Emma Jensen - Entwined (29 page)

His wife had brought him nuances. As the glint of silver caught his eye—the stroke of her hairbrush—he wondered how he had managed before her and wondered, too, if a man could be taught sight when the God-given had been taken away.

His hands itched to take the brush from her hands and to feel the water softness of her hair sliding through his fingers as he brushed it himself. He could not, however, think of a way to explain the action, to explain how he knew where she was and what she did. So, instead, he stood in the doorway, content with the sound of her singing about a fond kiss.

The words were in that lilting Scots English that teased the ear and often defied translation. With her untempered brogue, Nathan missed a good deal of what she sang. Until the words became a clear farewell: "Ae fond kiss and then we sever; ae farewell, alas, forever..."

He must have made a sound, for she turned, the music ending abruptly.
"Och,
Nathan, you move like a cat!"

"I wanted to hear you."

"Without my knowing it? You know I'll sing for you if you ask."

Yes, he knew she would, but not the songs she chose for herself.

"Melancholy words."

"Aye, perhaps, but grateful, too."

"In parting?"

" 'Tis all a matter of what you're left with when the door closes," she said lightly. Then, before he could press her further. "You're sporting quite an interesting arrangement about your neck this evening."

Nathan reached up and ruefully fingered the botched knot. "You do not think Brummell will approve?"

"As if the thought would ever cross my mind. The man always looks as if he's swallowed a pole and only got it halfway down." There was a click as she set the hairbrush down, the swish of silk as she walked toward him.

She batted his hands away and tugged at the cravat. "Aye, well, you've ruined this one. And with all the starch, I'm surprised you didn't shatter it in the process."

"Feel free to speak to the laundress, madam wife."

"Oh, and have you bleating because you can actually move your chin about? Thank you, nay."

He found himself grinning as she led him back into his chamber in search of a fresh cravat. "Bleating? I do not bleat." She ignored him, tugging free the wilted linen and replacing it with new. "Are you listening to me? I do not"—she efficiently, and tightly, made the first tie— "bleat."

"You're doing it now, lad," she said tartly. After a few more twists and tugs, she patted his chest. "All done."

She gasped as his hand snaked out to tangle in her loose hair, halting her departure midstride. As his thumb stroked feather-soft over her nape her gasp turned to a breathy sigh. "Ah, I take it back, then."

She felt rather than heard his chuckle when his lips traced the line of her brow. "Wise woman."

He was barely touching her, yet still her entire body hummed with the contact. Wondering how long she could remain standing on knees gone weak, she peered over his arm. The bed was still touseled from their romp that afternoon and looked excessively enticing.

"Nathan, we'll be late."

"Mmm."
his teeth closed over her earlobe and tugged gently.

"I... people are expecting us."

He grunted and let his free hand slide upward from her shoulder to cup her jaw.

"Well, bother." She sighed and leaned in. "Whatever it is you do to me, Nathan, you ought to put it in a bottle and sell it. You'd be a rich man in days."

"Sweetheart, I've been a rich man for years."

"Oh, well, then, save it for me only. You'll hear no complaints from me on that score."

His lips curved against hers. "Isobel?"

"Aye?"

"We'll be late."

"So we will."

"People are expecting us."

"So they are." Her eyes fluttered open when he pulled back. Oh, but he looked bonnie with his night black hair and devil's smile. Her heart gave a cheery thump just at the sight of him. "What are you waiting for, you great daft man?"

"I have a gift for you."

"Of course you do. Get on with it, then."

She tried not to be offended when he laughed aloud. "Ah, Isobel, I wonder if you will ever appreciate the irony of this situation." In a motion as quick and graceful as the beginning of a Highland dance, he guided her toward the bedside table. A wrapped parcel sat there. "Open it."

Thinking she would much rather be unwrapping him, and muttering something to the effect, she obeyed. The paper fell away to reveal a flat velvet box. "Oh, nay." She promptly shoved it at his chest. "I'll not accept this, Nathan."

He made no move to take it from her. "Perhaps if you were to look inside..."

"I'll do no such thing. I know full well what this is, and I'll not have you buying me jewels. I've no wanting for them and no use!"

"Isobel, you have not even opened the box."

Exasperated, and still jittery from his assault on her senses, she poked him again with the unopened case. "Are you telling me there's not an ungodly expensive, glittery something inside?"

"No, I am not telling you anything of the sort."

"Well, then, I've no need to open it." She wouldn't have it, would not have him wasting his money in such a way. "You're a good man, Nathan Paget, but a fool sometimes. Now what
are
you laughing about, you great, daft beastie?"

"Isobel, you are a wonder. I had a feeling you might behave so. You are more than accepting when the gift is my humble person, yet you won't even look at jewels."

"Pearls before swine and all that."

This time, he did not move quite as quickly when he reached for her.

There was a bit of a scuffle as he tugged and she twisted, but the end was a foregone conclusion. She was sitting in his lap, and he was still chuckling.

"You will be sorry you said that, my dear." With a flick of his thumbnail he released the catch and the case sprang open. "And not a swine in sight."

She had expected emeralds or rubies, something bright and glaring, and suited to the row upon row of previous marchionesses with their perfect features and cold portraits. As inappropriate for her as sackcloth and ashes.

He had given her pearls.

It was a simple set, a double-strand necklace and drop earrings. The glory was in the pearls themselves. Large, perfectly matched, they held the luster of sea and sunset, a glow that seemed almost unearthly.

"Oh," she breathed, awed.
"O Dia.
Nathan, they are glorious. But I cannot accept them."

"Why? Tell me what it is that frightens you about this gift."

She struggled to find the words. " 'Tis too much, Nathan. Too much."

Still, she could not resist the urge to run a fingertip reverently over the strands. His hand slid over hers a moment later, their fingers linking. "I would say not quite enough. I could feel them, Isobel, even though I could not see. They felt like your skin. Please," he said so softly she barely heard,

"do not reject this." And she was lost.

"I've never had anything nearly so beautiful." She turned in the circle of his arms and softly, slowly brushed her lips over his.

"Neither have I," was his murmured response.

He waited some time before reaching for the other box, in part because he was still afraid she would turn a gift away, but also because the gentle clasp of her arms about his waist was incomparably sweet.

"There is one more piece," he announced at last, and tried not to sigh as she dropped her arms. "Nathan! No more."

He found her hand, slipped the ring onto her finger before she could protest. "I was hoping you could wear this with your mother's ring. It belonged to my grandmother. The one who planted the roses."

It, too, was a pearl but a unique one. A deep, luminous pink, it had come, family history said, from the crown of an Eastern princess dead a thousand years. A long-ago Paget had brought it back from an ill-fated Crusade. Through succeeding generations, the pearl had gone to other estates, a part of bribes and dowries, but somehow, it had always come home to Hertfordshire.

It was set now within a circle of diamonds. Nathan could remember seeing it on his grandmother's hand and could imagine it on Isobel's. He told her as much of its history as he could. "Wear it," he said gruffly, as much plea as command, "so you won't forget where you belong."

"That, my lord, seems to be a matter of debate."

"Oh, Isobel, don't—"

She stilled his growl with a finger on his lips. "I know what you meant."

"Do you?"

He wanted her to understand her own value, never certain she did, but he could not find the right words to tell her. Perhaps, he thought, if he knew what his value was to her, it might have been easier. But she had never spoken about it. She had given him her body, to be sure, freely and with as much passion as he had known she possessed. He had her loyalty; of that there was no doubt.

He would ask no more, regardless of what he wanted.

"Thank you, Nathan," she was saying now, "for trusting me with this.

I'll take care with it." Then she gave a heavy sigh. "You've a way of tromping right over my better judgment, you know. 'Tis a spell, I think."

"Oh?"

"Aye, and one of these days I'll wake up and find myself married to an ordinary man."

"I will do my best to see it does not happen."

"Mmm.
That, I fear, is the problem."

With a last gentle, fleeting kiss, she slipped from his lap and returned to her chamber.

Isobel stood near the wall of the crowded ballroom and fingered the pearls at her throat. The speed with which they had warmed to her skin astonished her. They had been so cold at first, and she imagined they would turn cool again once she took them off.

All in all, they were just like her husband.

When Nathan was with her, he seemed an entirely different man than the one she had first met. He smiled, teased, and set her nerves sparking with the simplest glance. Then something outside would touch him, and the cold light would return to his eyes.

His face was stony now as he talked to the Earl of Rotheroe. Isobel could not hear what they were saying, but it worried her. She had seen that expression on Nathan's face altogether too often since their arrival in London. Now, as usual, she wanted to go to him, to do anything within her means to relax those deep grooves beside his mouth. But, as happened frequently now, she sensed he did not need her presence, did not want it.

She wondered if perhaps she had completed her duty. There was not a man in a thousand who would be able to do what he had. He was back in Town, easy and comfortable around his peers, his blindness still a secret.

She had aided him in that—less, to be sure, than she had expected. His will and ability were staggering. Of course, she had always known as much. She had simply not expected to become obsolete so quickly.

"Isobel, dear, you are not listening to a word I say!"

"Hmm?
Oh, I am sorry, Your Grace. I was—"

"Preoccupied." Her mother-in-law sighed, then gave Isobel an approving smile. "I understand. I was much the same when I was first married." Her eyes drifted to her son, softened. "You have made all the difference, Isobel. To all of us."

"You overestimate my import, madam."

"Unlikely." The ice blue gaze sharpened again. "That is not to say, dear, that you should make a habit of galloping through Hyde Park alone. I cannot think my son has grown so soft that he has lost all sense of propriety."

Isobel suppressed a smile. The mother, unlike the son, could always be counted upon to behave precisely as expected." 'Twas an impulsive act, Your Grace."

"I should say so. And the tale is all over Town."

"It must have been a quiet week in Parliament," Isobel murmured. It never ceased to amaze her what the ton found noteworthy.

"Sarcasm," the duchess said quietly but firmly, "is decidedly unbecoming for a marchioness. So is being the subject of flapping tongues."

Mariah, for her part, was taking this new disaster with her usual good-natured calm. "Oh, Mama, really! Everyone finds Isobel utterly dashing."

"Dashing is not among the adjectives Lady Bronnar and Allenham are using."

"Cecily Bronnar," Mariah said succinctly, "is a witch. And Allenham is a fool. It is hardly Isobel's fault he overturned his phaeton."

"Perhaps not, but he seems to disagree." The duchess gestured to the rotund baron holding court across the room. His right arm was encased in a sling.

Isobel winced. Mariah laughed. "According to Sedgwick, that great mass inside the sling is not bandages but a bottle of brandy. Note how he passes it over his glass every so often." She winked at her sister-in-law.

"Lady Hampden is not known for the quality of her refreshments."

True enough, Isobel thought. The champagne was quite sour. Of course, it could have had more to do with the fact that everyone seemed to be discussing her yet again than with the wine itself.

"Perhaps I ought to go apologize to Lord Allenham. I
was
a bit reckless."

"Oh, pish." Mariah rolled her eyes. "You are being hailed as a unique spirit, dearest. Don't spoil it with something as tame as an apology. I only wish I could have been there to see you handling the beast. We all told Nathan he ought to have had it shot when he purchased it. I'm surprised he didn't do it himself yesterday."

"Don't think he wasn't tempted. But I was as safe on Aingeal as on any horse."

Allenham was waving his constrained arm, but it was impossible to tell if he was tippling or merely adding drama to what was undoubtedly his commentary on Lady Oriel's deplorable behavior in the Park.

"Ankle?" Mariah was asking.

Isobel sighed. " 'Tis Gaelic. I think I really must go offer my apologies."

The duchess was now plying her fan with ladylike gusto. "If you must, dear, perhaps you'd best start with the Misses Richmond. They have just arrived, and if I understand correctly, you quite disrupted their promenade."

Isobel had no idea who the Misses Richmond were. "Are any of them sporting plasters or slings?"

"I do not think so."