“You aren’t leaving this room.”
She could leave if she wanted. It was her room, for heaven’s sake. He needn’t be such a lion about it. She gripped the edge of her chair, her knuckles turning white. “There is no need for you to be concerned.”
His eyes flashed as he shifted his weight to one knee and took both her hands in his. “You are weighed down with secrets, Isabel. At some point, you are going to have to share them.”
She looked at the man across from her—this man who seemed to be good. And strong. And rich. And she realized that he was, indeed, her best hope.
If only she didn’t feel so guilty about it.
“Why not start with your father?” She pulled back, physically resisting the idea of opening up about the man who had started her down this path. He squeezed her hands then. “Why not speak what you cannot stop thinking?”
Isabel caught her breath at the words, so soft, so coaxing.
What if she told him?
What if she let some of her secrets go?
They hovered there, on the brink of something more powerful than either of them, and Isabel felt the silence as if it were a physical weight. Neither of them had worn gloves that evening; the casual nature of the manor house had not required it.
He rubbed her hands between his carefully, tracing his broad, wonderfully roughened fingertips down each of her fingers in turn. She watched the movement, wondering at his calloused skin—how had one of London’s most coveted lords developed the hands of a workman? She was so distracted by the feel of his warm bare hands on hers that she nearly gave in to his request.
Nearly.
But somewhere, deep within her, she knew that if she opened up to this man, it would be the most dangerous thing she ever did.
He made her want to believe that she could share her burdens.
When the truth was that she was alone.
And she always would be.
In the beginning, she had thought that was best. Because every woman she’d known who had chosen to share her life had regretted it. She learned from her mother, from the women of Minerva House. Sharing life with a man would ultimately lead to being half a woman. And she never wanted to feel that way.
No matter how much his warm hands and encouraging words tempted her.
She swallowed, willing her voice to come out strong and firm. “There is nothing to say. You know his reputation as well as I. Better, I would imagine. We did not know him. He did not care to know us.” She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug and tugged at her hands, eager to be free of his grasp.
Nick did not respond, releasing one of her hands, but keeping the other in his firm grip, turning it over and baring her palm to his gaze. With his thumbs, he began to rub slow circles across her hand. The sensation was instantly overwhelming.
When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “You do not have to tell me … but believe me when I tell you that you cannot allow him to turn you against life. Do not let him rob you of its pleasure.”
Her eyes flew to his, but he was not looking at her. Instead, he was watching his ministrations, the press and stroke of his thumbs that sent the most marvelous waves of pleasure through her. She sighed and fell back against the cushion of her chair, knowing she should stop him, but unable to muster the energy to do so. Whatever he was doing to her hand … it was lovely. Far lovelier than anything she’d experienced in a very long time.
Except maybe his kiss.
That had been rather lovely, as well.
She really should remove her hand from his.
But something that he was doing to her—the way his fingers seemed to find the most sensitive spots on her hand … she’d never noticed the pleasure one’s fingers could experience.
Her gaze slid from where she watched the play of his hands up to his neck, where the corded muscle slipped beneath his shirt collar in lovely, sun-kissed lines. She had never noticed anyone’s neck before, and, as she followed the length of his throat up to his jaw, she wondered why.
Necks were quite magnificent, actually.
He shifted the pressure on her hands, rubbing the base of her thumb with the strong pads of his fingers, and she turned liquid at the touch, sinking further into her chair. Nick continued his ministrations, pressing and stroking in the most marvelous way, sending waves of pleasure through her. She sighed, knowing she should stop him, but unable to muster the energy to do so.
Instead, she raised her eyes to his face, taking in the sharp angle of his jaw where it met the lines of his throat, his strong chin and firm, soft lips. She did not linger on that mouth … or the unsettling memories it wrought; instead, she turned her attention to the slight, nearly imperceptible bend in his nose.
It had been broken at some point. Perhaps at the same time he was scarred?
Who was this man, at once gentleman antiquarian, mysterious prison escapee, and infuriating kisser?
How did he seem to understand her so well?
And, more importantly, why did she want so very much to know him?
She braved a look at his eyes then, and was relieved to discover that he was focused on her hands rather than her face. She watched his intent gaze. The brilliant blue that she had noticed from the start—that every woman in London had noticed at one point or another if the silly magazine was to be believed—they were not simply blue. They were a stunning combination of grays and cornflowers and sapphires … framed with lush, sooty lashes any courtesan would envy.
He was beautiful.
The thought broke through, and Isabel sat up straight, yanking her hand from between his and pushing aside the immediate sense of loss that came over her as she did so. She swallowed once, collecting herself. “You are too familiar, Lord Nicholas.” She managed not to cringe at the shaking of her voice, and was quite proud of her restraint.