Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord
Page 60

“Let go, beauty. I have you.”
And because he did have her, she let go, exploding in his arms, writhing against him, begging for more even as he gave her what she wanted. And when he had wrung the last, pulsing movement from her, had captured her last, keening cries, he held her in his strong arms as she regained her senses.
Slowly, he began to right her appearance; she allowed him to refasten the tapes of her pantaloons, to lift her to restore her thoroughly wrinkled skirts to some semblance of normalcy, to deftly retie the bodice of her gown. When he was done, he held her to his chest, stroking her back and arms and legs gently.
This was what it was like not to be alone.
After several long minutes, he tightened his arms around her and placed his lips softly to her temple. “I think that it might be best if we got up before someone comes searching for us.”
The words roused her from her daze, crashing her back to reality. She sat straight up, extricating herself from his embrace and nearly leaping from his lap. She dropped to her hands and knees immediately, grasping for the hairpins that he had scattered.
He sat forward, watching her for a moment before saying, “Isabel. It is all right.”
She sat back on her heels at that, looking up at him. “It is not at all all right, my lord.”
He sighed. “We are back to my lord again? Really? ”
She had already turned away to collect more pins. When she had the last, she stood, moving to a nearby statue to set them down and restore her hair to some semblance of decorum.
In her most indignant tone, she spoke to the room at large. “I never should have … you never should have!”
“Yes, well. I am not going to apologize for it.”
She turned back to him. “That’s not very gentlemanly.”
He met her gaze with a heated one of his own. “Nevertheless, Isabel … I enjoyed myself. And I think you did, too.”
She blushed.
One brow rose. “I see I am not wrong.”
Her gaze narrowed, but she feared her censure lost some power while her hands were high above her head attempting to restore her coif. “You are an incorrigible man.”
“You can admit it to me, Isabel.”
She gave him her back and muttered, “No. I can’t.”
He laughed then, leaning back in his seat. “You just did, beauty.”
She spun back. “You mustn’t call me that!”
Even though I like it.
Too much.
“Why not?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know perfectly well why not.”
“Tell me you enjoyed yourself, and I’ll stop.”
“No.”
He straightened his jacket sleeves. “Suit yourself. I rather like calling you a beauty. Since you are.”
“All right. I enjoyed myself.”
His grin was wicked. “I know.”
She had to turn away to hide her own smile at his arrogance.
Dear Lord. What had she gotten herself into?
She looked over her shoulder at him. “This is an entirely inappropriate conversation. I must insist it end.”
He barked with laughter at her imperious tone. “Isabel, I’m sure you will agree that it is rather late for such haughtiness.”
She blushed. “You are too much!”
He leveled her with a liquid gaze. “I assure you, darling, I am just enough.”
She did not fully understand the words, but his tone was enough to give her a general sense of his meaning. Her cheeks flamed. “I must go.”
“No!” he called after her, standing finally. “Don’t go. Stay. I shall endeavor to be the perfect gentleman.”
One of Isabel’s brows rose in an imitation of the look he had so often given her. “I shall believe that when it comes to pass, my lord.”
He laughed again. “A hit, my lady.” She could not help but join him in his laughter, and when it waned, it left them in a companionable silence. Nick spoke first, filling it. “Why have I never heard of you? ”
“My lord? “ Isabel’s brow furrowed in confusion at the question.
“I did not travel in the same circles as your father, but you are the daughter of the Earl of Reddich, who cut something of a wide swath across London. Why did I not hear of you?”
Thank God you never heard of me.
Isabel swallowed once, uncertain. “My mother never wanted me to go to London—thinking back, I imagine she felt that way because she did not want me to witness the truth about my father. Perhaps she did not want to witness it herself.” She met his eyes and registered the understanding in their depths. He had a story, as well. The knowledge pushed her forward, compelling her to reveal more. “My mother spoke of my father—as though he were a marvel. Her tales of him, I know now, were mostly fabricated—memories scrubbed clean of the scarlet ink he had spilled on them, rendered anew to be something more powerful, more magnificent than any real history could have been.
“But I believed her. And, as such, I believed in him. My earliest memories of him must be some perverse combination of fantasy and reality, because I can see them smiling together, loving each other … but I am not certain that was ever true.”
Nick nodded, and she could not help but continue.
“But you asked about London,” she reminded them both.
“Yes. Your mother may not have wanted you to go—but you must have had a season.”
She stiffened at the memory. She’d been promised one, of course, on that fateful trip home, when her father had announced his intentions of using his only daughter to gain funds. Embarrassment flared. She could not tell him the story. She did not want him to think so cheaply of her. Instead, she shook her head. “No. I did not have a season.”