He wanted her. Isabel Hayes. And nothing else mattered in that moment except for that one fact.
“Please,” she whimpered against his lips. He wasn’t certain she meant to say it out loud, or if it was a plea to herself or to him. But it turned his body rock-hard and he found himself backing her toward the wall.
She gasped as her back hit the hard surface, and tilted her head as he started to kiss along her jaw, down her throat, to the low neckline of her pretty gown. She dragged her fingers into his hair, making incoherent sounds of pleasure as he cupped both breasts in his hands, pushing them together, licking the valley that peeked up from her gown.
He ground against her as he did so, hard, circular thrusts of his hips that she met in kind as she gasped and groaned and begged him to keep going. He had no intention of doing anything else. He pushed aside doubt and guilt and recrimination and cupped her backside, lifting her up against him, letting her feel the reminder of what they had shared in secret.
“Yes,” she grunted, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she drove her tongue into his mouth and showed him, in no uncertain terms, how much she wanted what he offered.
It would have happened. He had no doubt that it would have. Except in that moment, the door to the parlor opened. He released her, setting her down before he swiveled to face the intruders.
And there, standing in the doorway was her uncle, and he wasn’t alone. With him was the host of their party, Lord Hasselbreck, Hugh, and at least three others who were leaning all over themselves to see the wicked, heated scene before them.
Chapter Fourteen
Isabel gasped in horror at the gaggle of people now staring into the room, looking at Matthew, looking at her. Even half-hidden behind him, she knew her identity was obvious. Especially when her uncle pointed a finger across the room and shouted, “You see! I told you that bastard was up to no good. He is attacking my niece.”
Matthew made a sound of utter horror deep in his throat. He cast her one look, and it was no longer the one of desire. The one of need and passion. No, he glanced at her with…uncertainty.
As if he thought she might be part of her uncle’s attack.
“No!” she cried out without thinking of the consequences as she hurried around Matthew. “That isnotwhat is happening.”
That only seemed to make it worse, for the stares of those in the hall became accusatory. She could read the slurs in their eyes. The judgments that she would offer herself so easily.
And from the glare of Matthew’s friend, the Duke of Brighthollow, she guessed she would find no friends amongst those who had intruded on this scene between them.
“His Grace was just…I was…we were…” she stammered.
She looked at her uncle then, in some way hoping for help, for support. But he met her stare, then looked past her toward Matthew, and he…smiled. A smug expression of triumph. And she knew in that moment. She knew.
When he’d spoken of hurting Matthew, when he’d talked to her about her future…those two things were linked in his mind. He had planned to use her in this very way. To destroy her if it meant destroying Matthew, too.
“I suggest that everyone leave the room right now,” Brighthollow said, spearing those in the hall with a dark glare that could have frozen Hell itself. “Lord Hasselbreck, take them, please. I will remain behind with Mr. Winter and His Grace to ensure they do not come to blows.”
Isabel flinched, for at that moment it looked like Brighthollow would not mind raining a few blows down on Uncle Fenton, himself.
“This is my home, Your Grace,” Hasselbreck began.
Brighthollow turned his ire on him and snapped, “And I suggest you manage it.”
With that he gave Hasselbreck a shove and closed the door behind him, leaving the four of them alone.
Isabel’s hands were shaking as she approached her uncle. His gaze, which had been so firm, so celebratory, now fluttered away from hers. A sign of guilt, perhaps, but not so much that he didn’t use her as a pawn in this game of his.
“You did this,” she whispered, hating how her voice cracked. “You arranged this intrusion, didn’t you? For how long?”
Matthew caught his breath and she looked to see him staring at her and her uncle. Both of them with the same expression. Betrayal. Distrust. Her eyes swelled with tears, but she blinked them back. It was too late for that now.
“Answer me!” she shouted.
Uncle Fenton shrugged. “How could I arrange what this person, thisthing, brought to bear on himself? Did I tell him to pin you against a wall and practically rut with you in public?”
She turned her face at the coarse description. Her stomach turned.
“You have hated me for years,” Matthew said at last, his eyes narrowing on Fenton. “What is the purpose of this…manipulation?”
Isabel held her breath as she awaited that answer. Wishing it would be something that didn’t break her heart. Knowing it would.
