Taming His Scandalous Countess Page 2
"Sometimes hope is all we have," Isabelle said sweetly, and upended her cup on Snow's lap. He jumped like a scalded cat but, fortunately for him, the tea had cooled. Isabelle stood and set down her cup. He grabbed her arm, but intervention arrived in the form of Lady Hill.
"Isabella! Have you taken leave of your senses? My lord, I pray you allow me to assist you." Cordelia fussed and bleated like a demented sheep, allowing Isabelle the opportunity to slip out the door.
The air in the hallway felt cool against her cheeks. Isabelle fanned herself, deliberating. Someone would be here in moments to bring her back to her rooms and lock her in–an unbearable thought. The hall ran the length of the house, ending in the conservatory. She fled there, through the scented plants, and out into the night beyond the glass doors.
The air was sweet with the fragrance of roses, and a full moon beckoned. Isabelle, confined in her stays and elegant gown, hemmed in by convention and propriety, answered its call. She hurried along the paving to the kitchen garden and through its tidy rows to the hedge gate, which opened onto the park. The lake glittered before her. Isabelle ran along its edge until she reached the stone bridge. The flags felt cold under her slippers. Once over the bridge, she turned left, to where the shore curved under the arch of a large willow. Here had been her favorite swimming spot, screened by the low-lying branches.
Did she dare? John would not suspect she come here. He was so sure her spirit was broken. But tonight, something was different. Was it Lord Snow? She hadn't encouraged his advances, but to give the devil his due, he'd made her feel more alive than she had in months. His face when she'd spilled the tea! Snow's expression had promised retribution. A sudden breeze shivered across her skin.
Isabelle kicked off her slippers, untied her garters and rolled down her stockings. The grass was cool on her bare feet. The wind teased her hair and she laughed suddenly. Sweet, blessed freedom. Isabelle pulled the pins from her hair until it hung around her shoulders in a sunset cloud. She lifted it, running the curls through her fingers. Then Isabelle raised her arms to the moon and danced, her feet flashing along the turf. She felt like a pagan of old, dancing before the shrine of the goddess. An owl hooted in the distance.
The cool scent of the water drew her down to the lake bank, thick with shadows. Isabelle undid the buttons at the top of her gown, pushing and pulling at the material until she could thrust it down her hips. She tore at her stays and flung them on the grass. Petticoat and chemise followed, until Isabelle stood naked in the night air. She splashed into the shallows and threw herself forward into the lake. The cold water closed over her head. She re-surfaced, flinging back her wet hair. Isabelle swam a few strokes and turned on her back, floating in the water while the stars wheeled overhead.
A small sound broke her reverie, like a shoe scraping against rock. She turned her head. A man stood on the bank watching her. She knew it was Snow, by his height and the breadth of the shoulders. His presence seemed inevitable, eternal, like the moon and the stars. She swam back to the shore, halting when her feet found the sandy bottom. She walked up the bank, water streaming from her naked body.
Snow waited for her. She could hear his breathing, harsh and quick, in the quiet night. "Artemis," he said, and reached for her.
* * * * *
She was incandescent. Isabelle's body gleamed as white as the moon, her breasts full, her stomach rounded, her sex shadowed between her thighs. Snow wanted to worship her, to fall to his knees and suck her very essence. He closed his fingers around her arm, the skin cool and wet. Isabelle stared up at him, eyes dark, lips parted. What was she thinking? He bent his head to capture her mouth, sucking her tongue into his. A low moan, was it his or hers? His hands dropped to her buttocks, cupping the deliciously firm cheeks as he pulled her up against his erection. A sigh escaped her. His lips slid down the satin skin of her throat. He lifted her breasts to his eager mouth, first one, and then the other. He kissed and licked them, pulling the nipples until Isabelle ground against him.
Snow dropped to his knees. He pushed her legs open, parted her nether lips, dying to taste the salted honey of her quim. His tongue glided through the wetness which traced down her thighs. He lapped and sucked like a man dying of thirst, flicking her nub over and over, until she clutched his shoulders. His tongue speared her opening. Her fingers tightened.
Snow grasped her thighs, holding her in position as he fucked her with his tongue. She panted, fast and then faster, her thighs strained taut under his fingers. Her exhalations became cries, rising in intensity as she came, hard, her sweet fluid bathing his face. Isabelle's climax shuddered to a stop, and Snow rose, unbuttoning his breeches with desperate haste.
"Isabelle! Isabelle, where are you?"
Realization flooded her rapt expression. Damn Sir John. She staggered back.
"I have to go. I can't be seen...like this."
He let her go. She dipped down to retrieve her clothing and fled, clad in starlight, across the lawn. Snow re-fastened his breeches and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his face. He'd best take himself off to bed, before Sir John caught him smelling of his sister and sex. He was surprised to find his fingers somewhat unsteady. Moonlight and Isabelle were a heady mixture.
CHAPTER TWO
Isabelle was not at breakfast again. Snow found himself smiling. He must have tired her out. Either that or her brother had discovered their encounter and banished her from the table. He hoped not.
He had retired after Isabelle left him, and lain there sleepless for hours, craving her presence in his bed. Last night had been beyond anything he'd ever experienced--a gently-bred lady with the soul of a wanton. Not a painted courtesan, but something wild, the essence of nature. Lord, he was getting maudlin. Now, how to get the woman away from her damned family?
Snow glanced at Sir John, stolidly munching his way through eggs and muffins, and Lady Hill, immersed in society gossip as she read the London papers, pausing occasionally to share some tidbit with them. No sign that either of them was aware he'd dallied with Isabelle under the moon.
He had planned to leave today, but he needed more time. He needed to speak to Isabelle. Surely, after what had happened between them last night, she'd be more amenable to an arrangement. A small house in town, perhaps, since her brother was so intractable. His head was so filled with plans for a future of illicit liaisons with the lovely Isabelle that he'd not been listening to the conversation.
"I beg your pardon, Lady Hill," Snow said, "I was not attending."
After a moment of offended silence, Lady Hill offered him a thin smile. "I merely inquired after your plans for the day, my lord. I have received an invitation to visit my neighbor and you are most welcome to join me."
"How kind, but I fear I must decline. Your husband and I have business to discuss."
His host nodded amiably.
A lucky emergency at the home farm took Sir John away in the afternoon. Snow assured him he would happy in the library, perusing the estate's stud books.
Now to find her. His valet had discovered Isabelle was lodged in an older wing of the house, well away from everyone else. That was a little odd, but perhaps the lady had requested some degree of privacy. Snow followed Cheem's instructions, passing from the library to a central passage which led to the old hall, its furnishings covered with white sheeting. He walked under an elaborately carved minstrel's gallery, through a narrow door, and into another passage beyond. Here the age of the original building was apparent, with stone-flagged floors and low ceilings. Several doors opened along the passage, all empty. The door at the end was locked. He knocked softly, but hearing no response, he turned the key, purloined by Cheem from a helpful maid, and opened the door.
The room was dim and cold. Isabelle sat by the sole window, chin on her fist as she stared outside.
"Lady Croucher. Isabelle."
She turned with a start. "Lord Snow! What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you and you weren't at breakfast."
"Do you find company so distasteful then? I know you were in mourning."
"You still do not understand, Lord Snow. I am a prisoner here."
He looked around the room, at the shabby furnishings, and the lack of ornaments or pictures, save a well-stocked bookshelf. Isabelle was clothed as before, in a drab, shapeless gown of some thick stuff. Her hair had been braided tightly and pinned up, like some prim governess. But no amount of unbecoming dress could disguise the curve of her full lower lip or the beauty of her deep blue eyes.
"I don't understand why your brother would treat you like this."
Her lips trembled. "There was a scandal, a terrible scandal and he brought me here, to save the family reputation, and to save me."
"I know your husband died..."
She looked desolate. "Charlie was murdered, stabbed. John arrived at the house to find him dead, and me unconscious. The servants were gone, so John cleaned me up and brought me here. The murder was ruled unsolved, a burglary gone wrong by an unknown culprit."
There was something she wasn't saying.
Snow lifted Isabelle's chin gently. "And what really did happen to Charlie?"
She looked away. "I believe sometimes John thinks I killed him."
"Did you?"
Her anguished gaze swung back to him. "I don't remember. I've tried, God knows I've tried."
She wrenched away from him and leapt to her feet, to pace back and forth across the narrow room.
"Perhaps I picked up the knife when I came into the room after, after..."
"After he was dead?"
Isabelle shrugged. "I don't know."
"Were you injured?"
Her hand rose, pushing her hair back from her brow. "There was blood, everywhere, on my face and..." She stretched her hands out, as if examining them for stains. "I hurt, there were bruises on my arms...I don't remember," she said, voice rising in agitation. Her breasts heaved against the stiff fabric of her bodice.
"Hush, Isabelle, it's all right. You can't remember and it's no wonder." He bent towards her, to comfort her, but she pushed him away.
"It's no use. John will never let me go."
"Leave your brother to me."
Isabelle eyed him with suspicion. "Why would you help me?"
Snow cleared his throat. "I thought, I hoped, I could persuade you to come to London with me."
Her eyes narrowed. "How benevolent of you, Lord Snow. And in return? You'll expect me to warm your bed until you tire of me?"
An image of a naked Isabelle reclining on his bed, hair tumbled over her shoulders, eyes warm with welcome, stirred his cock. Yes, that was exactly what he expected, what he desired. And increasingly, what he yearned for.
"And once you are finished with me, what then? You'll toss a few baubles my way and I'll be left with no reputation and nowhere to go. Or perhaps I'll find a new protector and continue my career as a courtesan. Impossibly tempting as it sounds, I'm afraid I must decline your offer, my lord."
Isabelle stormed over to the window, but Snow saw how her mouth shook. Damn, he'd hurt her, when he only wanted to comfort her.
"Isabelle."
She wouldn't turn around.
"I'm sorry if I've made everything worse. That was far from my intention." He stopped, unsure. Why was he apologizing to a woman?
Her shoulders drooped. He sought for the words which would convince her.
"Isabelle, you are a lovely and spirited woman."
Her head lifted.
"I want to give you a chance to be back in the world where you belong, not immured here like some medieval nun."
Isabelle swung around, hands clenched at her sides. "Such altruism. You want to save me, oh, I am truly moved, my lord."
"Why do you mock me? I want to help you, to care for you..."
"Get out of here. Get out!" Isabelle grabbed a cushion from the chair and threw it at his head.
Snow ducked and held up his hands. "I'm sorry, Isabelle, truly. I'll leave you alone."
Isabelle's bosom heaved with the force of her emotions. She was so angry, but Christ, she was so beautiful. He took one last look before slipping quietly out of the room. The sound of china smashing against the door only made him smile. Such fire. Now if only he could direct her passions towards a more ardent conclusion, in a much more alluring milieu...
* * * * *
"Sir? Do you still plan to depart tomorrow? I could begin your packing." Cheem opened the bureau drawer.
Snow stared out the window, his gaze drawn to the lake beyond. The view was a charming one, but he saw only Isabelle, clad in starlight, walking out of the water. Today, when she'd told him her terrible story, he had felt something stir within his petrified heart, something which terrified him. Something he longed for.
His plan to carry Isabelle away when he left, picked up like some stray bitch, was unspeakably selfish in light of her history. She was right. Sir John would not permit it. Even if he managed to steal her away, the ensuing scandal would destroy her. He'd survive, cushioned by his wealth and rank, but doors would be closed to her, forever. The whispers, the snubs, Isabelle couldn't bear it. There must be something else he could do.
* * * * *
"Lord Snow to see you, Sir John."
Snow could see his host over the butler's shoulder, hands clasped on the ornate desk.
"Thank you, Fulford." Sir John rose. "Lord Snow, come in, please. The paper work for the foal is complete and ready for signing."
Snow took a seat. Sir John wouldn't meet his eyes. He sighed inwardly. His behavior last night must have occasioned more conjecture than he'd supposed.
"Excellent. But I've come to speak to you about another matter. It concerns your sister."
Sir John blinked. He'd obviously not expected Snow to be so blunt.
"What about her?"
Snow steepled his fingers and stared at his host. "I understand there was a scandal involving Lady Croucher's husband. His abrupt demise, to be more precise."
"There was, my lord. How is it any business of yours?" Sir John could be blunt as well.
"Please bear with me. Do you believe your sister murdered her husband?"
Sir John inhaled sharply. "My lord! I must protest..."
Snow waved a hand. "Confine yourself to answering my question. It is important."
Sir John turned and paced around the room. "I don't know. I can hardly believe that she would commit so foul an act, no matter how provoked."
"Provoked how?"
Sir John hesitated. "The marriage was not a happy one. Lord Croucher was..."
"A drunkard, a gambler and a wastrel?"
"Precisely, my lord."
"And Isabelle, Lady Croucher?"
"She bore it as best she could, as she must. The child was a comfort, of course, but then..."
"There was a child?"
"A wee girl, very like her mother. On the night Croucher was killed, I found the babe dead as well, dead in her cradle. Terrible it was, the worst night of my life."
Sir John sat down and pulled the whiskey decanter towards him. He poured a drink and downed it in one gulp. He gestured towards a glass. Snow nodded and poured his own drink.
"There was no injury to the child. She had been ill for some days. But Croucher..." Sir John covered his face with one hand. "At any rate, I dealt with everything as well as I could, invented some plausible tale for the authorities, and got Isabelle out of that house as fast as I could. She was incoherent, claimed not to remember anything that happened. I brought her home and she's been here ever since." Sir John poured himself another drink and took a large sip.
Snow frowned, turning over the story in his mind. He'd known Charlie in the mad days before the war, before his brother died and Snow came into the title. That was prior to Isabelle's marriage, but it seemed that Charlie had not altered a whit. And
Isabelle, tied to that squanderer...
He thought of her in the moonlight, her flesh cool and sweet against his mouth, her hair tumbled around them as they took their pleasure. He remembered her defiant glare at supper, her despair as she sat in that cold, comfortless room.
"I have a proposition for you, Sir John."
* * * * *
Her sister-in-law was furious. Isabelle could almost see steam curling around her door from the hallway where her brother and his wife argued. She couldn't hear John, but Cordelia's voice was pitched like a teakettle about to boil over.
"And now you reward her for her lack of conduct? Am I to be humiliated in this fashion? That she, she of all women, will take precedence over me! I cannot bear it, I will not!"
What on earth were they talking about?
Finally, John's voice rose. "Be silent, Cordelia. The decision does not rest with you. Now, please excuse me while I speak to Isabelle." A moment of stunned silence, before angry footsteps clattered away from the door.
John entered, his face flushed. "I beg your pardon. My wife is rather overwrought, I fear."
"So I heard. What is amiss?"
Her brother took a turn about the room, stopping in front of the bookshelf, where he stood, seemingly lost in thought. She waited. Could John have discovered her moonlit swim or her tryst with Lord Snow? No, he didn't seem upset, just at a loss somehow.
"My dear, something quite unexpected has occurred. I have received an offer for you."
She must have misheard him. "An offer? Of marriage?"
"Of course, of marriage! What other offer would I entertain for you?"
Isabelle thought of the dissolute Lord Snow. "I cannot imagine."
"Lord Snow tells me he thinks he can make you happy. You know this is all I have ever desired, for you to be safe and happy." John fingered his neck cloth. "We discussed the, uh, tragedy and it appears not to be a bar to the marriage. Could you consider him?"
Isabelle was silent while her thoughts whirled. Marriage?
"It would be an excellent match for you. Lord Snow's reputation is not quite what one would wish, but you would be a countess, with ample pin money, and your own home. His family is received everywhere, influential in political and court circles. You would have wealth and respectability. Perhaps, one day, children..."