And then his lips. The lips she had watched, day after day, with increasing fascination and bafflement. The lips that had sneered at her, sworn at her, laughed and shouted and smiled at her. He didn’t plaster her with his kiss; he merely tasted her, at first barely touching her mouth with his own.
Back and forth, slowly, subtly, he moved his head, sharing the merest hint of himself, the briefest brush of pressure. Overwhelmed by the sensations, she let her eyes drift shut and heard a strange, whimpering sound escape her. As of their own accord, her fists clenched into the fabric of his shirt.
Closer. She wanted to be closer. She wanted to taste more of him, to feel the pressure of his mouth on hers. But he simply kept brushing her lips, holding her gently as if she were fragile, breakable. The hand at her waist moved, a minor shift, barely noticeable, except that she felt his thumb graze the underside of her breast, could feel his touch even through the stiff buckram of her corset. She felt a surging and singing inside, things she had read about in the romantic novels she was not supposed to see until she was married, but read in secret anyway. And, oh, this was so much better. She wanted so much more than this moment, yet she was terrified that it might end.
She had an overwhelming urge to lean toward him, to press into his embrace, to crush her mouth against his. But she didn’t dare. Didn’t know how. Didn’t trust him to accept her.
It was an act of supreme self-control, then, to hold herself rigid, unmoving, disbelieving.
And finally it was over. From the time he had begun to kiss her until the moment it ended, an eternity had passed. The world had changed color, tilted on its axis. Yet when Ryan Calhoun drew back from her and regarded her solemnly for several long moments, he looked exactly the same: handsome, relaxed, assured.
And she was a perfect mess inside.
“I won’t apologize,” he said easily, “although a gentleman would. I’m not sorry that happened.” He stood, his lithe grace never more apparent, and helped her to her feet. She went like a marionette on a string, wooden and stiff, jerky in her movements.
“We’d best get inside. They’ll want to hear all about the monkey.”
“What monkey?” she asked stupidly.
Fourteen
O bed! O bed! Delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
—Thomas Hood
(1841)
Ryan awoke the next day and stared for a long time at the plaster-and-timber ceiling of his large, airy room in the villa. “I still can’t believe I did that,” he said aloud, though there was no one to hear.
He had taken Isadora Peabody in his arms. He had kissed her.
In the past, flouting convention had been a way of life for him. But Isadora, milled like the straightest of spars by convention, made him understand that he was not immune to censure. That things he did could cause profound effects.
What fool notion had possessed him? It was not that he regretted kissing her—he simply didn’t have the conscience for that. What he regretted was her reaction. She had been so startled, so vulnerable that he knew she was in danger of letting the kiss mean far too much to her.
This could signal a disaster. This could change everything between them, just when they had begun to move toward an accord. With Isadora, he had a relationship he’d never thought possible with a woman. He had a true friendship. Trust. Mutual respect. Equal footing. Delight in shared interests.
Perhaps she would even quit making those infernal reports to Abel.
He had probably destroyed it all by kissing her. So long as they were friends, he couldn’t harm her. But if he dared to move into her heart, he would strip away all her defenses, open her to a hurt she didn’t deserve. She was too fragile for a rogue like him.
He crushed his eyes shut against the glaring morning sunlight. Damn it.
Goddamn it all to hell.
There were girls aplenty for kissing. But there was only one Isadora.
He remembered her stiff posture, her shocked expression last night. She had been outraged in every cell of her body. He knew it. Could feel it emanating from her.
But when she had softened in his arms, when she had moistened her lips and timidly touched him, he’d forgotten who she was. Forgotten she was born and bred of the Beacon Hill elite. Forgotten she and her kind looked down on Southerners, particularly those who moved in the company of pirates and cutthroats. Forgotten that her heart belonged to Chad Easterbrook whether the upright bit of plant life deserved her or not.
Ryan of all people understood what it was like to want something you couldn’t have. To want it with all your heart and soul. To want it with a passion that made nothing else matter. He should respect that in Isadora.
He got up and bathed in the cool water from the basin at the washstand, using a spicy scented soap, then cleaning his teeth with a tooth powder that tasted like anise. He thought of the long, laughing conversations they shared. The bickering and bantering. The quiet moments reading books. The satisfaction of taking a sounding on shipboard and finding that their figures agreed. That was the Isadora he wanted back. He had to return to the place they were before he had stepped over the line, to the friendship, the camaraderie, the respect.
But even as he thought it, he knew he would keep pushing her. He liked seeing her unbend, liked making her laugh, and hell, he liked seeing her get mad.
He was through pretending he was a gentleman. She knew better than that, anyway. She knew damned well that he was a groping mass of male desire. No more pretending, then. No more standing aside while she dreamed of Chad Easterbrook.
Ryan was moving in for a good time.
Isadora’s nightmare began when she awoke. It started with a maid barely more than four feet tall. Scolding like a jungle parrot, she blustered into the room and started ordering Isadora around in a musical Brazilian patois.
“My name is Angelica. You can have your coffee and churro while I do your hair. And for the riding today, you may not wear that strange norteamericano gown. I have brought something much, much better….”
“What riding?” Isadora managed to ask. “I don’t know how to ride.”
“That is no matter. The burro knows what to do. All you have to do is sit. A monkey can sit.”
“I am certainly not going to ride a jackass. Truly, I cannot—” Isadora almost choked on her fried bread. “What in heaven’s name is that?”
Angelica laughed, her face jolly and appealing despite the sad state of her teeth. “It is your costume for riding.”
“I won’t do it. I won’t put that on.”
“Senhora Peabody, you are not going to insult your hostess by refusing, are you?”
“I’m afraid I shall have to.”
“I’m afraid I cannot let you.”
The argument went on, but the diminutive servant proved the stronger, and by eight o’clock Isadora stood in the courtyard, dubiously eyeing a sleepy looking burro. She felt utterly ridiculous—Angelica had made her put on a strange, wide-legged split skirt that barely covered her shins. “Like the gauchos wear,” the maid had declared, buttoning the back of a loose white blouse.
She felt completely naked. Yet without her corset and longcloth petticoats, she detected a comfort and ease that was alien to her. Well, she thought. If Rose insisted on riding a mule for a bit this morning, she could oblige.
But it wasn’t Rose who came out to greet her in the courtyard.