“You do buy new dresses, have teas, and hostess fetes.”
She shook her head. “I bought gowns I thought you’d like to see me in. I gave tea parties for your friends, so they would be my friends too. I ran fetes to help people who needed help, because I wanted to emulate the way you helped poor artists.”
“I left you alone aplenty. Just like an ordinary husband.”
“Not to your club or to a mistress, which would have been intolerable.”
Her look was tender, her eyes so green. Mac brushed a kiss over her lashes, feeling them lush and full against his lips. “Clubs are rotten places. Gaming hells and cabarets are so much more entertaining. And I mean I’d leave you for weeks at a time. To run off to Paris or Rome or Venice—whatever took my fancy.”
“Because you thought I needed to be alone,” Isabella said. “Away from you.”
Mac swallowed. “Yes.”
Marriage to him had been hard on Isabella; Mac had seen that. After a month or so in his constant company, her eyes would grow strained and her face lined with exhaustion. Their tempers would fray, and they’d quarrel about the most inane and trivial things. Mac had realized early on that the best gift he could give Isabella was peace and quiet. He’d pack a few things and disappear. He’d write to her from wherever he ended up—Paris or Rome or Zurich, telling her gossip about friends and sending her picture postcards. Isabella would never write back, but then, Mac lived a gypsy-like existence, so there wouldn’t have been much point. A letter likely wouldn’t have reached him.
He’d return after several weeks to her welcoming smile, and all would be honeymoon-like again. Until the next time.
Mac saw in her eyes that Isabella didn’t believe that this time would be different. If he were a wise and practical man, he’d leave this room now, indicate that he was ready to take things slowly, to give her a calm, steady, sensible marriage, not one rife with ups and downs.
But he wasn’t wise, or practical, and definitely not sensible.
He kissed her.
His entire body came alive. He was aware of his blood boiling through his veins, his muscles tightening, Isabella’s mouth softening under his.
“God, you’re sweet.” Mac licked across her lips, tasting her morning tea laced with sugar. “Sweet little debutante I stole from under Papa’s nose.”
His sweet little debutante twined her arms around his neck and pulled him down to the chaise, on top of her naked, delectable body.
The feel of her husband on her made Isabella swallow a groan. He smelled of sweat and paint, and his mouth aroused her, promised, taunted. It had been too long, too long.
He pulled back, his eyes dark. “Isabella.”
This was different from Mac teasing her in the tub in Doncaster. Then he’d been fully clothed, playing with her, the master of the situation. Now he kissed her, equally naked, their bodies pressed together except where the bunched sheet separated them. Right now, they were man and wife.
“Just kiss me, Mac,” she whispered.
“This is not what I want.”
Isabella widened her eyes, trying to keep her voice light. “Goodness, you truly have embraced abstinence.”
His smile could have melted the hardiest ice floe. “Oh, no, my dear, I want you. I want to couple with you for hours on end. Days. Weeks. But I don’t want this and nothing more.”
Isabella touched his sandpaper whiskers on his chin. He hadn’t shaved this morning. “You said that before. But you want everything, all at once. Can we not simply take things as they come?”
“I’m very close to coming at this point.”
She laughed, and his brows drew together.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t laugh and look so beautiful.”
Isabella laughed still more.
“Hell.”
Mac stood and lifted her into his arms. “This chaise is a damned bloody nuisance.”
Isabella noticed he didn’t ask her to go downstairs with him to his bed or hers—she knew that by the time they rose and adjusted their clothing and descended the stairs, they might come to their senses.
Isabella didn’t want to come to her senses. Not yet.
Mac laid himself on the backless chaise and pulled Isabella onto his lap. Holding her in his strong arms, Mac brushed warm kisses to her throat, moving his skilled mouth between her br**sts. His hair tickled her chin, and she pressed a kiss to the top of his head.
He held her securely across his thighs, the blunt hardness of his erection pressing her bottom. As he kissed her, Mac slid his fingers between her legs and smiled broadly when his thumb sank into wetness.
“You’re ready, Isabella, never doubt that.”
“I know.”
“I might die on the spot if I don’t have you,” he said.
Isabella turned in his arms, moving to straddle him, her legs spreading wide over the chaise. “I don’t know if I can,” she said worriedly. “It’s been a long time.”
“It is not something you forget, love.”
Her sudden panic dismayed her. She’d thought she’d moved beyond this. But Mac hadn’t touched her since she’d pushed him away after her miscarriage nearly four years ago now. He’d never insisted, never cajoled, but as the months had drifted by, she’d watched the anger build in his eyes. Isabella had longed to go to him, to comfort both of them, but her fear had not let her.
Now Mac held her gaze. “If you want to stop . . .”
Those were the most generous words he’d ever given her. Isabella knew Mac could barely contain himself, but even now, he was willing to not press her, to walk away if she wanted it.
She lay her hands against his cheeks and gave him a long kiss. “I don’t wish to stop,” she said. “I want this.”
Mac’s eyes darkened, black spreading through copper. He kissed her as he pressed fingers to her opening again, and then she felt the hard bluntness of his tip.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She nodded, still nervous. Mac kissed her as he slowly eased her onto him, holding her hips as he entered her. Her eyes widened, the feeling of him inside her at once strange and wonderfully familiar.
“You’re so tight,” Mac whispered. “Why are you so damn tight?”
“Because I’ve been living like a nun.”
“I’ve been living like a monk. I think we just broke all our vows.”
Isabella laughed, then drew in a sharp breath as she settled onto his full length.