Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord (20 page)

“Isabel?” Gwen called after her. When she turned back, the cook said, “Show interest in his work. Gentlemen like ladies who share their entertainments.”

Isabel gave a short laugh.
“Pearls and Pelisses?
Still?”

Gwen smiled. “It has worked so far.”

Sarcasm laced Isabel’s tone when she replied. “Oh, yes, it’s working brilliantly.”

“Well, it would do, if you were following it more carefully. Also, do not be afraid to be close to him!”

Isabel looked to the ceiling for patience. “I am leaving now.”

Gwen nodded once. “Good luck!”

Isabel spun on one heel, wishing that
Pearls and Pelisses
had offered up
Ten Ways to Apologize to London’s Lords to Land.

Unfortunately, in this, she was on her own.

Once your discreet first meeting has successfully garnered the gentleman’s attention, it is time to offer thoughtful and unwavering companionship for his pursuits. Any great man will have masculine interests, but remember that there is always a way for you to remain relevant despite your womanliness.

Does your lord love his horseflesh? Perhaps he would like an embroidered blanket upon which to find his seat! And do not be afraid, Dear Reader, to be close to him!

The storm had cast the room in an unearthly green pall, and the thunder and howling wind outside had hidden her arrival from him, so she could watch him unheeded. Whether from the light, or from the tension in his frame, or from the contents of the room, he seemed immense, even as he bent over a notebook, scribbling notes on a nearby statue.

She had never met a man like him. He was broad and firm, and his surroundings made it impossible for an onlooker not to compare him to the marbles—these great, ancient sculptures designed to honor and celebrate the perfect form.

He put them to shame, all wide shoulders and long legs and sinewy power. She watched as one thick lock of hair fell across his forehead, catching between his brow and the silver rim of his spectacles. This was the first she had seen of the glasses—an incongruous addition to this daunting man, an addition that served only to make him even more tempting.

She caught herself at the thought. When had spectacles become tempting?

When had this
man
become so tempting?

She was instantly nervous about what was to come. He so confused her—one moment, she wanted him gone, and the next, she wanted him here. For as long as he could stay.

She sighed, and the sound, soft and barely heard, turned his head.

He met her eyes, his gaze unwavering, and waited, unmoving, for her to take the next step. She hovered in the doorway, unable to look away.

And then she stepped into the room, and closed the door behind her.

He straightened as she approached, removing his spectacles and placing them on the pedestal of a large black statue nearby, before he leaned against the base and folded his arms across his wide chest, waiting for her.

Show interest in his interests.

She could do that.

She stopped mere inches from him, looking up at the statue. “This is a fine marble. Have you identified it yet?”

He did not follow her gaze. “It is Apollo.”

“Oh?” The high-pitched squeak grated on her ears. She cleared her throat delicately. “How do you know that? ”

“Because I am an expert in antiquities.”

He was not going to make this easy.

“I see. I suppose I owe you the answer to a question now.”

He turned back to his notebook. “I find I’ve grown tired of that game.”

“Nick.” The sound of his name on her lips surprised them both. He turned back to her. Waited. She stared for a long minute at the place where his collar met the tanned skin of his throat. She spoke to the spot. “I am sorry.”

The only sound in the room was his breathing, slow and steady in the wake of her words, and there was something in its evenness that spurred her on. “I have never told anyone about Minerva House—” She met his curious gaze. “That’s what we call it. The house. The girls.”

She paused, waiting for him to ask questions. When he didn’t, she began speaking—always to the notch in his throat—unwilling to meet his gaze, unwilling to look away entirely. “We had nothing. My father had left and my mother had gone into a … decline. She took to her bed and would go days without eating—without seeing us. And when she did—” She swallowed.
No. She couldn’t tell him that.
“The servants were not being paid. I’m fairly certain that they were stealing from us. And then, one day, they were gone.”

“How old were you? ”

“Seventeen.” She shook her head, lost in her thoughts. “Jane was the first to arrive. She needed work. Shelter. And I needed someone to help keep the estate running. She was intelligent. Strong. Willing. And she had friends who were in similar straits. Within months, there were half a dozen girls here. All looking to escape something—poverty, family, men; I suppose I was trying to escape something, too.

“If they were willing to work, I was willing to have them. They kept the estate afloat. They tended goats and mucked stalls and tilled land. They worked as hard as the men we’d had before. Harder, even.”

“And you kept them a secret.”

She met his eyes then. “It wasn’t hard. My father was never here. He paid for his life with his winnings when he was flush, with the contents of the house in town—ultimately the house itself—when he was down on his luck.” She stopped, then laughed bitterly.

“And your mother?”

She shook her head, pressing her lips into a straight, thin line as she remembered. “She was never the same after he left. She died soon after Jane arrived.”

He reached for her then.

She did not resist, even as she knew it was wrong—that she should not allow him to hold her. But how could she resist his warm strength and the way it enveloped her? How long had it been since she had been the one held? Since she had been the one to be comforted?

“Why do you do it?”

She turned her head, placing her ear against the crisp wool of his jacket. She did not pretend to misunderstand. “They need me.”

And … as long as they need me, it’s easier to forget that I am alone.

He made an encouraging noise deep in his chest, and it spurred her on. “There are a dozen of them out there—seamstresses and governesses, mothers and wives. One owns a pie shop in Bath. They had nothing when they came to me.”

“You gave them something.”

She was silent for a long while, ultimately pulling out of his arms. When he let her go, she felt a small pang of remorse that he did not resist. “It is all I have ever done well.” She looked up at the statue of Apollo. “I couldn’t keep my father from leaving—and taking my mother with him. Couldn’t keep the estate afloat. But I could help these girls.”

He understood. She could see it in his clear, open gaze.

“I am scared,” she added softly.

“I know.”

“I cannot expect Densmore to support us. I cannot expect him to keep our secrets.”

“Isabel—” He stopped, and she could see that he was choosing his next words carefully. “Who are these girls that you live in fear of their discovery? ”

She stayed quiet.

“Are they married? ”

“Some of them,” she whispered. “They’ve broken the law to come here.” “And you break the law to hide them.”

“Yes.”

“You know you risk James’s reputation. He’s got enough of a scandal to overcome.”

Frustration flared. She did not like to think that it was James who would ultimately suffer for her choices. “Yes.”

“Isabel,” he said, his tone a mix of exasperation and concern, “you cannot shoulder this burden by yourself. It is too much.”

“What do you suggest I do?” She wrapped her arms around herself, defensive. “I will not abandon them.” “You do not have to.”

“What, then?”

“There are ways.”

She gave a little laugh. “You think that, in seven years, I have not considered every possible avenue? Who will risk themselves to take in a woman who has deserted her marriage vows? Who will stand up to an aristocratic father coming to fetch his runaway daughter? And even if they might, who would take such a risk on nothing but the word of the daughter of the Wastrearl?”

“Let me help you.”

She was silent then. She’d never wanted to trust someone as much as she wanted to trust this man—this man who reeked of strength and power and safety. It had all seemed so simple in the kitchen. But now, faced with him, could she do it? Could she place her faith in him? Could she place their future in his hands?

His blue eyes glittered with something she did not quite understand as he thrust both hands through his hair and turned away from her, his frustration sending him stalking several feet away before he spoke again. “You are the most infuriating female I have ever met.” He turned back to her, and his words came fast and furious. “You take pride in the fact that you’ve done this alone, don’t you? It’s
your
house. They’re
your
girls. It’s
you
who have saved them. This is
your
work.

“You should be proud of it, Isabel—Lord knows you should be. But you are intelligent enough to know when you are in over your head. You’ve got nothing to protect you from whatever is outside these walls. I’m offering you help. Protection.”

Isabel was at the edge of a precipice, a monumental change that would alter everything. She looked up into his blue eyes—eyes that promised everything she dreamed of, safety for her girls, support for James, security for the house.

He was a good man. She believed that.

But relinquishing her hold on the house—trusting him with everything—it would not be easy. Her doubts came on a whisper. “I don’t know …”

He sighed. “I think you should go. The sooner you do, the sooner your damned collection will be valued and the sooner I shall be out of your life.”

He turned away, dismissing her.

She didn’t want to leave him.

“You don’t understand. These are my girls.”

He exhaled a harsh breath. “Nothing about that would change if you let me help you.”

“I have nothing else!”

There. The words were out. And then she could not stop them.

“This is all I have ever had! All I have ever been! If I need you to help me keep it intact … what does that make me? What do I become, then? ”

“It’s not true.” He moved toward her, his words hypnotic. Taking her face in his hands, he flooded her with heat, with need. “I know what it is to think yourself alone in the world, Isabel. It is rarely the case.”

She hated feeling alone.

And she had been alone for so very long.

She closed her eyes against the thought, unwilling to show him her sadness.

Her weakness.

Yet, when he spoke again, she could not stop herself from meeting his firm gaze. “I’ve never met anyone like you. I’ve never met anyone—man or woman—with such strength. Such courage. You are not alone. You will never be alone.”

She didn’t know who moved first—which one of them closed the distance between them. All she knew was that when he was kissing her, she didn’t feel alone at all.

She gave herself up to the feeling.

For a long moment, he was still, his lips soft and settled against hers, underscoring his presence, his strength, his control. She reveled in those things at first, until his nearness—his scent, his heat, his size—overwhelmed her, and she thought she would go mad if he did not move.

And then he did.

His warm hands tilted her face up to his, to better align their mouths, and his lips played across hers, demanding that she meet him in kind. And she did. He took everything she offered, stroking, sucking, loving her mouth with a relentless kiss that stole her sense of balance. That stole her sense altogether. She grasped his arms, reveling in their size and their strength, and she turned herself over to him, sighing into his mouth and matching him stroke for stroke, caress for caress.

When he finally pulled back and met her heavy-lidded gaze, a ghost of a smile crossed his lips before he lifted her into his arms. She gasped at the movement, and he stole her open mouth for another quick, intoxicating kiss before he spoke, his voice a dark promise. “Shall I show you how very far from alone you are? ”

What a marvelous thing for him to say. “Yes,” she whispered, the words barely sound. “Please.”

He moved then, carrying her on a winding course through the statuary, until they reached the far end of the room, where a wide, low bench sat beneath an enormous rose window. He sat, then, and settled her into his lap, running his hands up to her hair, deliberately scattering the hairpins, bringing her hair down around them. She watched him as he took in the mass of auburn curls, closed her eyes as he ran his hands through it in long, magnificent strokes. She tilted her head back, leaning into his caresses. The movement bared her neck to his gaze, and with a low groan, he bent over her, settling his lips to her skin, sending rivers of pleasure through her with the soft strokes of his tongue. She gasped at the wicked scrape of his teeth over the delicate spot where her neck and shoulder met, felt the way his lips curved in a private smile at the sound, then softened against her pulse and sucked at the spot until she thought she might die from the pleasure of it.

She cried out, wrapping herself around him, eager to touch him, to kiss him, wherever she could. Her lips met the corner of his eye and, without thinking, she touched her tongue to the rough-smooth line of his scar. The caress turned him wild, and all at once, his hands were loosening the ties of her bodice, freeing more skin as he dropped hurried, wet kisses across the slope of her. He ran his tongue along the edge of the fabric in a trail of fire, pulling it low and spilling her breasts into his waiting hands.

She opened her eyes at feel of him against her, knowing that she would find him watching her—wanting to see him watching her. Lightning flashed, untamed, in the sky behind him, casting them in a wicked white flash as Nick traced one finger across the straining skin of her breast, circling the tip once, twice, with reverence. She exhaled on a shaking breath, and he looked up, his blue eyes glittering.

“So beautiful,” he said, circling her nipple again and again, watching her response as they grew hard and aching. “So passionate, so eager.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “You are here, Isabel. As am I.”