Once a Duchess(61)

 

This was it. She drew her shoulders back, steeling herself to accept his proposal.

 

Woolsley, however, resumed his onslaught of caresses. His pelvis rocked provocatively against her hip.

 

His touch made her skin crawl. “If you wish to talk, Nyle,” she said, “perhaps you should release me. It’s difficult to attend your words with you behaving so … ” She would have liked to say “abominably,” but bit her tongue just before offending her would-be fiancé.

 

“Passionately, darling?” He kneaded his fingers into the back of her neck. “I’m having trouble concentrating, too. You heat my blood.”

 

She had trouble believing that. The glints of moonlight reflecting on his eyes looked like ice.

 

“I am most gratified to know you feel the same.” His teeth nipped painfully into her neck.

 

Isabelle gasped. She disengaged herself from his arms and took a couple steps back. “Talk, my lord, you wanted to talk.”

 

Behind Isabelle, someone on the other side of the balcony coughed loudly. She turned her head at the sound, but her attention was immediately brought back to the viscount when he snatched her hands.

 

Lord Woolsley chuckled. “I see I’ve alarmed you, m’dear. Or are you feigning modesty?” He squeezed her hands a little too firmly to be reassuring. “Let us be frank. You’re an experienced woman. Monthwaite undoubtedly taught you well.”

 

Heat rose in her cheeks. She was glad for the shadows concealing her discomfiture. Though her familiarity with the matter was limited, this was the strangest prelude to a marriage proposal Isabelle had ever heard of. “I confess I find myself at a loss for words, sir. Nyle.”

 

“It’s not Sir Nyle.” He furrowed his brow and pressed his middle finger to his forehead. “My point is,” his voice once again clipped and precise, “you, my love, are no fresh virgin on the marriage mart. Neither are you a widow with a fortune to attract a new husband.”

 

Her tongue recoiled from the metallic taste of mortification. She swallowed hard and spoke through tight lips. “That does seem to be the situation in which I find myself.”

 

“However,” he said in a gentler tone, “you’re a beautiful female. T’would be a crime to let your youth pass by unappreciated.” He raised her fingers to his mouth and kissed the tip of each, then pressed her hands against his chest, pinning them beneath his own. “Isabelle.” He spoke her name gravely; his eyes bored into her like twin ice picks.

 

She drew a breath and held it.

 

“I would like to offer you my protection.”

 

His protection? She continued holding her breath. Wasn’t there supposed to be more to a proposal? Making him the happiest of men, doing him the honor, he’d talk to her brother as soon as possible? But the viscount stood there impassively, seemingly at the end of his speech. She exhaled.

 

“Your protection?” She frowned in confusion. “What do you mean, your pro — ” As the words left her lips, his meaning hit her like a bolt of lightning. She gasped; her hand flew to her gaping mouth. Isabelle staggered back, the full import of his suggestion settling upon her. “I cannot believe this,” she finally stammered.

 

“Believe it, darling.” Lord Woolsley stalked toward her. “There will be a house for you to live in while our arrangement holds. A generous quarterly allowance. An outpouring of gifts if you please me.” The moonlight gleamed against his wolfish grin. “All I ask of you is an open door and a warm bed.”

 

For a fraction of a moment, Isabelle’s shocked mind desperately wondered whether Alex would want her to accept Woolsley’s offer. He wanted her off his hands, but never this way.

 

“My lord!” She drew herself up, shaking off the shock with a toss of her head. “You misunderstand me. I am overcome with disbelief, but not in the way you think. I will not be your mistress.” She lifted her chin. “I’m a divorced woman, not a whore.”

 

Lord Woolsley breathed a laugh. “There’s not much difference, my dear. Think it over. When you come to your senses, let me know.”

 

His words were delivered with such cool, indifferent disdain; they poured over her like icy water. He reached inside his coat and withdrew a cigar case, selected one, then returned the case to his inner pocket. Viscount Woolsley lit his cigar, took a few puffs, then kissed her hand and walked away.

 

She didn’t turn to watch him go. She couldn’t move. She felt rooted to the very spot on which she stood, the location of her lowest humiliation to date. Isabelle had endured many things the last several years, but never had anyone vocalized such a low estimation of her morality to her face.