overtake her. She prodded herself to climb the steps and drop the knocker. A butler answered at once. He opened the door and allowed her to step into the entrance hall, away from the dimly lit front stoop. Isabelle gave her name, but her attention quickly strayed as another servant, the detestable man from the flower market, rushed into the hallway, his arms laden with folded linens.
She had just stated the reason for her visit when Constantine’s voice bellowed from above stairs. His barked summons resounded throughout the entire household. Isabelle noticed the other servant, the one she disliked, gave an abrupt pivot and leaned towards the balustrade upon hearing Constantine’s angry call.
‘Brooks! God damn it, I’ve called you twice already! Where are the fresh linens?’
Isabelle’s eyes flared as she heard the language, but the expletives did little to prepare her for the scene that unraveled before her.
Constantine thundered down the staircase and stopped midway to repeat his request. His sleeves were cuffed to his elbows and the shirt hung open to the waist allowing Isabelle a glimpse of golden tanned skin, shaded with the brush of glistening masculinity. He held a glass of wine in one hand and wore nothing on his feet. Awareness, deliciously entrancing, spiraled through her as her gaze swept over him from head to toe. Good Lord, had he cut his hair? Her breath caught and tripped up her heart. Thank goodness, no. His silky locks were tied back in a leather queue. Overall he appeared sinfully dashing and remarkably disheveled, as if he’d just rolled from bed, sleep tousled and incredibly warmed. A breathless pleasure touched Isabelle’s soul and her palms grew damp, serving well to keep the forgotten button in place.
‘I try my best to keep up with your favourite preoccupation, milord. A little patience would be appreciated.’ The servant, apparently named Brooks, regarded his master with the same impudence shown to her in the flower mart.
Isabelle, eyes glued to the stairs, offered Constantine a wide-eyed stare. He began to respond to the man, then stalled when he noticed her, motionless in the doorframe. His expression transformed from frustration to easy pleasure in less than an exhale. Devastating blue eyes met hers and a silken frisson of recognition whispered across the silent room.
‘Well, that wasn’t very well done of me, was it?’
Brooks, all at once complaisant, disappeared with the butler and they were left alone.
Constantine took the two steps needed to stand before her, the weight of his intense gaze causing her need for oxygen to dissipate. He placed his wine glass on a nearby chiffonier and made a half effort to close his shirt. He fastened the lower buttons before abandoning the task. Isabelle did not know where to rest her eyes as everywhere seemed inappropriate and she refused to appear the coward and cast her attention to the floor. In exasperation, she settled on his mouth. Bad idea.
‘Excuse me, Isabelle. I was in the middle of something and did not expect your arrival.’
His words, a husky apology as rumpled as his appearance, registered succinctly as understanding shot through her. No longer mesmerised by the thrillingly handsome half dressed man before her, her usual pragmatic sense recognised the scene for what it presented. With careless haste she turned to leave, not a word uttered, until his fingertips found her shoulder and she stilled.
‘Wait. What brought you to my home?’
She took a minute to assemble her reply, not trusting her scrambled thoughts wouldn’t provide a vacuous answer. She already knew the man lived a profligate lifestyle, but the knowledge did little to assuage the sense of foreboding that settled in her stomach.
He leaned forward, his broad build casting a shadow across the door and she could sense his heat, although how it was possible she did not know; he had barely touched her shoulder.
‘Tell me why you’ve come.’
His command was
She had just stated the reason for her visit when Constantine’s voice bellowed from above stairs. His barked summons resounded throughout the entire household. Isabelle noticed the other servant, the one she disliked, gave an abrupt pivot and leaned towards the balustrade upon hearing Constantine’s angry call.
‘Brooks! God damn it, I’ve called you twice already! Where are the fresh linens?’
Isabelle’s eyes flared as she heard the language, but the expletives did little to prepare her for the scene that unraveled before her.
Constantine thundered down the staircase and stopped midway to repeat his request. His sleeves were cuffed to his elbows and the shirt hung open to the waist allowing Isabelle a glimpse of golden tanned skin, shaded with the brush of glistening masculinity. He held a glass of wine in one hand and wore nothing on his feet. Awareness, deliciously entrancing, spiraled through her as her gaze swept over him from head to toe. Good Lord, had he cut his hair? Her breath caught and tripped up her heart. Thank goodness, no. His silky locks were tied back in a leather queue. Overall he appeared sinfully dashing and remarkably disheveled, as if he’d just rolled from bed, sleep tousled and incredibly warmed. A breathless pleasure touched Isabelle’s soul and her palms grew damp, serving well to keep the forgotten button in place.
‘I try my best to keep up with your favourite preoccupation, milord. A little patience would be appreciated.’ The servant, apparently named Brooks, regarded his master with the same impudence shown to her in the flower mart.
Isabelle, eyes glued to the stairs, offered Constantine a wide-eyed stare. He began to respond to the man, then stalled when he noticed her, motionless in the doorframe. His expression transformed from frustration to easy pleasure in less than an exhale. Devastating blue eyes met hers and a silken frisson of recognition whispered across the silent room.
‘Well, that wasn’t very well done of me, was it?’
Brooks, all at once complaisant, disappeared with the butler and they were left alone.
Constantine took the two steps needed to stand before her, the weight of his intense gaze causing her need for oxygen to dissipate. He placed his wine glass on a nearby chiffonier and made a half effort to close his shirt. He fastened the lower buttons before abandoning the task. Isabelle did not know where to rest her eyes as everywhere seemed inappropriate and she refused to appear the coward and cast her attention to the floor. In exasperation, she settled on his mouth. Bad idea.
‘Excuse me, Isabelle. I was in the middle of something and did not expect your arrival.’
His words, a husky apology as rumpled as his appearance, registered succinctly as understanding shot through her. No longer mesmerised by the thrillingly handsome half dressed man before her, her usual pragmatic sense recognised the scene for what it presented. With careless haste she turned to leave, not a word uttered, until his fingertips found her shoulder and she stilled.
‘Wait. What brought you to my home?’
She took a minute to assemble her reply, not trusting her scrambled thoughts wouldn’t provide a vacuous answer. She already knew the man lived a profligate lifestyle, but the knowledge did little to assuage the sense of foreboding that settled in her stomach.
He leaned forward, his broad build casting a shadow across the door and she could sense his heat, although how it was possible she did not know; he had barely touched her shoulder.
‘Tell me why you’ve come.’
His command was
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