Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (2 page)

Her
Mr. Ruddel.

Well, not hers exactly, she silently amended. Isabel considered the thirty-one-year-old gentleman a good friend. A respectable three inches taller than her own willowy five-foot-seven-inch stature, the handsome, softly spoken blond stranger had come into her life quite by chance eighteen months earlier when a mutual friend brought about an introduction because of their shared interests.

Like her father, Mr. Ruddel was an inventor and natural philosopher. Over the course of their acquaintance, she had sought his opinion on numerous occasions as she quietly sold off her father’s papers to keep the creditors at bay. Mr. Ruddel had offered her friendship, and had seemed to be on the verge of offering more if his somewhat chaste kisses had been any indication.

There was nothing chaste about the kiss he was sharing with her sister.

Isabel’s right brow arched as the gentleman, overwhelmed with passion, cupped Delia’s backside in his hands.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, enough is enough!

“Pardon me,” she said, despising the waspish quality in her voice. “I was not aware that we had a guest, sister.”

Mr. Ruddel practically shoved Delia away from him. Isabel might have laughed if her throat hadn’t constricted with unexpected anguish.

“Oh, my,
Isabel
!” he said, taking out a folded handkerchief and dabbing the wetness from his mouth. Mr. Ruddel looked profoundly embarrassed to have been caught in a torrid embrace. “I can explain.”

Delia, on the other hand, was staring at Isabel with smug satisfaction on her beautiful face. Her sister had known that Isabel was rather fond of Mr. Ruddel. It was as if Delia had deliberately set out to ruin her happiness.

“That will not be necessary,” she said coldly. “Delia, Mrs. Dalman is waiting for you indoors. She will give you a list of tasks.”

Her sister’s lower lip jutted out mutinously. “But I do not want—”

“Your wants are of little concern, Delia. Go. Now!”

It was a silent battle of wills as the two sisters locked gazes. Isabel was not a person who condoned violence, but if Delia thought to defy her, she would not be accountable for her actions.

Mr. Ruddel took a wary step toward her. “Isabel … Delia … please, I feel responsible for this.”

“You are, sir,” Isabel snapped, leaving the stunned man sputtering in wordless outrage. “However, not in the manner in which you believe. If you wish to make amends, you may do so by taking your leave.”

From the corner of her eye, she observed that the man had sent Delia a beseeching look. She could have told him that her sister only looked after her own interests.

“Perhaps you are right, my dear,” he said, when Delia remained silent. “I will call on you another day.”

“Do not rush back on my account, sir,” Isabel said in chilling tones. “I have neglected my work of late and cannot promise to be home.”

To you.

Mr. Ruddel hastily bowed, and backed away. “I shall return when cooler heads prevail. Good day, ladies.”

Delia broke eye contract, and bent over to pick up a stick. Both women watched Mr. Ruddel’s harried stride as he disappeared around the corner of the cottage. “You frightened poor Malcolm. What do you intend to do if he calls on us again—wave our father’s old pistol under his nose to protect my honor?” she teased.

Isabel blinked, fighting back the sting of tears now that Mr. Ruddel was gone. She would not cry in front of Delia. “You have no honor, sister,” she said bluntly, causing her sister to gasp. “And that will be your downfall. Now be useful and go help Mrs. Dalman.”

“You are just being hateful because you are jealous that Malcolm would rather kiss me than you!” Delia cried before she dashed off toward the house.

With unshed tears blinding her, Isabel ran in the opposite direction. She kept running until the sharp pain in her side caused her to stop near an unused shed. Leaning against the wall, Isabel finally allowed her tears to fall.

Oh, she knew she was making a fool of herself over Mr. Ruddel. He had just been so helpful and kind and she had been so lonely. Delia was right. Isabel had been hateful to her because she
had
been jealous. And why not? Everyone paid attention to Delia while Isabel seemed to blend into the wallpaper. She was considered the good daughter, the responsible one.

For once in her life, she would not mind being the one who tossed caution in the wind. Unfortunately, recklessness did not pay the creditors or keep the household running.

Isabel wallowed in self-pity for several minutes, an indulgence she rarely afforded herself. It wasn’t until she started to retrieve her handkerchief that she recalled Lady Netherley’s letter. Using the back of her hand to wipe away her tears, Isabel took a fortifying breath and broke the wax seal on the letter.

“Dear Miss Thorne,” she read aloud. “I trust my letter finds you in good spirits. I have thought of you and your sister often these passing months.” Her gaze skimmed over the flattery and usual pleasantries about health and weather. Then Lady Netherley got down to business. “I have a proposition for you, Miss Thorne, and I do not make this offer lightly since this is a matter of utmost importance to me. I hope I can trust you to be discreet. This involves my son and your sister, Delia…”

In disbelief, Isabel read the marchioness’s letter three times before she could put it down. She carefully folded the paper and tucked it into the top portion of her bodice. Although she was chilled to the bone, she crossed her arms and stared off into the distance at the apple orchard as she contemplated Lady Netherley’s outrageous invitation.

Was she daring enough to accept?

Chapter Three

May 3, 1823, London

“Which do you prefer?”

With a faint smile on his lips, Vane admired the half-naked backside of his current mistress as the seamstress held a swath of yellow fabric under her chin. The yellow print was as charmingly cheerful as Miss Bridget Corsar, but the color did not complement her reddish orange tresses, which seemed to defy any attempts to tame them.

Miss Bridget Corsar was an agreeable mistress.

It was a real pity that he intended to give her up this afternoon.

Vane opened his mouth to offer his opinion on the yellow print.

“Oh, why am I asking
you
?” she said, admiring her reflection in the mirror. “If you had your way, I would greet you wearing only a sheet.”

The narrow-faced seamstress glanced sharply at him.

Vane straightened as her somber dark gaze silently took his measure and seemed intrigued by what she saw. Clearing his throat, he resisted the urge to cover himself as the woman’s gaze slid to the front of his trousers. God’s blood, the woman was old enough to be his mother, he thought.

Bridget’s laughter filled the tiny private dressing room. “So pleasing to the eye, is he not?” she asked the seamstress as she looked over her left shoulder to admire her lover.

Her prize. The calculation in her pretty eyes was one of a dozen reasons why he had to get rid of her. He just prayed the small fortune he intended to spend on her new wardrobe would appease her womanly pride after his abrupt dismissal.

Blissfully ignorant of Vane’s plans for their afternoon, she confided to the seamstress, “And you should see him without his fine clothes—”

“Bridget, enough.” A bold and sensual creature, Vane would not have been astonished if Bridget asked him to undress for the other woman. He gave the seamstress an apologetic smile. “You are embarrassing Mrs.—”

What the devil was the woman’s name?

“Mrs. Gilbert, milord,” the seamstress hastily interjected. “And there is no need to worry about upsetting me. I have worked as a seamstress for thirty-eight years and have witnessed all manner of worldly things.” She nodded at Vane before her attention returned to Bridget, who stood in front of the mirror dressed only in her chemise and stays. “Pardon me for saying so, Miss Corsar. As pretty as this print is, it is not for you. Your coloring is all wrong for it.”

Bridget did not protest as Mrs. Gilbert gently tugged and gathered up the fabric in her arms. With her gaze locked on Vane’s face, there was mischief and hunger in his mistress’s vibrant blue eyes. He was well acquainted with that particular look. His body warmed in anticipation of the energetic and satisfying afternoon she was promising with her expression.

It was a shame he was giving her up. He crossed the room, his intent gaze fixed on his willing quarry.

Slightly overwhelmed by the undisguised lust she glimpsed in the couple’s faces, Mrs. Gilbert hugged the yards of yellow cloth to her chest. “I-I have several unfinished dresses. Perhaps Miss Corsar would like to view them.”

She swiftly headed for the closed curtain, sparing man and woman one final glance. “Much later,” she muttered, before she parted the cloth partition and disappeared through the narrow opening.

*   *   *

“No.”

Delia chased after Isabel as she stepped across the threshold of one of the many establishments they had patronized this afternoon. Both ladies nodded to gentlemen who paused to hold the door for them. “Can we not even discuss it?”

“There is little point.”

“Oh, you are being unreasonable.”

“No, Delia, I am being practical. Someone has to be.”

“But Lady Netherley—”

Isabel gave Delia a quelling look. “Hush! Until I have the opportunity to speak with the marchioness, I think it prudent that we refrain from mentioning our connection to her.”

“Why would Lady Neth”—Delia halted at Isabel’s thunderous expression—“our dear friend worry over such matters when she is the reason why we are in town at all?”

“It is complicated.”

Isabel frowned as she thought about the desperation that had driven her to accept Lady Netherley’s generous offer. Of the sacrifices she had made to raise the funds needed for the journey, and the arrangements she had made with Mrs. Willow to look after their mother. Isabel’s feelings were still raw from the horrid arguments she and her mother had had about the trip to London. Although her mother was unaware of Lady Netherley’s invitation, the notion of escaping Cotersage for London was too appealing to the older woman. Isabel ordered Mrs. Willow to use any means available to keep Mrs. Thorne from following her daughters, including tying her to the bed!

“It would be unwise for us to presume our good friend’s invitation to join her in London was anything more than civility.”

Now it was Delia’s turn to frown. “It was more than civility and you know it. One day, I overheard you and Mrs. Willow debating on how the funds should be spent.”

“I have told you more than once that listening at closed doors is an improper pastime for a lady.”

“Well, it is your fault. You never tell me anything!”

“And why should I bother when you have no patience to listen.”
Or help me,
Isabel added silently. She gestured blindly at the table they had approached. “What is your opinion?”

“My opinion?” Delia echoed in disbelief. “Now you want my opinion. Well, I will tell you exactly what I think—”

Both Isabel and her sister started at the low masculine growl that emanated from behind them. In unison, the women turned their heads and stared at the closed curtain.

“Oh, you wicked man!” a feminine voice murmured. A few seconds later, her peal of sensual laughter caused most of the patrons in the store to pause and glance curiously in the direction of the room.

“Care to speculate on the mischief being carried out in that private room?” Delia whispered, her voice tight with suppressed laughter.

“No, I do not,” Isabel said crisply. She took her sister by the elbow and steered her away from the curtain. “And neither should you. Come along, Delia. We have our own business to attend to.”

Isabel turned her back on the closed curtain, dismissing the unknown couple to concentrate on her tasks.

*   *   *

It appeared Bridget had no intention of waiting for a more discreet setting. With his arms full of a half-naked woman, Vane’s gaze shifted from the plump mounds of Bridget’s breasts to the closed curtain. It was a pity he was giving up this affectionate woman, because discretion was something he rarely practiced.

“Bridget, my pretty girl,” he drawled, groaning when her clever hand gave his half-aroused cock—thankfully still tucked in his unbuttoned trousers—a playful squeeze. “Mrs. Gilbert should be returning soon and I, for one, do not relish her discovering me bare-arsed.”

She bit his earlobe in retaliation when Vane brushed away her hands and attempted to fasten his trousers. “I do not recall you being so shy at Lady S—”

“Enough,” he ordered, his unruly body not needing any encouragement. Elderly Lady Steele would have been outraged had she learned of the liberties he and Bridget had engaged in upon her chaste bed, which was precisely the reason why they had chosen her bedchamber for their tryst. Vane clasped her by the shoulders and spun her around to face the mirror. “Now behave yourself and go tidy your hair.”

The impossible task should keep his soon-to-be-former mistress occupied until the seamstress’s return.

Bridget’s eyes narrowed as she watched him tuck in his shirt. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Momentarily distracted by the disheveled state of his clothing, he murmured, “Dare what, my dear?”

Bridget pivoted and planted her fists on her hips. “You are breaking with me.” Her fingers splayed open as she gestured at their sparse surroundings. “Here … in a dressmaker’s shop of all places!”

Vane took a step backward. “A few minutes ago, you thought it was a grand place to fondle my cock.”

She tossed her head back and sneered at him. “Bastard!”

“Can you insult me later when we have the luxury of privacy?” Vane pleaded, sending a meaningful glance at the curtain. “Besides, I had no intention of breaking with you at the dressmaker’s. What sort of gent do you think I am?”