Once a Duchess(42)
Marshall stalked after, letting her gain distance on him. He had the advantage of familiarity with the garden. What Isabelle did not know was that the rose garden was actually a maze. It was a low one, and easy to see over the tops of the various rose plants. This only made it deceptive. Visitors were lured in for a stroll, thinking they were walking into an ordinary garden, when suddenly, they found themselves puzzling their way out again.
He watched in growing amusement as she rounded a corner. A dead end, he knew. Sure enough, Isabelle retraced her steps and reached the intersection just as he did. He lunged. She yelped and sidestepped, then took off like a deer.
Her herbal scent hung in the air behind her, mingling with the roses in a heady aroma. He caught sight of her frantically running up and down the aisles of flowers. She was trapped now, no getting out the way she’d come except past him.
He caught up to her in the center — the only secluded spot in the rose garden — where a tall wall of hedges encircled a graveled clearing. In the middle, a bed of roses surrounded a fountain. Isabelle sat on a stone bench, panting. They were cut off from the house lights here, and only a little moonlight filtered in. Her features took on an ethereal quality. He glimpsed only the outline of her face, a flicker of light reflected in her eyes, the gleam of her teeth through her parted lips.
“You, madam,” Marshall said, lowering himself beside her, “are caught. I shall have my prize now.”
He heard the smile in her voice as she spoke. “I still don’t wish to share,” she cajoled.
His voice rumbled in his throat. “Keep your dessert. I think I’d like something sweeter.” He heard her intake of breath as he lowered his head.
Before reaching her mouth, he encountered a forkful of flaky pastry. He chuckled and allowed her to feed him the bite of tart. Juice flooded his mouth, and the buttery crust melted against his tongue.
“It’s very good,” he said sincerely. “You were right to keep it away from me. Now I must have more.” He placed a hand at her waist and drew her to his side. Reaching down, he plucked the fork from her fingers, scooped up a morsel of pastry, then returned the favor of feeding it to her.
Isabelle closed her lips around the offering. Marshall withdrew the fork and pressed the tines, still warm from her mouth, against his own lips.
He watched her jaw work and her throat move when she swallowed. Only highlights of her skin gleamed in the dim light, the rest was cast in shadow. The contrasting rises and falls of her contours invited his touch. He brushed a finger along her jaw, and before she could rebuff him, he bent his neck and pressed his lips to hers.
She stiffened, and made as though to withdraw. Marshall kept a hand on her back, and ran the other down her arm in a soothing touch. When she calmed he took advantage, deepening the kiss.
He teased his lips back and forth. A hand slid up his shoulder and hooked around his neck, and then her lips parted, inviting him in. What was left of his rational mind melted away. She was warm, and tasted like strawberries and wine. Heat stirred his blood, stoking the desire that he had been keeping at a dull roar ever since he’d clapped eyes on her in his kitchen.
His tongue plunged boldly into her mouth, exploring territory that had once been so dear and familiar. An aching sense of loss caught him off guard, and he crushed her to him, desperate to hold onto this woman who captivated him in a way no other had.
Would his body eventually come to crave Lucy the way it did Isabelle? He faltered for an instant and started to disengage.
A mewling sound escaped her throat and her arms snaked around his neck, driving Lucy from his thoughts. For the moment, at least, no other woman existed. His fingers twined into the tresses at her nape, pulling them free of their rumpled knot. Her hair was like a blanket over his hands, comfortable and soft against his skin.
He moved his hands to cradle her face. It felt so fragile under his palms, her cheeks cool in comparison to her hot mouth. But the fragility belied a strength he could not help but admire, and somehow contained this woman who had refused to wither away under the force of society’s condemnation and his own. Instead, she made her own way and survived. He was startled by warm tears against his fingers. He trailed kisses up one cheek to capture a tear with his lips.
Her crying confused him. Had he scared her? She’d been willing enough to receive his kisses, and had been flirting with him before. “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he murmured against her temple. “What’s wrong?”
She moved her face in his hands, shifting so his fingers once again entwined in her hair. Isabelle nuzzled under his chin, rubbing her cheek against his neck.