Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (12 page)

Isabel watched as Delia brazenly flirted. She should have been relieved that she had won this skirmish with the earl, but she was troubled.

Why did the gentleman’s parting words sound like a threat?

Chapter Fourteen

“Well, well…”

Isabel turned her head at the low masculine drawl and discovered that the man was as captivating as his voice. Striding toward her like a marauder in evening clothes, the dark-haired gentleman with unusual turquoise-blue eyes looked like he was capable of practically anything. Rules, she suspected, did not apply to this man.

“You must be one of the seven Lords of Vice people keep warning me about,” she said, risking a side glance to the young lady she had been speaking to before the gentleman’s interruption. She discovered that her companion had fled.

This did not bode well.

Taller than Vane by three inches, he had black hair that fell loosely around his narrow face. She would rarely apply this word to a man, but he was beautiful. Whether he was an angel or the devil had yet to be determined.

“Saint was not exaggerating. A man might give up many things with the proper enticement. Are you Vane’s?” he asked, those enthralling blue eyes studying every aspect of her.

Isabel could feel her pulse beating at her throat at his close scrutiny. “Vane’s what?” she replied, fighting the urge to open her fan and hide behind it.

“Temptation, Miss Thorne,” he said silkily. “A foolish man’s downfall.”

She did not like what this gentleman was implying. “Lord Vanewright isn’t a fool.”

The dark-haired stranger inclined his head. “It is best that you remember your own words.”

“Which Lord of Vice are you?”

“Frost.” His white teeth flashed as he smiled. “Ah, I see my depraved reputation precedes me. I hope you aren’t too disappointed with the man.”

“Begging for compliments, Frost?” Vane said coldly, stepping in front of Isabel.

“Or attempting to frighten off the
Thorne
digging into Vane’s ars—side,” quipped another dark-haired stranger as he joined the two men.

Belatedly, Isabel realized she was wrinkling Vane’s coat. She mumbled an apology and stepped away from the three gentlemen.

“I thought only to introduce myself to the lady,” Frost protested. “Saint’s high praise of the Thorne sisters had me curious.”

The gentleman who had followed Vane snorted indelicately at their friend’s explanation.

Isabel let out a soft squeak as a tall blond gentleman brushed by her. Another Lord of Vice, she presumed, wondering if one had to be a veritable giant to be considered for membership at their club.

“Regan sent me over because she feared there was a fight brewing,” the newcomer growled. “Please do not disappoint me. Especially you, Frost.”

“Now that we aren’t hindered by Juliana’s fondness for her furniture, I’m willing if you are, Dare,” Frost said. The deadly menace in his voice had Isabel inching away.

“If you will—” Her voice faltered when all four gentlemen recalled that she was witnessing their quarrel. “Pray excuse me.”

“She is terrified,” one of the men murmured.

“And this surprises you?” was Vane’s thunderous reply as he glared at Frost.

“Do not blame me,” Frost grumbled. “Miss Thorne and I were getting along famously until we were rudely interrupted.”

Vane pushed by his friends until he was standing in front of her. “We will save the introductions for another time. Let’s get you some air. You are looking a little pale.”

*   *   *

Vane and Isabel did not speak until they had reached the stone terrace. “What did Frost say to upset you?” When he’d noticed that his friend had managed to corner Isabel, a fierce need to protect her had risen within him. He had been prepared to challenge Frost, and the realization shook him to the core.

“I was not upset,” she hastily replied, moving away from him. “I was just startled that he knew who I was. Honestly, he seemed concerned about you.”

Vane smirked. “Frost? Worried about someone other than himself? You are mistaken.”

When another couple emerged from the open doors, he took Isabel by the arm and escorted her away from the house. With torches lighting their way, they followed the garden wall.

“The others … they are members of your club?”

He nodded, admiring the lavender dress she had donned this evening. He longed to trace the graceful curve of her neck, allowing his lips to taste the dip at her collarbone.

“And good friends. We’ve all known one another since we were lads, and like most brothers we have misunderstandings, jealousy, and arguments. Even so, I would trust them all with my life. There was no reason to fear them, including Frost.”

Isabel circled the nearest torch so she could study his face. “I was not afraid of your friends. I am, however, curious. What did Lord Sainthill tell Frost about me and my sister?”

“I was not privy to their private conversation,” he admitted, even though it was simple enough to deduce that Saint must have told Frost how Vane had initially encountered the Thorne sisters and of their encounter in the park. It must have amused Frost immensely considering Vane’s ridiculous vow of celibacy. “I imagine Saint praised your intelligence and beauty.”

Uncomfortable with flattery, she backed away from the torchlight. Her heel caught on an unseen stone, and she stumbled. Before he could catch her, she managed to keep her balance by reaching for the stone wall.

“And graceful,” she said mockingly.

“Lovely, too,” he added. Seizing the opportunity, he backed her against the wall.

“Pretty lies, Lord Vanewright,” she said, almost desperately, as she became aware of his proximity. “I suspect all ladies are lovely to you.”

He frowned slightly and shook his head. “Not particularly. Then again, I pursue only the ones who I want to kiss.”

“You do not want to kiss me,” she blurted, her gaze searching for the open terrace doors that were no longer in view. “And we should not even be here. We should—”

“End this ridiculous argument,” he said, silencing her by bringing his finger to her lips. “Especially when there are more pleasing exercises we can do with our lips.”

To avoid his finger, Isabel turned her face away and moistened her lips. “Lord Vanewright … Vane,” she said, remembering that he had asked her to call him by his nickname. “I believe we should return to the ballroom before we are missed.”

Ignoring her request, Vane tilted his head and studied her profile. She was breathless, and he’d wager her heart was pounding. Was it fear or anticipation that was making her tremble? Several seconds later, a low chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Sweet Isabel, has no man ever stolen a kiss from your lips?”

Her eyes blazed at his amusement. So did her pride. “Of course! Dozens of times,” she brazenly lied.

Vane braced his palms against the wall, effectively caging her with his body. “Then one more gent will hardly make a difference,” he teased, before his mouth slanted over hers and swallowed her gasp.

Isabel froze as his lips moved tenderly over hers. This might not have been her first kiss, Vane silently mused, but it would be the one she would remember. Although he teased her lower lip with a tantalizing flick of his tongue, he made no attempt to deepen the kiss. He did not wish to frighten her. His friends had seen to that. He just wanted to demonstrate to Isabel, and maybe himself, that the attraction he felt when he looked at her was not one-sided. And when all was said and done, his mother’s machinations and Isabel’s absent suitor from Cotersage proved little hindrance when he finally put his hands on her.

Vane ended the kiss before someone caught them and reported back to his mother that her son was ravishing Isabel Thorne in the gardens. Her dazed expression and slightly swollen lips mollified his masculine pride. Yes, whether she would admit it or not, the lady was not immune to his kisses.

“Are you planning to gloat?” she asked once she found her voice.

Since it was exactly the sort of behavior that she expected from a Lord of Vice, Vane decided he liked her best when she was unbalanced. With great deliberation, he removed a leaf from her bound tresses and tossed it away. “Let’s return to the ballroom. After we dance, I will introduce you to my friends and their wives. I am certain that tempers have cooled during our absence.”

Unfortunately, Vane could not make the same claim for his unruly body.

Chapter Fifteen

Vane waited impatiently for the housekeeper to open the front door. He had become a regular visitor at the Thorne residence, but it was beginning to annoy him that he was not their only caller. He scowled as Mrs. Allen opened the door and another gentleman departed the house. Vane did not recognize him; nor did he care to discourage the gent from leaving.

The gentleman caller met Vane’s stern gaze, nodded warily, and then scurried off. Vane was rather pleased with himself until he noticed that the housekeeper had witnessed the silent exchange.

“Do not bother telling me that Miss Thorne and Miss Delia are not at home.” He motioned with his head at the hastily retreating figure of the sisters’ last caller.

“Miss Delia is not at home,” Mrs. Allen said tartly. “However, Miss Thorne is in the study. If you will wait here, I will see if she is receiving visitors.”

“That will not be necessary, Mrs. Allen,” Isabel said from the doorway. “Lord Vanewright, will you join me?”

Vane did not need a second invitation. He followed Isabel into the study and shut the door. A minute later, the housekeeper opened the door. She did not openly threaten him, but the look she gave him told him that she would make him suffer if he laid a hand on Isabel.

Isabel seemed to be oblivious to his silent exchange with her housekeeper. She had picked up an open book on the satinwood secretaire, and whatever she had glimpsed on the pages made her sad.

“Did you receive some troubling news?” he asked, discarding his hat and gloves on the nearest side table.

Her forehead wrinkled. “Troubling?” she asked, the pain and confusion clearing from her expression. “No. Why do you ask?”

It was a calculated risk, but instead of keeping his distance, Vane crossed the room until he had reached her side. “First, the stranger that departed your house upon my arrival.”

The shy smile that brightened her face was as potent as brandy. “Mr. Fawson was hardly a stranger. I have been corresponding with him for more than a year,” she said, shutting the book and hugging it to her chest.

Jealousy was a ridiculous, petty emotion. It crawled up his spine, its venomous claws digging into his throat. Vane wanted to know why this Fawson fellow was writing Isabel, but he held his tongue. He had no right to ask. She was simply his friend, nothing more. He tugged at his cravat and cleared his throat. “And second.” He tapped the leather-bound book with his finger. “You looked sad when I entered the room, and I believe this book is responsible.”

Isabel turned back to the secretaire. “Should I ring Mrs. Allen for some tea?”

“Equivocating will not work with me,” Vane said, gently shifting her until he was almost embracing her. “You can confide in me. Was Fawson a creditor?”

He immediately dismissed the notion at her surprise.

“What made you think—oh,” she said softly, gazing morosely at a worn rug beneath her feet. “No, Mr. Fawson called on me for an entirely different reason.”

Vane gritted his teeth in frustration. If he thought Isabel would permit him to use his resources to settle with her London creditors, he would have made the offer weeks ago.

“Pray tell, Mr. Fawson is not the mysterious suitor that you are almost betrothed to, my lady?”

She blushed at his teasing remark. “Oh, no, Mr. Fawson isn’t … he was here to make an offer on this journal.”

“Why would Fawson be interested in an old journal?”

Isabel handed him the book. “It belonged to my father. He was a natural philosopher and inventor. He was always scribbling his thoughts and experiments in one of his journals, or on any piece of paper he could find. It’s all I have left of him.”

Vane thumbed through the journal, his own intellectual curiosity heightening as he admired detailed sketches and paragraphs of speculation and the results of experiments.

“My mother mentioned that your father was killed in an accident,” he murmured, not taking his gaze from the page, though he sensed that she nodded.

“I was thirteen years old when my father died. There was an explosion in his private laboratory. Fortunately, he worked in one of the outbuildings a short distance from our cottage. Otherwise we might have all perished in the fire.”

Vane’s gaze sought hers. Although she was standing next to him, he needed assurance that she was unharmed. “Who is Fawson?”

“He represents a gentleman who is an inventor and natural philosopher like my father.” Her brown eyes were eloquent with emotion as she gazed at the journal in his hands. “Much of Father’s work was destroyed in the fire. However, seven of his journals and numerous papers were spared because he had stored them in his study.”

“A fine legacy for his daughters.” Vane shut the journal with a decisive
snap
as it suddenly occurred to him how valuable it would be in certain scientific circles. “Good God, Isabel, you could be sitting on a small fortune.” He handed the book back to her.

Her look was unreadable as she accepted the volume, then slid it back onto the bookshelf. She closed glass doors made up of complex wooden cross-bandings and locked each one with a small key.

“I am not a fool, Vane,” she said tersely. “When my father died, numerous gentlemen called on my mother to inquire about my father’s work. Initially my mother was so distraught, she turned them all away. A few months later, one of them returned and offered to pay her handsomely for any writings that existed on the carriage steering mechanism my father had dabbled with when they had corresponded. When I was older, I came across a brief article in a newspaper about an innovative steering mechanism for carriages. The inventor was the same man who had visited my mother years earlier and bought my father’s papers. No credit was given to my father.”