She grudgingly nodded her agreement and picked up two boxes. Keeping the smaller jewelry box in her lap, she gave Damien the larger writing box.
“Damnation!”
Damien’s husky voice jarred Isabella. Glancing up, she saw his strained expression. Her stomach did a somersault. “What is it? What have you found?”
“The writing paper,” Damien said quietly, holding up a single sheet of parchment toward the firelight.
“It’s blank,” Isabella replied, knitting her brows together.
“Yes,” Damien said. “And because it is not written on, I can easily read the watermark. I recognize it.”
Isabella rose to her knees and awkwardly shuffled toward him. “I don’t understand,” she said, peering closely at the parchment. “I thought these watermarks were woven into the paper by the manufacturer to denote quality.” She fingered the heavy cream colored paper. “ ’Tis obvious this is a superior vellum.”
“Aside from crediting the paper maker, watermarks of heraldic themes and armorial shields showing the bearing of the aristocratic owner are often used,” Damien explained. “The paper I use is marked with a replica of my family coat of arms.”
Isabella frowned. “Lord Poole wears a gold ring bearing his family heraldry. I don’t recall the design exactly, but I am certain it does not resemble this mark.”
“Of course not. If Poole’s father and your mother were lovers, he would not have been foolish enough to present her with something containing his coat of arms.”
“Yet you said you recognized this paper,” Isabella said. “How?”
“Emmeline refused to use my parchment for her correspondence, preferring her family’s unique creation.” Damien traced the outlines of the watermark to emphasize his point. “The bull’s head is a common symbol, but rising between the horns is a supporting symbol, a star. This paper is made exclusively for the Poole family. It cannot be purchased by anyone else. Finding it among your mother’s personal effects establishes a firm connection between her and them.”
“Good Lord.” Isabella sank back unsteadily on her haunches. “I don’t believe it.”
“I agree the evidence is hardly conclusive, but given all the other circumstances, in conjunction to your striking physical resemblance to Emmeline, I believe we have finally discovered the truth.”
“The truth!” Isabella jerked herself up to her knees, swayed drunkenly, then sat down hard on the floor. She looked at Damien’s solemn face, and a cold, empty fear invaded her heart.
He would grow to hate her now because of who she was. Gone forever was the chance, the hope, that he would one day return her love.
Her vision blurred. The tears were close to the surface, and Isabella knew she was about to disgrace herself. Yet she couldn’t seem to gather the strength to leave.
“Sweetheart.” Damien reached down and lifted her into his lap. “Shhhh, don’t cry.”
Isabella hiccuped back a sob. Damien smiled affectionately and kissed her temple. He rocked her slowly back and forth. She took a shuddering breath and rubbed her cheek against the soft silk of his waistcoat. He felt wonderful. Yet the turmoil in her heart continued.
Isabella felt disjointed, somehow out of touch with her true self. She absently twisted one of the gold buttons on the earl’s jacket until the thread snapped. With a mute, apologetic glance, she handed him the button and he slipped it inside his pocket. Then his fingers began to stroke her head and shoulders in a soothing motion that gradually calmed her panic. And raised her passion.
Suddenly she wanted to kiss him. Everywhere. She wanted to loosen his cravat and nibble at the base of his throat, where his pulse beat strong and sure. She wanted to remove his jacket and waistcoat and shirt and run her fingers across his naked flesh. She wanted to make love to him. Now. But after all that had happened, would he still want her?
Isabella let her hand slide over the rock-hard muscles of Damien’s arm and gave a firm squeeze. Then she bent herself seductively back over his other arm in a calculated pose of utter abandonment.
The earl squirmed in the chair, and her heart sang when she felt a familiar hard pressure against her bottom. She turned her head and looked him straight in the eye.
“The carpet might be scratchy, my lord, but your desk top looks invitingly smooth.”
A dark brow arched up. “Are you suggesting that we test that assumption, my dear?” The heat in his eyes and the sexy timber of his deep voice stole her breath away.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered in his ear.
“Right now?”
“Please.” Her voice was husky and thrillingly coaxing.
Damien hesitated a mere fraction of a second, then lowered his head and took her lips in a wet, open-mouthed kiss. Isabella immediately responded by thrusting her tongue inside the warmth of Damien’s mouth. She kissed him deeply, drinking in all of his heat and hunger. They kept kissing until her lips felt swollen, until the desire rose between them thick and urgent, tightening every nerve in her body.
Tearing her mouth free from his, Isabella drew her lips along the square line of his jaw, then flicked her tongue behind the lobe of his ear. Damien quivered and held her tighter against his chest. Even through the many layers of clothing, his body felt wonderful—strong, hard, and solid, offering her the comfort and security she so desperately needed, so desperately craved.
