Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord
Page 67

But she couldn’t.
They turned once more, and she opened her eyes to face the far wall and the door through which Georgiana had come. It was open again, and a row of curious faces peeked through the space between door and jamb, Gwen, Jane, and Kate all focused on the events inside the ballroom. Isabel could not contain her surprised laugh.
Nick looked down at her. “What is it?”
She looked up, amused, to meet his questioning gaze. “Do not look now, my lord, but it appears that we have an audience.”
He grinned, immediately understanding. “Ah. Yes, if I know ladies, I can imagine we do.”
“To be fair, they are attempting discretion.”
“They are better at it than the women in my family.”
The words, spoken with teasing admiration, made her curious. “Tell me about them.”
He thought for a moment before he spoke. “My half sister, Juliana, is Italian, which makes her everything you would imagine. She is opinionated and infuriating and has a penchant for saying entirely inappropriate things at entirely inappropriate times.”
She was drawn to the laughter in his voice. “She sounds wonderful.”
He gave a little snort of laughter. “You would like her, I think. And I know she would like you—she has no patience for London, or the ton, and she has a particular distaste for simpering females and foppish gentleman. Which is going to make it virtually impossible to find her a husband. But really, that’s Gabriel’s problem.”
She smiled. “Ah, the benefits of being the second son.”
“Precisely.”
“And your sister-in-law?”
“Now, Callie will love you.”
She laughed at the words. “I find it difficult to believe that the Marchioness of Ralston will ‘love’ a country-raised northerner who wears breeches when it is practical and has spent most of her life with women who have done entirely inappropriate things.”
Nick grinned. “That is precisely why the Marchioness of Ralston will love you.”
Isabel gave him a frank look. “I do not believe you.”
“Someday, Isabel, I shall take you to London, and you will hear the truth from my brother and sister-in-law themselves.”
Isabel warmed at the promise inherent in the words—the assurance that there would come a time when they would be together in London. When she would meet his family and they would have reason to discuss the private history of one of the ton‘s most talked-about couples.
She wanted it to be true.
It was strange. Here, in this darkened room, with the magic of the waltz, and the candlelight, and this strong, wonderful man, she wanted it to be true. She wanted to be tied to him. To be his partner. To have the life that peeked out from behind his words. Here, as she lost herself to the feel of the dance, to the sway of their bodies and the warmth of his arms wrapped around her, she let herself have the dream that she had shut away so long ago.
The dream that let this, her first waltz, be a waltz with a man who would care for her, and protect her, and shoulder her worries, and, yes … who would love her.
Isabel closed her eyes once more and gave herself up to the movement, aware of the place where his hand, unhindered by gloves, spread warmth through her gown to the curve of her waist. She could feel his long, muscled thighs where they brushed against her own as he guided her across the floor in an endless, curving journey. After several long moments, she opened her eyes, meeting Nick’s searing blue gaze.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Isabel? ”
She knew she should be coy. She knew that if he were in London, the woman in his arms would have something brilliant and witty and flirting to say in response. But Isabel had none of those things. “Very much.”
“Good. You deserve to have pleasure in your life. I think you do not allow yourself enough of it.”
She looked away, embarrassed. How was it that this man knew her so well, so quickly?
“Why is that?” The question was soft, a mere breath at her temple. “Why won’t you take your pleasure?”
She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “I—I do.”
“No, beauty. I don’t think you do.” He pressed closer, the warmth of him crowding her thoughts. “Why not dance and laugh and live the way you dream?”
Why not, indeed?
“Dreams are for little girls with no worries,” she said, resisting the words even as she spoke them.
“Nonsense. We all have dreams.”
She opened her eyes, met his brilliant blue gaze. “Even you? ”
“Even me.”
“What do you dream?” The question was exhaled—so breathy that she barely recognized her own voice.
He did not hesitate. “Tonight, I think I shall dream of you.”
She should have found the words silly and teasing. Instead, she heard the promise in them, and wanted nothing more than to believe him. “Tell me what you dream of, Isabel.”
“I should dream of school for James. Of safety for the girls. Of a repaired roof and an unlimited supply of candles.”
He gave a little laugh. “Come, Isabel. You can do better than that. This is not their dream. It is yours. What do you dream? For yourself?”
For a long moment, her mind was blank. How long had it been since she had considered her own desires?
She smiled up at him. “I should like to dance more.”
His teeth flashed. “I am happy to oblige.” He spun her in circles in time to the music, and the smattering of candles about the dark room gave the illusion of dancing in starlight. The moment made her believe that if she spoke her desires aloud, they might actually come true.