Emma Jensen - Entwined (21 page)

Feeling rather smug, Isobel returned to her husband's side. His hand found hers, and he squeezed it warmly.

The duchess broke the silence at last. "Well, my dear, that was... lively."

The duke muttered something about digestion.

"It was marvelous, Isobel," Nathan announced.

"Good heavens, we've been invaded!"

All four swung to face the door. Lounging there, with tousled brown hair, a red uniform that looked as if it had met with a stiff wind, and a very familiar smile that left no doubt as to his familial affiliations, was the elusive, unlucky William.

"The Scots have arrived," he said cheerfully, and flashed that grin at Isobel. "I daresay the Pagets will never be quite the same."

"William!" His mother's greeting was a good deal more delighted than berating. "How good of you to come after all."

"How much did you lose, boy?" the duke demanded.

"Oh, a trifling amount." The young man swept in and bowed in front of Isobel. "Fifty pounds. What a great pleasure to meet you, madam." While his father sputtered over the fifty pounds, William turned to Nathan.

"You're looking well, old boy."

"He looks like hell!" the duke muttered.

"Ah, well, good to have him back regardless." With the ease of a circus juggler, he kissed his mother, deftly pulled a pin from his sister's hair, and dodged her batting hands to take a sip of tea from her cup. "I must say, what a day it has been."

The duchess launched into a halfhearted and ineffectual harangue against William's manners. Nathan found himself grinning. It was impossible to be angry with William. Isobel, laughing quietly at his side, seemed to agree. Nathan was ten years older than his brother, and it was only recently, now that William was an adult, that William's idolization and his own benevolence had melded into mutual affection. When his brother reached out to clasp his shoulder, Nathan felt an odd trembling in his jaw.

He was home, among his family. With Isobel's warm presence at his side, he was fully convinced, if just for the moment, that all was well.

William cheerfully ignored his mother's harangue and turned to his father. "I say, Father, I've arranged to have something delivered here, and you mustn't appropriate it for yourself."

"Oh, William, you haven't bought more of that nasty Welsh ale, have you?" Mariah shuddered. "Stephen was ill for days after that last batch."

"Stephen," her brother shot back, "loved the stuff. I've half a mind to send him a keg in Portugal. But no." Delicate teakwood groaned as he dropped heavily into a chair. "This isn't potable stuff. As a matter of fact, it's gunpowder."

"Gunpowder? Oh,
William,
not again!" The duchess's weak protestations were lost. William was off again.

"Stopped by Brooks's on my way here," he informed Nathan. "Heard you haven't been about since your return. Sedgwick was most blue-deviled about it."

"I... no. I haven't had the time. Perhaps—"

"Had an interesting encounter with another old schoolmate of yours.

Can't say I ever much liked the fellow, but he was blasted eager to hear of your welfare. We shared a damned fine bottle of Madeira. You really must talk to your cronies yourself, Nathan. It's bloody embarrassing for me to have to tell them I haven't the foggiest idea what you've been up to all these months."

"Was it Rotheroe?"

"Was Rotheroe what?" China rattled as William bounded to his feet, no doubt in search of something to put into his belly.

"Was it Rotheroe who provided the Madeira?"

"Good God, no. Rotheroe still thinks I'm in short pants. Stodgy old coots, your friends. What a terrible tragedy, Rievaulx's going. He was always a step above the rest. They can't seem to accept the fact that I'm an adult now and can handle my liquor perfectly well."

"Debatable," Mariah commented.

Nathan sighed, both in sadness at the mention of his lost friend and in exasperation. "I cannot be expected to field questions, Will, if you refuse to tell me who is doing the asking."

"Hmm?
Oh, yes. It was St. Wulfstan. Seems he just got back to Town himself." Having ascertained there was not, in fact, anything edible in the room, William plunked himself down next to Isobel. "Skye, was it?

Splendid Scotch whiskey there."

Nathan was a step behind. "St. Wulfstan?"

"He's Irish, man, not Scottish. Though I can't imagine why he insists on using that god-awful accent. He was at Eton and Oxford with the rest of the lordlings."

"St. Wulfstan was quizzing you about me?"

"I just said so, didn't I?"

"I've never much cared for Lord St. Wulfstan," the duchess commented primly. "He has always seemed rather coarse to me."

"He seems that way to everyone, Mama," Mariah replied. "It is, I believe, deliberate."

"Damned fine shot, St. Wulfstan," the duke muttered. "Never misses.

Good to have about during a hunting party."

As far as Nathan was concerned, this particular party was over. He needed to get away from his family so he could think. It was impossible to manage a clear thought with William rattling on. He assumed Isobel, too, would be ready to depart. She had certainly had her moment. Why not give her time to gloat quietly.

"You cannot mean it!" the duchess protested when he announced his intentions. "Why, we have had so little time with Isobel. And you—you have been missed, Nathan."

"We are not making a run for the Scottish border, madam. We are simply going home. I assure you, you will see plenty of Isobel. I am an appalling shopping companion for her. If you are especially pleasant, perhaps she will even allow you to make a recommendation on a pelisse or two."

Mariah pouted prettily but brightened when a shopping expedition was, in fact, planned. The duke grunted something about not understanding what was the hurry to be off. Oriel House was only around the corner, after all.

William was more philosophical. "Suppose you newly wedded do need time alone." He gave Isobel an enthusiastic kiss. "I daresay we'll get along smashingly, you and I. Never did fancy that Cecily chit. Too toplofty by half. You seem a simpler sort of girl."

"William!" the duchess chided.

Nathan hustled Isobel out the door.

She was silent during the short ride. Nathan found himself muttering vague curses under his breath. Too much time in his father's presence tended to have that effect.

He ought to have known Isobel would not remain quiet for long and that when she did speak, it would be to home in on his concerns unerringly.

"Nathan," she said as they crossed their foyer, "who is this Lord St.

Wulfstan to you?"

He did not reply as he navigated the first set of stairs. "Nathan."

"St. Wulfstan is an acquaintance. We knew each other at school and served together on the Peninsula."

He hoped she would be satisfied with that. Of course she was not. She did, however, wait until they were up the second flight before pressing. "An acquaintance, is it? Not a friend. Yet he was asking about you."

"Natural curiosity, I suppose. We have not met in many months. Good night, Isobel. I trust you will sleep well."

Instead of trotting obediently off to bed, she planted herself squarely in front of his door. As much as he might wish it—and oh, how he did—she was not waiting for an invitation to enter.

"Ah, no, you don't! I'll not be dismissed so easily."

He gave a faint smile. "Trust me, my dear, dismissing you would be very difficult indeed."

Isobel was fast losing her patience. She understood Nathan's pride, the foolish pride that made him think he could handle all matters on his own, but she was having none of it now. "Well, then," she said firmly, "suppose you tell me why this man is snooping about, first me and then William.

Really, Nathan, you cannot think I wouldn't be able to put two and two together. It was St. Wulfstan who accosted me last night, was it not?"

"It was."

"Curious. And you don't like him. What is his interest in you?"

"Really, Isobel. St. Wulfstan and I go back some years. It is only natural that he would have an interest in my present state."

"Rubbish." She blew out her breath in an exasperated huff. "Don't tell me, then. But you cannot go on keeping me ignorant of matters you find unpleasant. I am your wife, Nathan." As seemed only natural to her now, she reached up to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. "I'll bid you good night, and trust you will sleep w—"

She broke off with a soft gasp as his cane clattered to the floor, again when his hands clamped around her upper arms. It was far from painful, but it was not a gentle touch, either.

"Yes, Isobel. You are my wife. If you believe nothing else I tell you tonight, believe this: I never for a moment forget who you are to me."

Had she been prepared for the kiss, expected it, she might have moved away. But he took her by surprise, his lips finding hers swiftly and unerringly. In fact, they fitted to hers so well that they might have been molded just for that purpose. He tasted of brandy, smelled lightly of sage, and completely overwhelmed her senses. The kiss was quick, hard, and so sweet that she sighed with the simple pleasure of it.

Then it was over.

Nathan's hands were still clasped on her arms, and he moved her easily from in front of his door. "Good night, Isobel. I will see you at breakfast."

He released her abruptly. Then, with the grace of a man in complete control of every faculty, he entered his chamber and closed the door behind him.

Isobel stood where she was, one hand pressed lightly to her mouth, unable to tell if it was her fingertips that tingled, or her lips.

CHAPTER 13

Hold embers to the breast of thy lover

Against the sting of the rain

And the changing of the wind,

And I will vow and warrant thee

That lover shall never leave.

—Highland love charm

"And I say you're not ready to attempt any such thing!" Isobel snapped.

Nathan smiled over the rim of his coffee cup. "What a protector you have become, my dear, jittery whenever I am out of your sight."

Isobel's snort meant far more than the string of Gaelic words that followed. He decided he really would have to ask her to teach him some of the language, if only so he could curse right back at her.

"I assure you, Isobel, I shall be fine. I have spent more time at Brooks's than anywhere else in London. Each chair, each umbrella stand is as familiar as any in my own home."

"They could have moved."

"The mountains of Wales would move first. Trust me when I say change is as horrific a prospect to gentlemen's clubs as a plague."

"Well, then, you might give yourself away by misaddressing someone."

She was nothing if not persistent. Nathan smiled anew. She did not mean to destroy his confidence. On the contrary, he knew she had a great deal of faith in him. Isobel was simply being Isobel, used to her own indispensability and determined to be of help.

"In the past sennight, my dear, I have attended enough balls, soirees, and supper parties to satisfy even the worst of high-sticklers. Few acquaintances have been able to resist the opportunity to come close and ascertain just how mad I have become in my solitude. Or just how mad was my marriage. Between my ears, my father, and my wife, I have been able to identify most of the persons I will encounter in Town."

"Aye. I cannot imagine a single
Sasunnach
noble was missing from last night's circus."

The previous night's circus had been a bash at Carlton House. Isobel was quite right in assuming everyone who was anyone in the ton had been there. She had been pinned down, perused, and quizzed by Sally Jersey, Alvanley, and the Duke of York, among countless others. The pinch-lipped Sally had pronounced her "tolerable." York's more eloquent assessment had included the words "damned spicy piece indeed." Isobel had been impressed with neither.

"Ah, well, perhaps a member or two of the gentry was not in attendance." Nathan reached for another slice of bacon. "I will be back in plenty of time to don my armor for tonight. You have made quite an impression on Society, my dear. We could not possibly miss Lady Cowper's concert."

Another snort made Isobel's opinion of this honor quite clear. "I vow if I must sit through one more hour of a quartet sawing and squeaking its way through Bach, I'll do something rash."

"Yes, no doubt you would prefer the whining and wailing of bagpipes."

Nathan grinned as she chucked her napkin at him. "Very well. Enough of that. You, I believe, are engaged with the modiste this morning."

"More pins," she grumbled. " 'Tis a wonder I've not bloodied every gown. Or a few noses."

Nathan slid his hand across the table until it met hers. "Just remember, sweetheart, how much Scots blood has been surrendered to the depraved English. You are merely adding your chapter to history."

"Well, I've a mind to alter the path of history."

"There is every chance you might do just that, Isobel. Every chance."

She left the table then, with one more admonition for his care at Brooks's. When she had gone, trailing vague Gaelic invectives and her honey-and-rosemary scent, Nathan lifted her napkin to his face. It was an absurd gesture, he knew, but he couldn't help himself.

He had not kissed her since that one time, a night that seemed years past rather than days, nor had she repeated those innocent good-night brushes of her lips that had been so unexpected and so welcome. No, they had been cordial enough with each other, affectionate even. But they had not touched beyond the necessary linking of arms.

Sleep had become damnably difficult. Nathan had taken to adding a shot of whiskey to his bedtime preparations. It did nothing for the continually aroused state of his body, but did serve to dull his mind somewhat. It was a shame he could not drink his way through the days as well. Isobel's presence never failed to set nerve to attention. But he had business to see to, and a dull mind made for poor work.

He had arranged to meet Rotheroe and Gerard at Brooks's. As for St.