To Love a Wicked Scoundrel (32 page)

He chuckled, a deep throaty laugh, and dropped his gaze to the navy blue carpeting. The tip of a tail was visible near the corner of the bookcase and he walked with a leisurely pace to the wall and scooped Theodora into his palm.

‘I think this belongs to you.’ Con crouched down and offered the mouse to Lily. Her squeal of excitement pealed through the room and Theodora twitched inside his closed fist.

‘Thank you, Lord Highborough. Thank you dearly.’ Lily pressed a gentle kiss to the mouse’s head. ‘You are a true hero.’ Then she leaned forward and pressed the same affection to his cheek.

‘This is an outrage. You cannot mean to allow that rodent to remain in house.’ Giddy, having come down from the table, appeared affronted by the exchange. ‘Isabelle, make sense of this situation and rid us of that creature at once.’ She reclaimed her cane and harrumphed with the bold demand.

‘I am sorry, Lady Newby, but we are rather fond of Theodora.’ Lily edged closer to Isabelle’s skirts. ‘She is part of our family here at Rossmore House.’

Con noted the subtle tilt of Isabelle’s lips and bit back a grin of his own.

‘I believed you to be a levelheaded young lady, able to make intelligent decisions when necessary, most especially when children are concerned.’ Giddy released a snort of disapproval. ‘I am no longer sure.’

With pure serendipity, dinner was announced on the heels of Giddy’s bald observation. Lily, intuitive beyond her years, scrambled upstairs, mouse in pocket, before she could be scolded. The entire situation may have convinced Giddy there was little hope of pursuing her matter of interest because the next morning she promptly left for London, Lord Castling by her side.

Chapter Twenty-One

Several days later, Isabelle awaited Lord Lutts’ arrival as per his urgent bid to see her. She’d had the tea service set in the library as opposed to the drawing room to afford them privacy, and planned to speak plainly, despite the obsequiousness he’d shown her of late. She circled the room and her fingertips brushed the bouquets that covered every available surface while her mind conjured images of Constantine and their stolen kiss in the garden. If the bold action was his attempt at wooing, he need not continue, her heart was already won.

The flattering rivalry that arose as both men pursued her affection was an experience she once believed inconceivable. Now, as the wooing gained momentum, it reminded her of a boulder rolling down a steep hill, off course and wildly out of control. A bemused smile played on her lips as she considered how both men seemed determined to upstage each other.

While Lord Lutts sent flower arrangements, Constantine had a small bergamot tree delivered, complete with a bonnet hanging from the lower branches. She needed no reminder of their midnight interlude, but now whenever she entered her garden she was guaranteed a secret smile.

When Lord Lutts arrived with an embroidered pillow he’d commissioned in a floral design, Constantine had a whispering bench installed in a private corner of the yard. It conjured the vivid remembrance of Lady Stanton’s gardens and the intimacy they’d shared there. A heated flush coloured her cheeks whenever she viewed it.

And oh, her earl was a master to the tiniest detail.

Isabelle walked to the escritoire and lifted the envelope she’d received earlier. Her fingertip traced the broken seal of crimson wax imprinted with a horse head before she freed the sketch from its wrappings. An intricate drawing of the folly at Highborough House, complete with crowned lion, lay nestled within the papers. Con had drawn her as she leaned against one of the marble columns, and all the emotion of that day – the intimate conversation, passionate caresses, and stunningly delicious kisses – flooded back in a tide of longing. She exhaled a long breath and replaced the sketch on the desk.

Lord Lutts had no idea who he was up against. While he advanced his suit in earnest, her scoundrel earl did not play by the rules. When Lutts recited light poetry to a drawing room audience, Constantine offered deep kisses in the hallway when no one was looking. If a rivalry existed, Constantine Highborough, Earl of Colehill, was winning on all counts, and truly, no reason existed for her not to give in to her emotions. She loved him, and always would. He’d always held the advantage.

‘Milady?’ Butler entered with a light knock. ‘Your guest has arrived. Shall I show Lord Lutts to the library?’

‘Yes, that would be perfect. Thank you.’ She took a deep breath. It would not be pleasant, but he deserved her honesty. They might have suited, months ago, before her eyes had been opened and she realised what lay beyond her simple existence in Wiltshire. Before she loved Constantine.

‘Isabelle.’

He had never used her Christian name and the informality caught her unaware. She raised her eyes and caught a flash of concern. Did he anticipate what was to occur?

‘I have been anxious to see you. It is kind of Lady Rossmore to afford us this privacy.’

‘Of course.’ Isabelle offered a tentative smile and walked to the tea service.

‘No refreshments today. If I may decline, I’d much rather spend the time in conversation.’

‘Yes, certainly.’ She replaced the pot on the tray and took the closest chair. A cloud moved to cover the afternoon sun and the room was suddenly cast in shadows, not at all as bright as it was scant moments before. ‘I want to thank you again for the wonderful flowers and gifts.’ She indicated the arrangements that surrounded them. ‘They are all beautiful.’

‘You like them.’ He took a step forward, his usual demeanour, one of calm comfortability, seemed absent. ‘I am reassured. Have you given my suggestion further thought?’

‘I have, although I am afraid it is not good news. It is unfair of me to entertain your attentions when my sentiments lie elsewhere. It would be unkind to encourage your suit unnecessarily.’ She exhaled fully, glad the difficult words were out, and a sense of relief flooded her heart and brought with it a rush of freeing exhilaration.

‘I insist you reconsider, Isabelle.’ His face looked grim, as if he’d swallowed something unpleasant and was unable to digest it. ‘We really must be wed. In truth, it is imperative.’

‘I do not understand.’ She leaned forward in her seat. ‘You say it is imperative?’

‘You are a woman of reason. I hesitate in relaying all the facts, yet I see no other way.’ Lutts sat down on the couch, his expression troubled.

‘I still must decline your offer, yet if there is more to tell, then you need spell it out, as you have left me at a disadvantage to your insistence.’ Isabelle released a breath, confused as to the man’s intentions.

‘I am not as polished as your other suitor.’

‘Don’t,’ Isabelle interjected. She did not wish for him to compare himself to Constantine, although she was guilty of the very crime herself.

‘If I must be direct, then let me speak. I have much to say and afterwards you will reconsider my offer and understand why our marriage is essential.’ His expression grew stern.

Perplexed, she folded her hands in her lap and offered her complete attention.

He quailed for a moment, then straightened his shoulders and continued. ‘I am a man of modest means. Whatever savings I accumulated through the years are depleted due to poor investment decisions on my part.’

Isabelle narrowed her eyes and worked to find reason. Was this his prelude to a proposal? She could not say. His eyes searched the room and she noted how much he’d spent on flowers in an effort to sway her affection. A seed of guilt took root and she brought her eyes to his in empathetic compassion.

‘But these flowers?’

‘They are from Lady Rennet’s greenhouse.’

‘And the pillow?’ Her question was a subdued whisper.

‘Widow Barton has a fine hand with a needle.’

Isabelle shifted in her chair. ‘No wonder you could not afford the finer teas. Meredith thought you paid suit to all the Wiltshire ladies.’ Sympathy coloured the words.

‘Just those who reside near the proposed railway line.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Isabelle pressed her lips together in a tight line. ‘Whatsoever are you talking about? You possess a handsome estate and a good portion of land.’

‘My acreage is twice mortgaged and does not intersect with the intended railway route. Your property to the south runs along the Kennet and Avon Canal, and directly in line with the future path of the Great Western Main Line.’ His tone became querulous, as if he resented explaining the particulars.

‘You mean to say you have cultivated our relationship for the better of two years in hope of acquiring Rossmore House property with intent to sell acreage to the railroad?’ Gone was her ebullient demeanour, her voice laced with menacing softness. Lord Lutts was a dreadful opportunist who demonstrated unconscionable behaviour.

The sun broke through the cloud cover and light slanted through the windows with unexpected brightness. She stood up and forced him to follow suit.

‘Your land is worth a fortune.’ He cleared his throat and took a small step forward. ‘You, milady, are my last hope.’

She shot him a dubious stare.

‘But it is true. Lady Rennet is newly engaged and Widow Barton is surly by nature. I cannot imagine a future with her sour disposition.’

‘Get out.’ Isabelle snatched the gifted embroidered pillow from the chaise and flung it towards the open library doors. ‘If you do not move quickly, I will seize the fireplace poker next and chase you from the premises.’ Her heart hammered triple time at the scathing threat, but she stood her ground.

Lord Lutts opened his mouth to speak, but thought the better of it when she stepped closer to the grate. He fled the room and Isabelle walked to the window to ensure he continued out the front door. She shook her head at the ridiculous turn of events and cast her eyes to the sky. The weather had cleared and few remaining clouds hurried across the vast blue.

A strong knock brought her attention around. Constantine stood in the doorframe. He entered and closed both panels and then turned the lock. He dropped the key into his waistcoat pocket.

‘What are you doing?’ Her pulse danced a waltz of pleasure. He looked terribly dashing and she wanted nothing more than to run to him and kiss him soundly.

He flicked a nod towards the closed doors. ‘Shall I unlock them?’

‘Absolutely not.’

He grinned and her heart answered with a heavy beat.

‘Very good then.’

He kicked aside the forgotten pillow on the floor and strode further into the room. When he was nearly in front of her, she reached up and released her hair from its pins and closed the space between them. Anticipation caused her fingers to tremble.

‘Beat you to it.’

‘And good of you to do so. I need my hands free for other things.’ He made a low sound in the back of his throat and her skin prickled with anticipation.

He made quick work of unfastening every button, bow, and corset string, until she stood before him in nothing but chemise and stockings.

‘Aren’t you going to take everything off?’ She cast a shy glance downward.

He fought a smile. ‘It is my hope you will put something on.’

Her lips formed a question but he placed a finger across her mouth. Then he gathered her closer, a wicked glint of mischief in his crystal blue eyes.

‘Can we put aside this wooing business? I have no patience for it. You are mine.’ His arms locked around her in a tight embrace. ‘You have my heart, and every other part of me. I want you back in my bed.’

All at once she couldn’t breathe. He waited for her answer and when she whispered assent through her tears, he pulled back the scantest space and produced a ring from his waistcoat pocket. Her eyes widened and a half grin curled his lips as he spoke. ‘I rather hoped you’d see reason.’

The largest diamond imaginable, as brilliant and breathtaking as her wickedly handsome earl, glinted in the sunlight. He slipped the ring onto her trembling finger and her throat constricted with joy, and every emotion capable of her heart.

‘Isabelle, darling, I love you.
I need you
. Do me the honour of becoming my wife.’

It was fortuitous a single word was required as she could never have managed more. Yet it didn’t matter. It was no time for talking.

He swept her forward and down to settle on his lap across the overstuffed chaise near the waning fire.

‘This is terribly naughty. We shouldn’t,’ she lied with a smile.

‘I know, but I can wait no longer,’ he murmured in the husky tone she had come to adore. Then he kissed her with fierce passion as his fingers traced the line of her chemise, across the pull of silk that outlined her breasts to rub against her nipples, sensitive and erect, now tight hard buds.

He lowered her chemise, his anxious mouth catching one breast, then the other in a worshiping caress, and he lingered with loving attention until he moved upward to nuzzle her neck with hot kisses and a fervent growl of need.

‘Come up on your knees, love.’

The swift brush of his knuckles against the skin of her thighs made her tremble, and when she settled at his encouragement, the heat of his manhood, hard and insistent, pressed against her core.

‘God, I’ve missed you.’ He shifted, the slightest fraction, and entered her with one thick stroke. ‘I feel as though I’ve wanted you for ever.’

‘You have me. You have my heart.’ She leaned in to press a kiss to his neck, unwittingly rising and falling against him.

He answered with a groan of pleasure. ‘I want all of you. For ever, Isabelle.’

And then there was no time for talking as her scoundrel earl proved his words. More than once.

Epilogue

‘Lily.’ Meredith’s hushed whisper rang with stern command. ‘I expect Theodora to stay safe in your pocket. The last thing we need is for your mouse to scamper up the altar and frighten the vicar during the wedding ceremony.’

‘Theodora would never behave so horridly.’ Lily stroked her pet lightly between the ears before returning her attention to the front of the church. ‘Oh look, Mother, this is the very best part.’

St George’s Church in Hanover Square possessed quaint charm and rustic appeal despite its location in the centre of London. With finesse, all details of the occasion had remained secret so only a handful of family and guests stood in attendance to the ceremony coming to a close under the golden candlelight of several suspended chandeliers. Isabelle wore a white muslin gown adorned with seed pearls and sewn with fine silver thread. Lace sleeves, satin gloves and a row of nearly a hundred buttons graced her wedding dress, but nothing matched the ethereal glow of her happiness or the enchanted gleam in her eyes.