Emma Jensen - Entwined (14 page)

He was shocked to hear her musical laugh, more still when she reached out to cover his hand with hers. "I never in my life expected to be courted, my lord. We're a month away from roses yet, and I am more than content with my mother's ring. Luncheon was no worse than any I've had at your table and, as for the good reverend..." She laughed again. "Well, the MacLeods have never had much luck with the clergy."

Nathan listened for any hint of bitterness or sadness. He found none. Of course she had wanted to be courted. Not by him, certainly, but by someone. She must have, even if only in girlish dreams. He wanted to press, to demand that she not be so
accepting,
damn it, to make her share some of her dreams with him then and there as they rolled their way toward London and into marriage.

Instead, awed anew by her spirit and unable to stop himself, Nathan turned his hand so it met hers, palm to palm. It took more will than he thought he possessed, but he resisted the urge to link his fingers through hers. She did not pull away.

Her hand was so small against his, warmer now than it had been in the chapel, and the slight connection had his own skin heating. "Matters change," he said. "Luck first among them."

"Aye. I've always believed so."

He might have imagined it, the tiny tremor that rippled from her palm to his, imagined, too, the slight breathy catch to her voice. Then she pulled her hand away, a quick slide that had her fingertips skimming across his sensitive palm. Elation fierce as fire swept briefly through him, followed immediately by the cold wash of reality.

Fool,
he reproached himself,
to think she might desire...

Better to think of the practical reasons he had married her. She was serious in her tasks and had unquestioningly written the four letters he had dictated to her. The first had been to his London house, to make certain that it would be ready for their arrival. The second had been to Matthew Gerard, informing the man of Nathan's return to Town. The third and fourth had been to the
Times
and his parents. Those had not been sent ahead. He would wait until they were in London before sending out announcements of their marriage. It was a situation for which he needed to be well prepared.

He had to deal with Gerard first. And carefully. Nathan did not want to get the man's hopes too high. He had formed a plan of sorts, one that might very well allow him to move among the ton with no one the wiser about his disability. There was no guarantee, however, that he would ever learn the true circumstances of Dennison's death, or any connection to Gabriel's. As far as he was concerned, the whole matter was only so much coincidence and nonsense.

Isobel had made no comment on his terse letter to his parents, nor his pained hesitation in choosing the words for Gerard. There was so much he could not tell her, but, Nathan thought, she deserved some explanation, at least, something that was perhaps a warning.

"Isobel, we must talk about my... responsibilities in Town."

"Of course."

"There will be social engagements, invitations to answer. We will decide together which to accept."

She made a small sound of distress. "But I know so little of Society."

"The rules are simple." He smiled humorlessly, reluctant to so much as taint her warm, forthright nature with the absurd games of the ton. "Title and wealth are all that matter when it comes to being accepted. You now have both, and grander than most. All you need to remember when among Society is to never show fear, never trust, and never be honest."

"Really, my lord!"

"Yes, I know. But you are already a worthy hand at the first. You will master the others soon enough." He shrugged. "Even if you cannot lie, and I do have my doubts as to your abilities there, you will be fine. As long as you speak your mind with great pride, none will slight you."

"I am not—" He heard her sigh. "Nay, I
am
proud. 'Tis a strength and failing at the same time. But I like to think I am never proud at the expense of others."

"Ah, Isobel. I cannot imagine you doing anything at the expense of others." It was one of her glories. "My mother will, no doubt, take it upon herself to turn you into some sort of stiff, infernally dull paragon. Your job is to prevent her from doing anything of the sort."

He heard an agitated rustling of skirts. "I am afraid your mother will find me somewhat lacking."

"Only at first. You are who you are, Isobel. Only the worst of fools could ever find you wanting in anything." Of course, he mused grimly, the ton was comprised of the worst fools the world had to offer. "Now, if I may, I would like to talk of other matters—of what I will require from you."

"Aye?"

He had thought it all through. There were chinks in the plan, to be sure, but he was armed with something in which he was willing to place all his trust: his new wife. "I will ask you to take notes for me at times and to read them back. They will seem odd to you, as will various items of correspondence you will read. I will explain what I can, no more, and you will not ask."

He paused at his own arrogance. "You have come to expect officious statements like that one from me, no doubt. There will be more. I... no, I have no excuses to make. Trust me when I say I make my choices with forethought and reason. Now, let me explain how I think we will best manage life in Town...."

It was slow going, in a heavy coach with frequent stops to change teams. By the time they reached the city, it was dark. Isobel, her head spinning from hours of detailed instructions and her body stiff and weary from the long ride, still could not suppress her awe at the spectacle of London.

Despite the hour, the streets were teeming with vehicles and people. She caught glimpses of elegant couples, garbed in rich fabrics, heading to or from glittering soirees. There were soldiers, sailors, gaudily dressed women who she imagined were prostitutes, and rag-clad creatures who, she thought sadly, were the city's lost souls.

Whirling thoughts and stiff joints forgotten, she pressed her nose to the coach window and kept it there, determined not to miss a thing. Under the dancing flames of the streetlights, London had the flickering aura of a dream scene—unformed and foretelling something larger than life. She was slightly frightened and completely entranced.

Eventually, the coach made a series of turns through more quiet streets lined with large, ornate townhouses. This was where she would live. She, a country girl raised in sea air and heather, with a knowledge of city life built only on those fleeting months in Edinburgh and Manchester, would live here.

The carriage turned another corner onto a park and rolled to a stop in front of an elegant brick house. The front door flew open almost immediately, and light flooded onto the cobblestones. Within moments, footmen were surrounding the carriage. Isobel could see more servants through the open door.

Before she could comment on this notable change from the solitude of the Hall, Nathan was descending to the street. His stick skittered against a stone, and she could see him fighting for balance. She reached out instinctively to steady him, but it proved unnecessary. He stood straight and turned, strain and concentration etched into his face. He offered her his hand as she had leapt to offer hers.

Mutely, she allowed him to lead her up the stairs and into the foyer. Not once did he falter, and his gaze swept from side to side as if assessing the state of the home he had not occupied in more than a year. It was an impressive show. The Marquess of Oriel had returned to Town. "My lord.

Welcome home."

Isobel blinked at the figure before them. The attire was that of a butler, but the countenance was that of a rotund elf. The man stood no higher than her own shoulder, had a beaming, moonlike face, and a fringe of white hair that looked no more substantial than a Highland mist.

"Thank you, Milch," her husband replied. "It is good to be here."

Milch?
Certain he had made a mistake, Isobel waited for the beaming face to stop beaming. It did not.

The small man bobbed cheerfully. "Welcome to Oriel House, my lady.

We've been waiting far too long for you to arrive."

While Isobel stood gaping, astonished by the odd, if charming, reception, her husband chuckled. "We made poor time from Hertfordshire, to be sure."

"Roads. Well, I wasn't referring to the wait tonight, my lord, but clear roads are always a blessing."

Oriel nodded at this sage pronouncement, then said to Isobel, "This is Milch, my dear, brother to my estimable Hertfordshire factotum and prince of London butlers. This house would have ceased running decades ago were it not for him. I assume all is in readiness for our occupation, Milch?"

The butler stopped glowing from the compliments just long enough to pout. "As if I'd have it any other way, my lord."

"Good. Now, Isobel, I imagine you are fatigued from our travels. I will have someone show you to your suite and have a supper tray sent up to you."

"I-very well."

She could never have imagined such a reception. Her husband had been all but bantering with his butler, who seemed more like family than a servant. She found it all but impossible to believe he was related to the dour man who plodded through Oriel Hall. This Milch chattered amiably as he guided her up two flights of sweeping stairs.

"The house was built in 1679 by the fifth marquess," he announced, pointing to a portrait of a somber figure with a notably red nose. "Didn't become a duke 'til eighty-four. Folks say he sent the king a barrel of Highland whiskey. Old Jamie Second did love his drink. Now this urn was a gift to his lordship's grandfather from old Marlborough. If you'll look up to the right, you'll see the picture of them drinking claret from it...."

For the first time in a week, Isobel actually thought she might have found herself a new home.

The sitting room and bedchamber were smaller than those she had occupied at the Hall, but just as exquisitely appointed. A pink-cheeked little maid was waiting for her. Though more reserved than Milch, she still managed to fill the silence. She clucked over the long drive and the dusty state of Isobel's single trunk. And, amid the clucking, she got her new mistress in and out of a warm bath, into night garb, and settled in front of a roaring fire with a supper tray.

By that time, Isobel's head was whirling anew. All but certain she had fallen asleep and was now gliding though a bright, colorful dream, she barely resisted the urge to pinch herself. But no, she was awake. The maid's frequent, knowing glances at a door in the bedchamber wall were all too real.

When the maid finally departed, Isobel found her own gaze straying constantly to that door. No doubt it connected her rooms to those occupied by her husband.
Her husband.
He would be there, on the other side of the paneled wood, preparing for... Her hands tightened in the folds of her dressing gown. Preparing for...

When the knock came, she released her hold on the worn cotton and clenched her hands over her heart, which threatened to leap from her chest as the door slowly swung inward.

CHAPTER 9

Enter these armes, for since thou thoughtst it best,
Not to dreame all my dreame, let's act the rest.

—John Donne, "The Dreame"

Nathan could all but feel Isobel beneath him, silken skin and welcoming arms that would twine like vines around him. He could hear her quickened breath, sense the rushing pulse that would pound beneath his fingers as they traced the hollow of her throat, the sensitive expanse of her inner wrist.

Ah, it was a heady dream he had while standing in the doorway between their chambers, and it had not limited its effects to his head. He was well heated, hard as stone, and at an utter loss as to what he was going to do about it.

He could, he knew, enter her chamber with all the arrogance of both lord and husband and demand his marital rights. He did not think she would refuse him. But that was not how he wanted Isobel: reluctant and obligated.

No, he wanted her willing and fiery with the passion that blazed so clearly under the surface of everything she did.

Isobel would not be having her own erotic thoughts about him, Nathan knew. He had no doubt she was a virgin. And no doubt the sight of him fell somewhat short of driving her mad with desire. He wondered just how distasteful his appearance was. The wavering, indistinct sight of her, of her pale gown and bright hair glowing in the firelight, was enough to make his tongue go thick in his mouth. But she, with her perfect vision, was most likely considering the possibility of jumping headfirst out the window.

Nathan forced calming air into his tight chest. It did little to cool his body but served to clear his head somewhat. He would sit with her, talk with her a bit. Calm her nervous breathing. Then, if he had to, he would leave her alone.

"G-good evening, my lord," he heard her offer, and watched as she rose to her feet.

"And to you," he replied, thinking how ridiculous their words sounded.

Certainly there must have been a greeting more appropriate to her feelings at the moment.
I bid you unwelcome, my lord. Take yourself right back
through that door if you would, please, my lord.
"I trust everything is to your liking?" He grimaced at the further inanity even as he added, "I, ah, the chamber is acceptable?"

"Aye. Thank you. 'Tis lovely."

He imagined he could see her hands, pale and clasped together with knuckle-whitening force against the folds of what was quite probably a nightgown. He forced his wandering mind away from the contemplation of precisely what his wife was wearing. Knowing what he did of Isobel, he imagined prim white muslin with a high neck and lots of buttons.

His body leapt in response.

"Ah, God... er,
good!
You have only to ask if there is something you need." He floundered again. "I..." His hand closed over the door frame.

"May I come in?"

There was only the slightest hesitation before she replied, "Of course."