“Is it not?” he asked quietly. “You trusted Eleanor after one afternoon. You trust Norman without question. But me?”
His voice dropped, soft but unshakeable. “You hold me at arm’s length and wait for me to fail.”
Isobel swallowed hard. “I have reasons.”
“I know,” he said. “But they are your reasons, not mine. You see danger even when I offer certainty.”
She tried to step back. He matched her.
“I am not the one who doubts myself, Isobel,” he continued. “You are the one who doubts me.”
Her pulse kicked, stubborn and frantic. “You are twisting my words.”
“No,” Andrew murmured, “I’m exposing them.”
A charged silence stretched between them, not comforting, not gentle. Sharp. Unavoidable.
Isobel’s voice came out low. “And what do you expect me to do?”
“Stop waiting for me to become a villain,” he said. “And admit that the real battle is not with me.” His gaze locked with hers.
Her breath faltered — not from fear but from the way he said it, with absolute certainty, with no plea for her approval.
He didn’t look like a man seeking comfort. He looked like a man she could either trust… or lose.
“You are not your father,”she whispered, pressing her lips to the sharp line of Andrew’s jaw.
He smelled of sandalwood and something darker, something musky, intoxicating.
Silence settled between them, heavy but not brittle. Isobel could still feel the weight of what had been said — of fathers who had failed them in different ways, of wounds that did not heal simply because they were unspoken.
Andrew did not pull away. He remained where he was, solid and present, his hand warm against hers.
It was the steadiness of him that undid her.
Isobel lifted her hand and touched Andrew’s coat, fingers slipping beneath the lapel — not with urgency, but with intention.
Her fingers worked at the buttons of his waistcoat, deft and sure, the fabric parting to reveal the crisp linen of his shirt beneath.
“Isobel,” His voice a low growl, but his hands came up to clutch at her waist.
She ignored the warning, her mouth moving lower, her breath warm against the exposed skin at his collarbone. The taste of him was intoxicating, salt and heat and something desperately alive.
Andrew’s gaze held hers for a moment, his expression intense yet tender. Then, with deliberate slowness, he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the hollow of her throat.
Isobel’s skin tingled where his lips touched, and she shuddered, her breath hitching as he trailed kisses down the delicate skin of her neck. His hands moved with purpose, roaming over her corseted figure.
Andrew’s hands moved to the fastenings of her gown, unhurried and deliberate. The fabric slid from her shoulders, pooling softly at her feet before he drew her back against him.
Isobel arched into his touch, her perky breasts aching for his attention. Her nipples tightened, peeking through the fabric of her chemise, and she felt a flush spread across her chest.
Andrew’s hands paused, his thumbs brushing lightly over the swell of her breasts. His hands slid down her waist, cupping her ass and pulling her flush against him.
Isobel gasped into his mouth as she felt the hardness of his cock pressing against her, a throbbing reminder of his desire. Her folds clenched in response, already wet with anticipation. She could feel the heat radiating from him, his body rigid with need, and it only fueled her own longing.
Andrew broke the kiss, his breath hot against her ear as he whispered,“Let me pleasure you, Isobel.”
His words sent a jolt of desire through her, and she nodded, her body trembling. He guided her back, lowering her to the settee, his fingers tracing the hem of her skirts. Her breath hitched as he lifted them, exposing her stockings. The fabric clung to her skin, a testament to how aroused she already was.
