.
And he sneezed.
And laughed.
And as soon as he could use his liquid muscles once more, hepoured himself to his feet and found his study, tore open the curtains and sat at his desk, centering paper on the silky wood and dipping his quill pen.
Dear Aunt Lavinia,
I won’t be coming to the ball. I’ve found the woman I’m going to wed.
Chapter Fifteen
When Isabella yawned, Rowan kicked everyone out. The three sitting at the card table stared at him, heads tilted at various angles. Isabella's hand hovered with the wine decanter half tilted over her glass. With her free hand, she rubbed at her ear.
“My hearing must be bad, Rowan,” she said, “because I thought I heard you order everyone to leave, and surelymy husbandand the owner of this welcoming establishment would not say something so entirely rude.” She’d become much too good at acting the wife in the last week.
And he’d become rather good at acting the husband. He didn’t even have to try at it.
He snapped the decanter from her hands and set it on the table. “I should have been more gracious about it. But you are tired, and youwillrest.” He turned to Mr. and Mrs. Barlow who were already standing from the card table. “I hope you do not mind.”
“The game is not yet done,” Mr. Barlow grumbled, slapping his cards down.
“You can finish it later.” Mrs. Barlow linked her arm with his and tugged him toward the door. “It's clear the young ones wish to bealone. I am sorry we have taken up so much of your time. We know when our welcome has expired.”
Isabella waved away the very idea. “No. Not at all”—the last word came out of Isabella’s mouth as a hand-muffled yawn—“expired. I have had such a delightful time this week.”
She must have. She’d smiled and laughed and charmed the Barlows until they were eager pups taking treats from her hand. But she was exhausted. She dragged around the hotel like her bones had taken on greater weight, and she found them more difficult to hold up. She was paler than usual, too, and often slightly out of breath as she appeared out of nowhere just in time for some activity or other.
He'd watched her carefully since the day at the park, considering the conclusion he’d made then, perhaps in haste, driven by lust and something sweeter, softer. Should he take her to wife? His epistle to Aunt Lavinia had been the picture of confidence. But once the letter had been sent and the edge of lust dulled, uncomfortable doubt had become his companion. When Aunt Lavinia’s response had arrived, that companion became loud indeed.
Who is she? You must tell me now.
But how could he answer his aunt’s question when he was fairly certainCrewewas not even Isabella’s real name? He knew she was bold, sprightly, and fearless. She was kind, and she loved her family. She did not shy from his touch when he let his knuckles graze her arm, or he tucked a curl behind her ear, or when their fingers brushed as they passed a cup or paper between them. She’d let him put her gloves on once, and she’d smiled saucily at him the entire time. She always seemed as… as if she enjoyed being with him. Since his father’s death, he’d never felt at perfect ease in anyone’s company. Not even the admiral’s or Aunt Lavinia’s. He always felt as if he owed them for taking him in, even though they had never done a thing to suggest so.
But with Isabella…
Even when she teased him and challenged him and defied him, she never made him feel out of place or alone.
