Isabella quickly surveyed the small room illuminated only by a low fire. An elegant desk, a richness of Turkey carpets on the floor, a number of Chippendale chairs, two bookcases. It was obviously a workplace, but an opulent one. Her assessment of the office didn't long curtail the overwhelming anxiety plaguing her, and she soon began pacing, moving between the desk and the fireplace in short circuits, unconsciously wringing her gloved hands. She was nervous about interrupting Dermott in his night's amusements. This house was more than a gambling club, she suspected. He would think her interfering. She dreaded the thought of his coldness. But if she didn't at least try to stop this fearful duel, she'd forever regret her cowardice.
The door opened and she turned from the fire with a start, her cape billowing out at her sudden movement. Her heart was pounding in her chest.
Dermott stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the hallway, his ruffled hair limned by candleglow, his face in half shadow, his white neckcloth a pale accent in the darkness of his evening clothes. "You shouldn't be here," he gruffly said, annoyance in his tone and rigid posture, in the small impatient gesture he made with his hand.
"I need to talk to you." She tried to hide her apprehension, but her voice trembled at the end.
"I don't want to talk to you."
"Please?" It was the merest whisper, unutterably pitiful.
He shot a glance at Joe standing behind him. "Is your bodyguard for me or you?"
"For me. After the events today, Molly insisted."
"Good for her." Dermott seemed to relax.
"If you'd just give me a moment of your time," Isabella quickly said, taking advantage of what she perceived as a small forbearance. "I won't keep you from-"
"My amusements?" The faintest smile flashed for a second, and then, taking a step forward, he crossed the threshold, pushed the door shut, and leaned back against it. "I'm glad you have a bodyguard."
"I am too." She felt some of her tension ease. He hadn't walked away.
"You could have been seriously hurt this afternoon."
"I know. The events in Chelsea made me realize some kind of protection was necessary. Molly's insistence only reinforced my feelings. And I've decided to forgo the season as well," she added, "so that should diminish my public visibility. Although I certainly appreciate everything that Molly"-her voice suddenly sounded loud in the quiet of the room-"did for me," she finished, unnerved by his detachment.
A small silence fell.
Dermott hadn't moved from the door.
"I don't know how to begin," Isabella finally said.
He didn't answer.
"You're not helping."
"I didn't want to talk to you, if you recall."
"You're making this very difficult."
He shrugged.
"I heard about your duel," she blurted out.
That painful silence.
"I came to try to dissuade you from such foolishness."
"Thank you for coming. I'll bid you good night." Pushing away from the door, he bowed faintly and turned to leave.
"Dermott, wait!" Isabella cried, running toward him.
He stood with his back to her, the tension in his shoulders visible even in the dim light, his hand arrested on the door handle.
"Don't go."
She stood only inches from him; he could smell her perfume, she could feel the warmth from his body, potent memory brutalizing their senses.
"I can't bear the thought of you dying…" She reached out and touched his arm.
For a breath-held moment with the feel of her hand bombarding his brain, he tried to review all the reasons for leaving, all the pragmatic, sane, rational ones.
"Please, Dermott, hold me…"
Her soft voice drifted around him, caressed him. He fought against his desires, knowing he'd only hurt her again, knowing he couldn't give her what she wanted, and then he felt her arms slide around his waist. For a second more he controlled his impulses, and then his hand slipped away from the door handle.
Gently unclasping her arms, he turned to face her.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't beg. You must be so tired of women doing that to-"
"I can't just hold you," he interrupted. "You know that, don't you?"
"I don't care."
He briefly shut his eyes against the intensity of his feelings, and when his lashes lifted, he said, "I won't be able to stay long."
"I don't care about that either."
"You might later." He drew in a shallow breath because he seemed to be suffocating. "I'm trying to be-honest…"
"I understand."
"And this won't change my mind about the duel, if that's what you're thinking."
"Fine," she conceded.
"Bloody hell…" His voice was gruff, heated, an undertone of resentment in the expletive. And then he suddenly gripped her shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh. "We shouldn't be doing this. We shouldn't even be talking about-"
"I'll take responsibility."
"For everything?" His dark gaze was turbulent, fierce. "I don't have protection here. This isn't a room for assignations." He was baiting her, capable of controlling his ejaculations, but restive, angry, he wished to give her no quarter.
"It doesn't matter."
"Don't say that." His voice was hot with temper, with carnal lust and craving.
"I mean it."
"You'd risk having my child?"
"I wouldn't consider it a risk."
"Jesus, Izzy…" Releasing his grip, he stepped back, only to come up against the barricade of the door.
She followed him that small distance, slid her gloved palms up over the lapels of his jacket while he stood rigid, motionless. Raising herself on tiptoe, she slipped her hands around his neck. "What are we going to do about this?"
It wasn't a question a man like Dermott could ignore, his sexual response honed to a fine pitch over the years, his erection hard between them. "I thought maybe I'd send you home," he brusquely muttered, restless, touchy, struggling against his base impulses.
"Send me home in an hour," she murmured, melting against him, her urges as ravenous, as outrageous. Terror-driven as well. She might never see him again. He might be dead tomorrow. And suddenly nothing mattered but feeling him one last time. "You can spare me an hour, can't you?" Her voice was liquid heat as she slid her fingers through his dark hair and tugged his head down.
Her kiss was sweet and warm, all promise and glowing welcome.
He might never again feel the sweetness of her mouth on his, he thought, understanding the odds against him. And the warmth of her body, the soft pressure of her breasts, her hips, her thighs, burned through the fabric of his evening clothes, reminding him of all the pleasures they'd shared. Of the ecstasy he felt in her arms.
"Make love to me, please… please," she whispered, her breath warm on his mouth.
"We shouldn't." Only sheer will kept his hands at his sides.
"But I want to feel you inside me…"
Suddenly his hands came up, and gripping her face, he engulfed the delicacy of her mouth with a hard, possessive kiss that burned away his few remaining scruples. Fueled by the pent-up frustration of their separation and his rare abstinence, he no longer thought of right or wrong, impropriety or principle, but invaded her mouth as he intended to invade her body-fiercely, urgently.
Isabella had been celibate except for Bond Street, and she answered his fevered impatience with her own blazing passion, forgetting why she'd come, why they'd last parted, all the sadness and pain of his leaving. She welcomed him with a thrilling, reckless happiness, wanting his strength and virility, wanting the unadulterated bliss of making love with him, wishing she might keep him forever.