She checked the same drawer repeatedly, as if the contents would suddenly reappear out of thin air. But she couldn’t magically regenerate the dried leola root she used in her morning infusion to prevent pregnancy. The cutting she had planted had failed to sprout, and discreet inquiries to the local apothecary confirmed that the root wasn’t commonly used here in London.
The apothecary sent her a substitute, one he assured her would work the same way. She had little choice but to believe him.
“Cara, are you in here?”
With a guilty start, Isobel turned to face Matteo. He’d been out riding with Nino and Ottavio that morning. The older servant trailed him inside, looking closely at the rows and rows of pots covering the nearby tables while Ottavio loitered near the door.
She was relieved to see Matteo up and active. These days he slept long into the morning. He only roused when she woke him, coaxing him out of bed with effort. Once he was up he seemed fine, but there had been a few mornings when she’d doubted he would wake at all. It frightened her, and she worried that the curse was working itself deeper into him.
“Did you enjoy your ride?” she asked, picking up a seedling pot as Matteo reached her.
“Yes. Did you enjoy your flowers?” he asked quietly.
Puzzled, she looked up. “What flowers?”
“The ones in the foyer. Gideon sent them. He’s back in town...and he’s sending flowers to my wife.”
Too late, Isobel noticed the extra vibration in Matteo’s deceptively soft voice. She put down the pot on her worktable.
“Is he? I hadn’t seen them,” she said lightly.
“Have you seen him?” he asked, leaning on the nearest table.
She laughed. “No, of course not. A young blood of the ton is out at races and boxing matches. He doesn’t bother paying calls—even to his relations. He sends flowers instead, a simple courtesy.”
By the end of her speech, she was struggling to keep her tone even.
Matteo’s cold fingers wrapped around the back of her neck, his fingers drifting into the hair at the base of her skull. “And you would never lie to me, would you, Isabella?”
“No,” she whispered, her throat tight.
His expression softened incrementally. “I know that,” he said, his intense gaze taking in every inch of her face before he kissed her.
The coolness of his lips was startling in the warmth of the conservatory. She shivered despite the sudden rush of heat that coursed through her body. When his mouth moved down to her neck he began to undo the ties in the front of her bodice. He pulled her closer, yanking the front of her dress down so hard a seam popped.
Startled, she opened her eyes briefly, peeking over his shoulder.
“My lord, wait,” she said urgently, trying to hold the top of her gown up.
Matteo hadn’t waited to dismiss the guards.
But he wasn’t listening to her. He moved down her body to kneel in front her, pushing her skirts out of his way as he went. Trying to hold up her bodice with one hand, she urged him away with the other. But he took hold of her wrist in an iron grip before backing her against the glass wall of the conservatory.
She gasped as the bare skin of her back made contact with the cold slick wall, and Matteo responding in kind, growling as he hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, exposing her to his mouth—–and the eyes of the men.
Blood pumping loudly in her ears, she looked up to see Nino making a rapid exit, but Ottavio was standing there…watching from behind the hydrangea bushes.
Matteo’s bulk concealed her most intimate place, but the servant could likely see her bare legs and what skin was exposed by the torn bodice.
“Matteo!” she cried, but he paid her no attention.
He was too intent on his task. His tongue and fingers were exploring her intimate flesh, opening and softening her for his inevitable claiming.
Frantically she waved at Ottavio, trying to signal him to go away. If Matteo came to his senses long enough to look behind him, he would lose control.
But the asinine servant wouldn’t move. His avaricious stare was taking in everything, then one hand thrust into his trousers to rub himself through his clothing.
She couldn’t shout at him to leave. If she did, it would sign the fool’s death warrant. Lips clamped firmly shut, she tried to shift her skirts out of Matteo’s grip enough to throw them over him. She was only partially successful, but it had to be enough. Her focus and strength were waning as her soft wet channel was alternately filled by his fingers and tongue in a rhythmic, coordinated invasion. Working in a second finger into her sheath, he grazed the pearl of her sex with his teeth before biting down gently.
Isobel was no match for the sensual onslaught. Her bodice fell forward as she put one hand on Matteo’s head and clutched at the glass behind her for support. Her nipples peaked in contact with the air, but she couldn’t cover herself. A sharp pulsing pleasure robbed her of strength. Nearly falling forward only deepened Matteo’s penetration as he consumed her with abandon.