To Love a Wicked Scoundrel (8 page)

The park bustled with activity although the hour had just turned eleven. The driver knew the area well and took them in a direct route to the upside-down tree where he parked alongside the thoroughfare. One couldn’t help but be amused while viewing the tree. It did appear as if it sprouted from the ground backward, the base quite narrow and the top grown wide. Lily investigated the area around the tree’s trunk and Isabelle delighted in the serious expression her sister donned as she combed over every blade of grass in search of treasure.

‘I hoped you would come.’

Isabelle’s breath caught when she heard
his
voice behind her. She almost dropped the little velvet bag Lily had entrusted to her for safekeeping. With simple logical, she dismissed the obvious question as to how he found them and the realisation of his masterful play of the scene took hold. She whipped around to abrade his trickery.

‘It does not seem an especially clever notion to mention an upside-down tree in the presence of a six-year-old child and not expect there to be an urgency to see it.’ She hoped her tone echoed the condescension of her words. The rakish devil merely quirked his lips before he offered a deep bow and his silence compelled her to continue. ‘Or do you normally malinger here in the park and lurk behind trees, ready to pounce upon unsuspecting females?’

He appeared amused by her admonishment. ‘I am at your service, milady. Not just here in Hyde Park, but for the entire day if need be. I am happy you have acted upon my first suggestion. Mayhaps there are other natural sites that hold your interest this morning.’ He offered her a slow, lazy smile.

Impossible man.
She refused to look at his finely formed face and turned her attention to where Lily frolicked under the tree branches. ‘Be careful what you wish for, milord. Lily will keep you busy for hours.’ She couldn’t know he meant to keep her busy for just as long in a different manner, but something in the way he looked at her – his eyes full of mischief, his lips curled with a saturnine grin – caused an uneasy ripple of apprehension to surface even as she spoke the warning.

‘Constantine.’ He said the word as if a command. ‘I can no longer call you Isabelle, and not offer you the same kindness. We should be of equal accord. Please call me Constantine. Con, if you prefer.’

There seemed such finality to his statement she saw little reason to disagree. Besides, she already thought of him in that manner. Meredith’s incessant babbling removed all formality from the man’s mention. The sudden thought of her stepmother paired with the handsome man before her gave her conscience a firm shake, and an uncomfortable foreboding shadowed her earlier appreciation of his appearance. She pushed the uneasy feeling aside, unwilling to let it take hold. For then she’d be forced to offer foolish excuses and flee.

‘Lord Highborough!’ Lily bounded towards them. Adoration graced her angelic face. ‘It really is upside-down. It is an upside-down tree.’

Saying it aloud seemed to cause Lily unending delight and she twirled with excitement. Constantine reached into his waistcoat pocket and extended his open palm towards her. The motion caused Lily immediate pause.

‘Oh, it is lovely. May I have it please?’

‘Lily, where so ever are your manners? I apologise.’ Embarrassed, Isabelle did not quite meet his eyes, but she detected he stayed her with the barest shake of his head.

‘There is no need to apologise. I brought this especially. Lily told me about her penchant for buttons. My valet will never miss this one.’ He placed the gleaming gold button into the child’s waiting palm and then Lily did the most astonishing thing, and flung herself against his legs in a fierce embrace. Isabelle watched and something tight twisted in her chest.

‘I will treasure it always. Thank you so very much.’ Lily’s tone was all adoring worship. Then in a flash of pale yellow muslin she ran beneath the upside-down tree and settled to examine her newly acquired prize.

‘You certainly have won her affection.’ Isabelle did not disguise her genuine appreciation. Lily owned most of her heart. The sudden realisation turned bittersweet, as if as a grown woman she should have made room for more people, a husband or a lover.
At least a cherished friend.
She blinked hard and forced the regretful thoughts from her mind.

‘Had I known it would take a single button I would have brought you one as well.’

Against her wishes, a smile escaped. Good Lord, he cut a fine figure standing amidst the wild flowers in Hyde Park. Her heart stuttered into a heavy rhythm and no matter how she demanded it cease, her traitorous body refused to obey. The infamous Earl of Colehill proved nothing at all like she’d assumed. This man was at complete odds with the urbane seducer described in the scandal sheets. Her conflicted assumptions scrambled to rearrange themselves and she sensed danger indeed. The rake who purportedly kept several mistresses and wagered rashly, rebel rousing until the wee hours of the morning, was easy to treat with disdain. This man, the real man in front of her, with hair the colour of sweet honey, and eyes that twinkled even under a cloudy sky, presented a captivating contradiction.

His thoughtfulness in wishing to please Lily by bringing an addition for her treasured collections touched Isabelle deeply. At times, Meredith did not show such consideration for her daughter’s feelings. In that one small expression he elevated her esteem, despite the fanfare that surrounded his reputation, or her earlier vow to dismiss him as ridiculous. How many intriguing layers were there to the breathtaking man before her, the same one who chose to portray himself as having the world on a string, his life an ongoing amusement?

Her eyes trailed after him as he moved to where Lily played. Had society failed to look deep enough to discover the truth beneath the easy perception of confidence and self-assurance? The puzzling notion held her entranced, as if by solving the paradox, she would be led to discover herself. There was no denying they’d become unwittingly intertwined somehow; by fate or just plain coincidence, it did not signify. And the promise of adventure never seemed more within reach.

***

Constantine glanced over his shoulder and paused as Isabelle approached where he and Lily conversed under the tree branches. She looked lovely. She wore no elaborate jewelry, nor fanciful bonnet covered with frivolous adornments. Instead her choice of fashion appeared tasteful and attractive. Her breathtaking hair, hidden under a narrow straw hat, was secured with a thin sash that matched her gown. He could imagine its glory. Without a doubt, her features were her most becoming accessories: creamy ivory skin and all soft feminine curves.

‘What do you see?’ Lily’s innocent question interrupted his considerations and it proved a good matter as he suspected Isabelle noticed he stared in her direction.

‘Does your sister have a beau?’ He smirked as he voiced the question, unaccustomed to showing concern over male competition.

‘Oh yes. She has many.’

Annoyance rippled through him at the youngling’s reply. While he didn’t know what he expected with his foolish question, the undesired words sharpened his retort. ‘Here? I thought your family just arrived a few days past?’

He glanced in Isabelle’s direction. She’d stopped to admire the primrose clusters growing beside a wrought-iron bench. Refreshing as she appeared, how could he have thought she would not have a long list of admirers?

‘Yes. She has many in Wiltshire so Mother insisted she bring a few to London. Isabelle likes them well enough, although Mother tells her she can do much better here in the city. Mother says a lady should always be pretty and never mind witty.’

Lily bent and plucked a handful of buttercups from the grass. She twirled them between her palms, unaware of the scowl that masked his face.

Could he have perceived her innocence in error? Only an experienced woman would ask her lover to escort her to London for the season. But more than one beau? The very idea clashed with everything he surmised concerning Isabelle and she all but consumed his mind since their first invigorating meeting in Lord Rochester’s study. Much to his own body’s discomfort, he’d thought about her sweet heart-shaped lips every minute they hadn’t been together.
Along with other entrancing aspects of her anatomy.
It was unwise for him to draw quick conclusions, as he always proved intuitive when discerning another’s true nature. This new contradiction did not sit right.

‘My sister believes herself plain, no matter how I tell her different.’

The child’s innocent confession was charming, although he failed to understand how her words could be true. Plain? Preposterous. Isabelle’s uncommon colouring and lush figure conjured images of mermaids. Her flawless ivory skin would be envied by fairies. She presented a hauntingly erotic muse before anything else.

He diverted his eyes as Isabelle met them under the tree limbs. Then, unwilling to allow her escape, he stepped closer to the lane and let out a sharp whistle. His carriage turned the corner and a coachman hopped down from the box with a small basket and blanket in slapdash fashion. Con instructed the driver to take a long ride elsewhere in the park and far from their picnic. By Isabelle’s remarks in the study, he knew she cared little for the undesired attention that followed him and he wished for her to be at ease. Let the gawkers and flirtatious widows dodge his carriage on a different lane, while he remained where he most wished to be.

Without pause he snapped the blanket open and spread it beneath the branches of the upside-down tree, much to Lily’s delight. He noted Isabelle’s smile too. The three of them settled on the blanket but Lily did not remain and soon rose to treasure hunt in the nearby field of flowers.

He watched with acute interest as Isabelle removed her bonnet and placed it on the flannel alongside her gloves. His breath caught at the outright beauty of her hair. The clouds parted and a stream of sunshine flashed through the tree branches to reveal a kaleidoscope of colour in its auburn waves. He’d always had a fancy for red. Loathe to tear his gaze away, he feared he would reach across the blanket, pull her to him and plunder her mouth with a long, searing kiss if he did not distract himself. It was a good thing she had her hair all caught up in a satin bow, otherwise he would never be able to resist tangling his fingers in the lengths.

He opened the small wicker basket and removed two linen napkins along with a bottle of Madeira, biscuits, tangerines and damsons. He set to work peeling the fruit and the silence between them was not at all uncomfortable. He could tell she watched him, but he did not meet her eyes. Her irises were the most becoming shade of grey imaginable.

‘Thank you – ’ her voice was as perfect as every other part of her ‘ – for the picnic and for treating us so well. But most especially for Lily’s button. She takes such delight in all the little treasures she collects. I shudder to think how her mother will marry her off with all those jars of pebbles and buttons.’

He finished peeling the tangerine and leaned forward to offer her a section of fruit. In an attempt to avoid her perfectly formed lips, his eyes fell to her bodice where a short row of pearl buttons ran down the front placket. ‘Only a fool would allow a few buttons to stand in the way of true happiness. Wouldn’t you agree?’

She nodded as she accepted the fruit and their fingertips touched, a sensitive brush of skin against skin. Then the devil be damned, he made the mistake of watching her take a bite. He would never be able to erase the image of her sweet pink mouth pursed around the juicy slice before she delicately chewed the morsel, her long lashes closed for a brief crush against her cheek as if tasting the fruit was an exquisite experience. She showed such pure enjoyment in the simplest of things. He imagined her expression, her eyes most of all, and how they might speak to him were he to bring her pleasure, stir her passion, and evoke the physical sensations he yearned to show her. He shifted on the blanket. When the tip of her tongue flitted to her upper lip to capture a bead of juice, his body tightened with arousal.

Isabelle chatted amiably, oblivious to how far his thoughts wandered, and all the while unaware he was rock hard from imagining where else he’d like to see her lips and tongue.

‘You cannot believe how much the child has secreted in bottles and jars.’

Apparently she’d been describing Lily’s collections while his mind strayed to very naughty places. He schooled himself and strove to produce a relevant reply. ‘It is easy to see you share a closeness despite the significant difference in age.’

‘Yes, my sister is very dear to me.’ When she continued, her voice held a note of seriousness not there before. ‘Lily’s mother is Lady Meredith Rossmore. I believe you danced with her two nights past. I am her stepdaughter, Isabelle Rossmore. Meredith married my father, although we are nearly the same age.’

His eyes observed her conflicted expression, as if much more could be said, but she prevented herself from doing so.

‘At last, things become clearer. And your father, did he pass away recently?’ Constantine exhaled a breath, relieved his question did not cause her unease. He remembered his father’s death with a great deal of emotion. Primarily joy. It appeared Isabelle did not share a close relationship with hers either, as the lady’s response sounded void of sentiment.

‘Over two years now. It is part of the reason we are here in London. Meredith grew tired of mourning gowns and wished to re-enter society in grandiose fashion.’

‘And the other reason?’

Her unexpected laughter provoked him to smile.

‘You.’

Lost in the melody of her voice, Con thought he misunderstood. ‘What did you say?’

‘My stepmother wanted to meet you.’ Her response sounded hesitant. ‘She follows the gossip pages with avid interest and wished to come to London to make the acquaintance of the legendary Earl of Colehill.’

He could imagine the contrary conversations that took place between Isabelle and her stepmother. The lovely lady before him made no attempt to disguise her mocking tone.

He repositioned himself on the blanket and glanced towards Lily as he asked his next question. ‘And do you also read that rubbish?’ He reserved his use of the gossip pages for dirty paintbrushes, but Brooks devoured the paper daily and availed him of the most interesting tidbits bandied about concerning his person. Most written accounts proved flat out exaggeration meant to feed the minds of the simple. He hoped Isabelle did not subscribe to the rags.