An Unexpected Union 1

Author's Note:

It was a bit hard (har har) to get started, but by the end of this chapter, I was enamored with Isabelle and Pembroke! What a lovely couple. Can't wait to write more of them. I hope you enjoy the continuation of the series!

Lady Isabelle suppressed a wince at a particularly shrill note from the first violin. One of her mother's favorite maxims rang in her head, almost as shrill as the violin: "A young lady never shows any emotion but gentle appreciation or mild disfavor." With an effort, Isabelle managed to keep a straight face.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could just make out her mother's perfectly bland expression as she sat beside her at the Thornton's annual musicale. Hands folded in her lap, barely-there half smile, and posture as straight as a rod. The Countess of Dunbarton was known throughout the

ton

for her exacting standards of etiquette and deportment. If Isabelle did not demonstrate her mother's teachings adequately, then there would be hell to pay, most likely meted out by her cruel stepfather, the Earl of Dunbarton.

Luckily, the Earl had not accompanied them tonight. Any time away from his presence was a boon, even if Isabelle had to spend it at this interminable musicale.

Lady Dunbarton leaned over and whispered to Isabelle quietly behind her fan. "I want you to mingle with the Duke again when the performance is over."

"But I already talked to him before the performance, Mama," Isabelle replied, just as discreetly behind the cover of her own fan.

"Yes, but you hardly made an impression. This time, you need to assert yourself."

There was no question as to which Duke Lady Dunbarton meant. The Duke of Norland was here, but recently wed to Cynthia Linley, an old friend of Isabelle's, thus taking him out of contention for the exalted (at least in Lady Dunbarton's mind) position of Isabelle's future husband. That marriage had been the social coup of the season and Lady Dunbarton had still not stopped talking about it, although it had been a month since the wedding.

"A Baronet's daughter!" she had said with just a tad more than mild disfavor when the engagement had been announced. "Isabelle, I expect you to do just as well, for you are an Earl's daughter, and thus infinitely superior. In fact, I think the Duke of Pembroke would do very nicely. You shall marry him."

And just like that, Isabelle's future had been decreed, although how she was supposed to attract one of the most eligible bachelors in the peerage was beyond her understanding. She wasn't striking with golden curls and emerald green eyes like Cynthia. She was tall, almost too tall for fashion's dictates, her hair was the boring shade of weak tea and stick-straight, and her eyes could never seem to make up their mind to be green or gray. Her figure was also not as straight or slim as other girls', on whom the empire-waisted gowns of the day looked the best.

No, Isabelle really didn't see how she was supposed to attract the Duke, but her mother, on the other hand, was not short on ideas.

"You are as pale as a ghost, Isabelle," her mother sniffed. "Go freshen up and pinch your cheeks a little. You need more color."

Her brow raised an infinitesimal amount when Isabelle let a small sigh escape, but she said nothing further as it was clear she was going to be obeyed. Isabelle rose and walked to the back of the ballroom where a footman opened the door to the hallway and discreetly pointed to the left.

The hallway was lit with sconces on the wall, each small pool of light separated by a few feet. Isabelle breathed deeply and closed her eyes as she walked slowly down the long corridor, relishing the unexpected respite from her mother's exacting presence. She was young, healthy, and relatively intelligent, but instead of feeling like she had her whole life ahead of her, she felt trapped.

The Earl was unhappy that she was still unwed at the age of eighteen. Although most of her friends had not come out until this season, she had been presented to the Queen last year in the hopes that she would be married off quickly. How disappointed her mother and stepfather had been when she ended the season without a single eligible proposal! There were two from obvious fortune hunters and one from a very sweet, very respectable, but very poor Baron. "You shall do better than

that

," her mother had said, her tone of voice brooking no dissent.

And now this ridiculous obsession with the Duke of Pembroke, a man who had the whole of London at his feet. He could have his pick of any woman, and from the rumors that surrounded him, Isabelle thought he probably did.

He was tall and handsome in a brooding way. His dark eyes had a sardonic glint, the slight raise of his eyebrow was mocking, and his mouth was... Isabelle sometimes felt a little warm when she thought of those sensual lips quirked into an amused smile. Despite affecting a very elegant fashion sense, there was no denying that the Duke was strong and fit. His trousers clung to his muscular thighs and he obviously had no use for wadding over his already broad shoulders. Isabelle sighed. Why would the Duke ever even think of her?

Suddenly, Isabelle's slippers halted on the carpeted runner. She had been lost in thought, completely unaware of her surroundings. Now, she peered down a hallway that was much more dim than the one before it. Had she taken a wrong turn? She was about to turn around when, very clearly, she heard a gasp and a familiar voice.

"Oh no, I don't know if we should..."

Wasn't that... Cynthia's voice?

A chill went down Isabelle's spine when she heard the rejoinder.

"Oh yes, we should. And I think you're going to love it."

There was no mistaking that low, husky baritone. It was the Duke of Pembroke!

Isabelle strode forward, intent on saving her friend from whatever horror the Duke was perpetrating. How dare he!

But then, a feminine moan so full of obvious pleasure stopped her in her tracks, giving her pause. Nobody in true distress could make a sound like that, could they?

"Mmm, yes," Cynthia said on a breathy gasp.

"Yes, that's it, Duchess. Spread your legs more. God, you're wet."

As silently as she could, Isabelle crept forward in the shadows, her heart racing. Just what was going on? She squinted into the shadows, but could only make out the dim outline of two bodies. She thought she could see Cynthia's blonde hair glinting, her face turned towards the wall, and Pembroke's large frame behind her.

More details emerged as her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. The skirt of Cynthia's gown, held up by Cynthia herself as she bared herself from her waist down. The white of her legs, her stockings tied at her knees, her heeled slippers. This would all be shocking enough, but then to see Pembroke's hand disappearing between those pale thighs, hear the heavy moans, the sounds of kisses being exchanged.

Isabelle flattened herself against the wall, several feet away from the scandalous couple. She was grateful she had chosen a deep, mossy green dress tonight--she felt sure she blended in well with the dark wallpaper. It occurred to her that this was a private moment, but the salaciousness of it all--a married woman dallying with another man!--kept her in place.

"Your pussy is dripping, Duchess," Pembroke said. "How does this feel?"

"Oh God, it feels so good!"

"Such a naughty pussy. How does it taste?"

Isabelle felt a pull of heat in her belly when she saw Pembroke lift his hand to Cynthia's mouth, and her friend suck his fingers while letting out a whimpering moan.

"Fuck, Duchess. You make me as hard as iron. Can you feel my cock against your arse?"

"Yes!" Cynthia hissed as Pembroke's hand returned to its former ministrations between her legs. "It feels so big!"

"I'd wager you'd love to get on your knees and suck on it. Or how about getting fucked right here in this hallway?"

Cynthia only moaned, her head lolling back on Pembroke's shoulder, her chest heaving.

"Can you imagine it, Duchess? Bending over, right here, just yards away from your husband. And then I'd take my cock out and stuff it right in this juicy pussy." Pembroke's hand was moving faster, his voice gravelly and low.

"Oh, please, please! I'm so close!" Cynthia said in a strangled whisper.

"You want to come, Duchess? You want to come all over my hand like a nasty slut?"

With wide eyes, Isabelle watched in fascination as her friend begged again, almost sobbing with need. Cynthia had always been one of the most poised and elegant girls of her acquaintance. To see her now in such a state was shocking to the core.

Suddenly, her friend's lovely face screwed up as if she was in a terrible pain and she grunted hard, like an animal, shaking and moaning as Pembroke continued to work her over, all the while whispering into her ear.

"That's it, Duchess. Come for me. Fuck, you're beautiful like this."

A shiver ran through Isabelle as she suddenly realized she was leaning forward, as if her whole body yearned for what she was seeing. She straightened quickly, but knocked the heel of her slipper against the wooden molding, the sound echoing in the darkened hall.

With a gasp, she turned and ran, terrified of being seen. She stumbled back to the main hallway and paused with her hand on the wall, trying to slow her breathing. There was no way she could return to her mother in such a state. She had to be calm. But everything inside her felt the complete opposite of calm. That forbidden place between her thighs was burning hot, aching and swollen. Her nipples scraped against her chemise within her bodice, sensitive and hard. What in the world was happening to her?

A few minutes later, she slid back into her seat beside her mother, just in time for the orchestra's rousing final movement. She looked straight ahead but could feel her mother's sharp scrutiny.

As the Countess leaned to the side, her fan at the ready to hide whatever remark she had planned, Isabelle braced herself for criticism.

"Very nice, Isabelle. You have a much better color now."

If she could, she would have slumped in relief.

The Duke of Pembroke was nowhere to be seen as the guests mingled in the Thornton's large ballroom after the symphony had ended. Cynthia looked as serene and lovely as ever on her husband's arm.

"Hmph. I suppose Pembroke had another engagement to attend," Isabelle's mother said with a sniff. "In fact, we should be heading to Lady Georgette's come-out ball. Maybe he will be there."

Isabelle knew better than to protest. It was only one in the morning and there were many hours before she could finally be at home with her thoughts. The Countess of Dunbarton had no intention of leaving her daughter's married future to anything as fickle as chance.

********

The days seemed to crawl by for the next week. It wasn't that the whirl of parties and balls and dress fittings had diminished at all. It was that suddenly, Isabelle's nights were now fraught with an unfamiliar tension.

She often woke in the middle of the night, covered in a light sheen of sweat, her breasts aching and her nether region swollen and wet. Throwing the covers off, she would lay in her bed, trying hard to remember her dreams, which always seemed to involve strong, male hands against lily-white skin and a low, husky baritone voice. The events of the night of the Thorntons' musicale played in her mind over and over, like a never-ending scene in a play, and Isabelle would try to chase the lovely, thrilling pleasure she had tasted briefly there in that hallway.

Isabelle also lay awake questioning whether or not she should approach Cynthia about what she saw. Should she make sure that there had been no question of coercion or force? Or would that embarrass her friend too much?

Since Cynthia seemed to have rather suddenly left town that week, along with her husband and his ducal friends, there was no chance to catch her in a discreet conversation. The decision would have to wait.

One night during a rare, unhoped-for dinner at home with both the Earl and Countess, Isabelle was pondering how she might begin such a delicate dialogue with Cynthia when the Earl interrupted her thoughts. He had a crafty smile on his sharp face, which immediately sent a bolt of fear down Isabelle's spine.

"I've done you a favor, girl," he said with a smirk. He rarely called Isabelle anything other than "girl". "I think you'll be very pleased to hear that the Marquis of Scawfell has offered for you and I've accepted."

Isabelle's jaw dropped, a huge breach of etiquette, but luckily her mother didn't see. She was too busy protesting in astonishment.

"But Dunbarton, I've already decided that Isabelle should marry the Duke of Pembroke!" she whined. She was about to say more when she was interrupted.

"Quiet!" the Earl roared. He pointed a long, bony finger at Isabelle. "That girl has cost me two seasons already, and I don't see the Duke of Pembroke"--he said the name with a sneer--"paying her court in any form. Scawfell and I have already begun marriage negotiations and I'm determined that I will finally be compensated for all the years I've had to feed and clothe your daughter, not to mention launch her in society."

Isabelle's mother merely sniffed and returned to eating her soup. She prided herself on not responding to raised voices.

"The Marquis of Scawfell is eighty years old if he is a day!" Isabelle protested.

"Piffle! He's only sixty-seven. Plenty of life left in him to father a brat on you," the Earl said crudely. Isabelle shuddered at the thought of having to shake hands with Scawfell, as bony and rat-faced as her stepfather, let alone do... that.

"But I don't want to marry him!" Isabelle tried again. "Besides the fact that he's nearly forty years older than me, I hardly know him!"

"That doesn't matter," the Earl said dismissively. "Don't worry, girl. The Marquis told me he finds you quite attractive; I'm sure he'll do all that he can to further your acquaintance very soon." The Earl winked at her, an incongruous and disturbing sight.

Somehow, Isabelle managed to keep down what dinner she had already eaten. However, there was no question of trying to take another single bite.

********

Ducking behind a potted palm at the Devonshire ball a week later, Isabelle breathed a sigh of relief when the Marquis of Scawfell strode past without seeing her, his face grim and searching. She had successfully avoided him so far tonight, but it was only a matter of time before he found her. Isabelle grimaced, thinking of his wandering hands and slimy lips and disgusting breath. Ugh! She had no desire to marry the horrible man, but she was trapped.

Her mother, unwilling to upset the Earl, spent every evening trying to force Isabelle and the Marquis together. It was exhausting trying to outwit and escape from all of the forces conspiring to push her into the Marquis' grasp.

A flash of blonde hair caught Isabelle's eye and she turned to see Cynthia walk quickly out of the open French doors and down the terraced steps. Isabelle still had not been able to catch her friend in a conversation and as this seemed to kill two birds with one stone by allowing her to also escape the ballroom, Isabelle followed her out to the Devonshire gardens without a backwards glance.

Cynthia strode rapidly into the grouping of shaped hedges, disappearing behind a yew cut into the shape of a horse. She was going so fast that Isabelle, despite her long legs, had no way of keeping up without breaking into a jog, something that was expressly forbidden in public by her mother.

Finally, Isabelle rounded a corner and saw her friend at a standstill. She was just about to raise her hand and call out when the Duke of Stamford stepped out from the shadows and caught her friend in a passionate embrace.

Open-mouthed, she watched as Cynthia returned Stamford's kisses with hunger and greed, the latter's hands roaming all over Cynthia's rump. After a few shocked moments, Isabelle realized that her pale blue dress would be shining brightly in the moonlight and she quickly darted behind a convenient hedge, her chest rising and falling.

So Cynthia was having an affair with Stamford as well! Isabelle hardly knew what to think about that. Was this something married couples did and she was only just now realizing it? Or perhaps Norland didn't know that his angelic-looking bride had already made a cuckold of him so soon after the wedding.

A high-pitched giggle melted into a moan, piquing her curiosity. Peeking around the screen of leaves, she was just in time to see Stamford lower Cynthia down onto his huge cock. He was standing and holding her by the waist as she gripped her skirts, baring her lower half as she twined her long legs around his torso. Her friend was by no means a waif, but Stamford seemed to have no trouble managing her weight. They rocked together urgently as they kissed and Isabelle marveled at the sight of Cynthia's white buttocks gleaming in the moonlight.

Suddenly, another figure melted out of the shadows, causing Isabelle to let out a gasp before covering her mouth with her hand. It was the Duke of Norland! He strode up to the cavorting couple with intent and Isabelle wondered if she should alert them of his (and consequently her own) presence. What a scandal!

Paralyzed with indecision, she continued watching with bated breath as Norland approached his wife. He reached out his hand and Isabelle braced herself for violence... when he laid it gently on his wife's head and ran it down to her rump, which he slapped playfully.

Still impaled on Stamford's cock, Cynthia turned her head and leaned towards her husband, placing a hand on his shoulder before kissing him just as passionately as she had Stamford a few minutes ago.

Isabelle was too far away to hear any conversation besides unintelligible murmurs, but it was clear that there would be no screams or angry recriminations. This was especially apparent after another moment when Norland stepped behind his wife, undid his trousers, and plunged his cock deep into her ass.

It was shocking, wrong, perturbing and above all, completely and utterly titillating. Isabelle stood frozen in place, watching the debauchment with wide eyes. Her nipples began to tingle, her core began to feel heavy. How had she ended up in the position of voyeur twice in such a short period of time? She should turn away, she should return to the ball, and yet...

For long minutes, she watched as Cynthia shuddered and moaned, her head lolling back on her husband's shoulder as he and his friend urgently fucked her from both sides. At one point, the Duchess seemed to seize up, her muscles flailing, her body jerking. Her husband slapped his hand over her mouth as she let out a muffled scream. The movements of the two men paused for a moment as they caressed her gently through this episode, and then they started up again, her friend bouncing between them.

Suddenly, the crack of a twig breaking sounded to Isabelle's right and she gasped, whipping her head in the direction of the noise. It was all dark shadows and black hedges, but it was also very possible another guest of the Devonshires was heading this way. Without pausing to think, Isabelle whirled and ran back to the bright lights emanating from the townhouse, fearing for her friend's discovery, but fearing more for her own reputation.

********

Stepping out of the darkness, Graham Spencer, the Duke of Pembroke, rubbed his bottom lip with his fingers, a contemplative gleam in his eye. He had never much paid attention to Lady Isabelle before, but he knew an aroused woman when he saw one. And there was something familiar about her back as she ran away, something that reminded him very strongly of a similar girl in a green dress, scurrying down a darkened hallway at the Thornton's musicale...