Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord (35 page)

“What is it?”

“Well, we’ve been sent here … to speak to you …”

Dread flared. “Oh, no. About what?”

Gwen smiled. “About your wedding night.”

Isabel’s brows snapped together. “Whatever for? ”

Jane shifted to face her more fully. Lowering her voice, she said, “We think you should be prepared. That is, you should know what to expect.”

“And since your mother is no longer with us—” Gwen added.

Understanding dawned, and the purpose of their visit was so different than the myriad of other reasons she had been imagining that she began to laugh. Rather hysterically.

The two women looked at each other, each more dumbfounded than the other, and Isabel kept laughing, unable to stop herself. She set down the comb she had been using and attempted to breathe. “I’m sorry!” She raised a hand, waving it frantically. “I’m sorry! I just …” and she began to laugh again.

Perhaps she should tell them that she did not need any advice about the events of the evening … but their awkwardness was amusing, and there was a little part of Isabel that wanted to lead them along for a bit—if for nothing else than to distract from her earlier thoughts.

“I am sorry. Please, go on.” She turned to face them. “What should I know?”

Gwen began. “Well, you have already mentioned that Lord Nicholas is a satisfactory kisser …”

"More than satisfactory.”

A blush began to rise on the cook’s cheeks. “Excellent. Then we have hopes that he will be an equally acceptable …” She paused, looking to Jane.

“Lover,” Jane said bluntly.

Isabel turned back to the mirror and lifted her comb once more. “I certainly hope so.”

“Yes, well,” Gwen pressed on. “You might be surprised by the way that … things … happen.”

Isabel grinned, trying to keep the laughter from her voice. “Things?”

There was a pause. Jane spoke first. “Well, as you know from your statues, Isabel, you have different … features … than does your husband.”

“Yes …”

"We are not going to get into too much detail,” Jane said, frustration edging into her voice.

Isabel willed herself not to smile. “But how will I know how to do it? ”

“We feel confident that Lord Nicholas will know, Isabel.”

It was too much. Isabel snickered. “Yes. I’m fairly confident of the same.”

Both women’s eyes grew wide. “You already know!” Gwen cried.

Isabel grinned, moving behind her dressing screen to don the night rail that she had selected for the evening—a deep rose silk that she hoped her new husband would enjoy. “I do. But thank you very much for your concern.”

“You are a horrid, horrid woman,” Jane said, laughter in her voice, “and he doesn’t deserve you.”

“Apparently he hasn’t a choice, considering she’s only been married for twelve hours and she’s already had her wedding night,” Gwen said, dryly. “So are we right? ”

Isabel peeked out from behind the screen. “Right? About what?”

“Is he an acceptable lover? ”

“Gwen!” Isabel blushed, slipping back behind the screen.

“Ah. It seems he is.” Gwen teased.

When their laughter died down, Jane asked, serious, “Do you love him? ”

Isabel paused at the question that had been playing over and over in her mind since that afternoon. Since before then, if she were truly honest. She caught a glimpse of herself in a long looking glass, noting her shape silhouetted beneath the silk negligee she had selected for him.

To make him happy.

To make him want her.

To make him love her more.

The truth was, she did love him.

And there was nothing more terrifying. She was terrified that, if she admitted it, she would somehow turn into her mother; that their marriage would somehow become that of her parents. How long had her mother pined for her father, how long had she waited at the window for a sign of his horses? How had she doted upon him when he was there … and told fairy tales about him when he was gone?

And hated her children for his desertion?

How could Isabel possibly risk repeating that terrifyingly desolate, despairing life?

No. Love had brought nothing but pain to this house, to her life.

She would not let love destroy her the way it had done her mother.

She would not live half a life.

And so, even as she admitted the truth of her feelings for Nick, she refused to speak them aloud.

“Isabel,” Jane called from the room beyond, shaking her from her thoughts.

She took a deep breath and spoke to her image, ignoring the sadness in her face, the pain that tore through her at the lie. “I do not love him,” she announced, willing her voice to stay light, to convince her friends that she was still as strong as she ever had been.
To convince herself of it.
“I married him for duty—for James and Minerva House and Townsend Park. I see no need to bring love into the scenario.”

She pasted a bright smile on her face—one she did not feel—and came out from behind the dressing screen, only to find Gwen and Jane standing, eyes fixed on a different part of the room.

She followed their gaze, and her heart sank.

For there, in the adjoining doorway, stood her husband.

He had heard everything.

Her smile faltered as he bowed stiffly. “My apologies. I did not know that you had company.”

“I—” She stopped.
What could she say?

”We were just leaving, my lord,” Jane said, and she and Gwen were gone faster than Isabel had ever seen anyone exit a room.

She was alone with the man who loved her.

And she had cheapened that love with her stupid words.

He turned away, retreating into the other room. She followed without thinking, crossing the threshold as he poured himself two fingers of brandy from a decanter that had been set out for him. He stared into the glass for a long moment before he drank deep, then sat in a large, low chair and turned his attention to her. His gaze was cool and devoid of emotion.

She stepped toward him, desperate to fix what she had broken. “Nick.”

“You are wearing red.”

She stopped, the words strange to her ears. “I—” She looked down at herself. “I thought you would like it.”

There was silence as he stared at her, eyes shuttered from emotion. “I do.”

She did not like this Nick. His stillness was unsettling. “I—“

I lied. I love you.

Fear stifled the words. She willed him to hear them anyway.

“Come here.”

The command was imperious and dark—like nothing that she had ever heard from him—and there was a part of her that wanted to run from it. To close and lock the door between their chambers and hide from him until he had returned to normal.

At the same time, she wanted to submit to it.

He drank again, his blue eyes not straying from her.

Daring her to refuse.

Daring her to accept.

She wanted him.

The thought propelled her forward. Once by his side, she was transfixed by his gaze, by the cool gleam there. She wanted to shake him, to bring back the vibrancy that had been there all afternoon. The love that had been there.

He did not move for long moments, and she wondered if he might reject her, ultimately, sending her away and refusing to touch her again. The silence stretched into an eternity, devastating. And just as she was about to turn and leave on her own, he moved.

He leaned forward, reaching for her and pulling her to him until she stood between his thighs. He put his face to the soft roundness of her belly, breathing deep, pressing his open mouth to the silk there. His hands stroked up along the outside of her thighs, around to cup her bottom, pulling her to him as he moved his mouth to the place where the core of her was covered by the fabric.

The feel of his hot breath was too much; she put her hands to his head, threading her fingers into the thick sable strands, and curved her body toward him, cradling him with her whole being.

He lifted his head then, running his hands up to cup her breasts, finding the darkened tips beneath the fabric, teasing them with his thumbs and fingers until they were hard and aching for him. And only then, when her breath was coming in harsh, shaking pants, did he give her what she wanted—taking one hard nipple between his lips and suckling through the fabric, alternately worrying with his teeth and licking with his tongue until the fabric was wet and plastered to her breast. He repeated the process with the other breast until she cried her pleasure.

The sound spurred him on. He stood, bringing the hem of her gown with him, lifting it up over her head, baring her to his pale blue gaze. He lifted her, and she wrapped herself around him as he carried her back to her bedroom. He dropped her onto her bed, following her down, covering her with his warm body. She clawed at his shirt, eager to have it gone, to have him against her, and he let her pull it from him as he slid down her body, placing hot, moist kisses along the center line of her, at the indentation at the base of her neck, between her breasts, down her torso and across her soft stomach.

He eased her legs apart and she did not protest, instead moving to accommodate his wide shoulders as he pressed her against the bed and spread the downy folds that protected the heart of her. When he set his lips to her, he gave no quarter, working his tongue and teeth in a rhythm that pulled her off the bed with the pleasure of it, and she was crying out within seconds. His tongue was wicked against her, fast and furious, unwilling to accept anything but all she could give.

She shattered beneath him, screaming his name as he thrust one, then two fingers deep within her, reaching a spot that she had not known existed, that sent her over the edge once more.

He was above her then and, with a single thrust, inside her, taking her, leaving nothing, his movements deeper and more intense than anything she had felt before. He pushed her to the edge again almost instantly, and she was begging for release, begging for the climax that only he could provide. He held her there for an eternity, until she was crying his name, pleading with him for resolution.

He took her mouth in a scorching kiss, deeper and more passionate than anything they had shared before, and he reached between them, setting his thumb to the place where everything seemed to begin and end. He thrust deep, spilling inside her, and she was lost, flooded with emotion, able to think only of him.

She whispered his name as she came apart in his arms.

After a long moment, he lifted himself from her. She reached for him as he moved to the side, wanting to share the aftermath of their earth-shattering event.

He was gone from the bed before she could touch him, lifting his shirt and pants from the floor and leaving the room.

She sat up, calling out to him as he closed the connecting door firmly, shutting her out.

Regret came quick and painful, and she realized that he had not spoken once during their lovemaking.

Once you have piqued your lord’s interest, consider spending time away from him to encourage his suit. One need only think of the annual foxhunts across our fair land to know the savage urge to hunt that even our most gentlemanly of gentlemen harbor deep within.

Be the fox, Dear Reader, and do not fear!

These skilled hunters will track you down!

Isabel did not look up from the water, lost in thought, wondering what she could do to repair the damage that she had done to her marriage the night before.

What kind of a wife ruined a marriage on the first day?

Your kind.

She resisted the answer, watching the little bubbles form on the bottom of the pot. Perhaps she could convince him to take another ride today … perhaps they could try again.

Perhaps she could find the courage to tell him that she loved him.

“You know what they say about watched pots,” the stable master said, opening a cupboard and pulling out a biscuit tin.

“Yes, well … I’m testing the theory.”

Kate leaned against the table and watched her mistress for a long moment before saying, “One of the horses is gone.”

That got Isabel’s attention. “Gone?”

“As if it never was.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. “Which one?”

“Your husband’s.”

“He’s gone?”

“It seems that way.”

She shook her head. “No. He was here. Last night.”

“Perhaps he’s just ridden into town for something.” There was little confidence in Kate’s tone.

Isabel rushed from the kitchen back upstairs, knocking on the door to his bedroom and barely waiting to enter.

She stopped just inside the door.

He was gone; his things vanished with him.

The bed was not even slept in.

He had left immediately after—

Isabel hugged herself, suddenly cold and unbearably tired.

She turned back to the door, where Kate stood. “Isabel. Is there something I can do? Is there something you need? ”

Isabel shook her head, barely hearing the words.

He was gone. She had driven him away.

Just as her mother had driven her father away.

“I—I need …” She shook her head, a crushing sadness overwhelming her. “I need …”

I need him.

“I need to be alone,” she whispered. “I’ve …”

I’ve ruined everything.

Kate did not speak, understanding even as Isabel did not. She stepped back into the hallway, leaving Isabel alone in the room.

Isabel closed the door, and climbed into the bed—the bed where her husband should have been sleeping. Where they should have been sleeping together.

But he was not here.

She was alone again, and worse for having had him there at all.

He had left her. Just as her father had done.
Just as she had feared he would.

She’d driven him away.

Turning on her side, Isabel pulled her knees up to her chest, and let the tears come. She wept, deep racking sobs that mourned her marriage and what could have been, if only she had trusted herself to love him.

And when there were no more tears, she slept.

It was late when she woke, the sun streaming into the warm room in long golden rays. For a moment, she did not know where she was, and she sat up trying to place the room. When she did, the memories came flooding back.

She stood, sadness and regret making the simple movement more difficult than she would have imagined.

She moved to the door and opened it to find a worried Lara standing outside. Her cousin turned at the sound, and Isabel said, “How long have you been here? ”

Lara waved one hand in the air. “It does not matter. Oh, Isabel.” She took Isabel in her arms, hugging her fiercely before pulling back to ask, “What happened? ”

Isabel shook her head. “I don’t know. One moment we were happy and I believed we might be a success, and the next …”
I ruined it.
“ … the next, I was making a mess of it. And he was gone.”

“I am sure you did not make a mess of it,” Lara said, with a certainty born of love and friendship.

“But I did.” Isabel looked into her cousin’s eyes, recognizing the worry there. “I love him, Lara.”

Lara gave a little supportive laugh and said, “But that is not a mess! That is wonderful!”

Tears sprang to Isabel’s eyes. “No. It isn’t. Because I told him I didn’t love him. That I couldn’t love him.”

Confusion flashed on the other woman’s face. “But why?”

Isabel was flooded with sadness. “I do not know.”

Lara came forward, wrapping her arms around her. “Oh, Isabel.”

Isabel clung to her, tears coming fast. “I didn’t tell him because I was scared. I thought that if I loved him, I would turn into my mother. I thought I would open myself to heartache, and now … now it is too late. I hurt him. I hurt him and he left.”

“Perhaps he will come back,” Lara said, hopeful.

“Perhaps.” But even as she said the words, she knew it would not happen.

How many times had he worked to regain her trust, to prove his worth? And how many times had Isabel rejected him? And then that last time—when the fire had gone from his eyes, leaving only a cool, calm aristocrat—that was when she had lost him.

Isabel cried for a long while, drawing comfort from her cousin.

Finally, the tears stopped, and she took a deep, calming breath just in time to face James as he came tearing up the stairs. “Isabel!” He stopped short, registering her tearstained face. “What has happened? Why are you crying?”

James slowly came closer, his face serious. Isabel noticed that he was wearing a waistcoat. And a perfectly tied cravat. He was a little man. The evidence of Nick’s influence had tears near once more. She closed her eyes against them, refusing to reveal her sadness to her brother.

Isabel forced a smile. “It is nothing, James. What is it?”

James stared at her for a long while, his brow furrowed in concern. Finally, he said, “Jane sent me to fetch you. I think you will feel better when you see why.”

I doubt it.

“What is it?”

He shook his head. “She told me I wasn’t to tell you. You must see for yourself.”

Isabel sighed. The Park still needed its mistress. Lovelorn or not. “Very well, lead the way.”

As the trio descended the stairs to the second floor, Isabel became aware of the noise. It was a loud, raucous collection of chatter unlike anything she’d ever heard. They hurried to the top of the stairway leading to the grand foyer, and she paused there, frozen in surprise at the picture below.

The entryway to the Park was filled with men. Men with pails and crates and satchels, each more surprising than the next, each attempting to gain the attention of Jane, who, standing several steps up the staircase, was doing her very best to play the part of unflappable butler. Of course, it seemed that few butlers in the world had ever had to deal with half of the residents of Dunscroft in their main hall.

Descending, she came to Jane’s side as the butler called out, “Good sirs, if we could all have a moment of quiet while we sort things out, perhaps it would make all our lives slightly easier?” She lowered her voice to a mutter. “Certainly it would help me to think.”

Isabel asked, “What on earth? ”

Jane turned to her. “It’s about time you arrived.”

“Who are they? ”

“From what I can tell,” Jane said, pointing out the men in question as she spoke, “that boy has three crates of candles and more on order; those two have been sent to repair the western fence; that one is here to tune the pianoforte—did you even know that the things required tuning?—the man in the topcoat is waiting to meet with you so you may select a coach to go with your new carriage horses, which are already in the stables—Kate is beside herself in elation; that one is delivering several casks of wine for the cellars; the two women cowering in the corner, poor dears, are here to outfit all of us in new clothes; that man with the spectacles is a banker, requesting an audience with ‘the lady of the manor’; the circle of giants standing with Rock—Lord knows where they came from—are here to patrol the edges of the property; and—” She peered around the fencers. “Oh, yes. There are also a half-dozen roofers requesting access to the attic.”

Shocked, Isabel blinked at the congregation, still not entirely understanding. “What are they all doing here?”

“Music man!” Jane called, drawing the attention of a quiet, wizened craftsman nearby. “The ballroom is through that door there.” She turned back to Isabel. “They say Lord Nicholas sent them.”

It took several seconds for the meaning of Jane’s words to sink in.

“All of them?”

“It is my experience that merchants don’t just show up with free wares, Isabel. Yes. All of them.”

Mute, Isabel looked out over the collection of people in her foyer, overwhelmed. When she finally looked back to Jane and Lara, she could say only one thing. “He sent me roofers.”

Jane was busy instructing the man with the wine to the kitchens. Turning back, she said, “It appears you’ve married a madman.”

She laughed then. “He sent me roofers.”

It was the loveliest thing that anyone had ever given her.

Lara smiled broadly. “He certainly knows the way to your heart, Isabel.”

The tears threatened once more.

If only she had been brave enough to let him in.

Isabel took a deep breath, willing herself to remain strong. Smoothing her hands down her wrinkled skirts, she said, “What do I do?”

“I think you should set those roofers to work.”

Just before dusk, Isabel stood on the front steps of the manor house, watching as the last of the workmen made his way down the long drive from Townsend Park. They had worked for several hours on the roof, promising to return the next day with the materials needed to repair the more significant damage.

As the tradesmen faded into the night, she sat on the wide stone steps, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the cool evening breeze as she looked up at the darkening sky, wishing that everything were different.

Wishing that she were more courageous.

She had been so terrified of allowing herself to love him, so afraid that her relationship with Nick would mirror the relationship of her parents. She had been scared that if she were to love him, she would place herself at risk of becoming her mother—of pining away here in Yorkshire waiting, desperately, for him to return.

And so she had not allowed herself to admit to loving him. Yet here she was, pining away in Yorkshire waiting, desperately, for him to return.

It seemed that she had turned into her mother anyway.

But he was not her father.

He had, in one day, done more for Townsend Park than her father had ever done for them. And it was not just the roof, or the fence, or the carriage. It was the way he so clearly cared about the Park. About Minerva House. He’d known the land and the girls for less than a week, but was committed to their well-being. To their future.

Because he was committed to Isabel’s happiness.

She understood that now.

She sighed into the night.

If only she weren’t too late.

“It has been a rather remarkable day, hasn’t it?”

Rock’s voice came from the darkness, and she turned toward him as he came around the base of the stairs, making his way to her. “That is one way of putting it,” she said with a forced smile.

“Your security team is in place. They seem a good group of men. I shall introduce you to them tomorrow. We’ve created a makeshift headquarters in the old woodcutter’s cottage. It will need some basic repairs, but I will speak to Nick about that when next I see him.”

Her chest tightened at Rock’s certainty that he would see Nick again. She wished that she could be so sure of the same. “This all happened so quickly.”

Rock did not speak for a long while, looking out to the dark grounds. Then, finally: “He began the process when the rain stopped. When I went into town to fetch our belongings, he bid me speak to the constable about honorable men who might be interested in work like this.”

Isabel pressed her lips into a thin line. He’d begun the process before Georgiana was kidnapped. Before they’d been forced to marry. Before everything had changed.

They sat in silence for a long while, lost in their own thoughts. There were a dozen questions she wanted to ask Rock, her only link to the man she loved—to the man she had driven away—but she was embarrassed and uncertain, and the emotions overwhelmed her.

Ultimately, she asked what seemed like a safe question. “Why did you not leave with him?”

He paused, considering his words. “Because, unlike Nick, I know that leaving the thing I want most in the world is not the way to win it.”

“Lara.”

He did not respond for a long while, so long, in fact, that Isabel began to think that he would not acknowledge the name. When he finally turned to her, his dark eyes were black in the evening light. “Yes.”