Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (20 page)

“Something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Isabel said crisply. “I just recalled something else I must do. I will have to decline your invitation.”

“It is just as well.” Delia picked up her cup of hot chocolate. “I daresay it will be a dull afternoon.”

“Really, Delia. Show some respect,” she scolded. “Lady Netherley has gone to great lengths to introduce us to many members of the
ton
. That cannot be said for our own flesh and blood.”

Her sister scowled. “You speak of our illustrious grandfather. Were you aware that he attended the Fiddicks’ masquerade last evening?”

Isabel froze. “Did he approach you?”

“That old judgmental prude? Ha!” Delia set her cup down with a sharp
clink
. “That man would drink a pot of rancid vinegar before he’d hold his nose and speak to the likes of us.”

Before last evening, Isabel would have agreed. She could not fathom why the elderly viscount had approached her. Nor was she certain that she should mention the encounter to her sister.

Mrs. Allen entered the room. “Miss Thorne … Miss Delia, there is a persistent gentleman caller in the front hall. I have already told him that it is too early for visitors, however, he claims to be a
good
friend.”

It was clear what the housekeeper thought of such a claim.

Without the luxury of a footman to assist her, Isabel pushed back her chair. “Did this gentleman give you his name?”

“Mr. Ruddel.”

Delia also stood, her demeanor brightening at the gentleman’s name. “Malcolm is here in London? How wonderful!” She clapped her hands and bounced on her heels with excitement. “Isabel, were you aware of this?”

Isabel’s heart had sunk. “No, I was unaware of his plans.”

After their awkward parting, she had not expected to see Mr. Ruddel again. The shock of finding him and her sister in an ardent embrace had passed, as well as her initial hurt. What concerned her now was his presence in London. She had confessed to Vane that she was almost betrothed to Mr. Ruddel as a means to gain his trust. What if Mr. Ruddel learned of their fictitious betrothal?

And what of Vane? Last evening, he had not seemed particularly concerned about her absent future husband. In fact, Isabel had forgotten all about the man. Good grief! She could not even contemplate what Vane thought of her wicked behavior. On second thought, she knew firsthand that he thoroughly enjoyed himself. She covered her face with her hands and groaned.

“Isabel?” Delia asked, confused by her sister’s sudden distress.

Mrs. Allen eyed both sisters. She was likely wondering if she was working for two courtesans. “What should I tell, Mr. Ruddel?”

Dragging her hands from her face, Isabel tried to compose her rattled nerves. “Show him to the drawing room, Mrs. Allen. My sister and I will join him shortly.”

“Humph” was all the housekeeper said before she left the morning room to deal with their unexpected visitor.

Isabel nudged Delia toward the door. “Go wash your face and tidy your hair. Mr. Ruddel can wait.”

Delia turned back and said, “But—”

“Go.”

Satisfied that her sister was too vain not to comply with her orders, Isabel dug her fists into her hips and scowled at the empty table. How was she going to convince Mr. Ruddel to leave London?

Chapter Twenty-four

Mr. Ruddel stood as soon as Isabel entered the drawing room. She was relieved to see that her sister was still upstairs. It would give her a chance to talk to the gentleman in private.

“Isabel, town life suits you,” he said, giving her an appraising look. “It has put color in your cheeks.”

If there was color in her cheeks, she blamed her unwelcome visitor. “The heightened color is annoyance, Mr. Ruddel. How did you find us?”

He made an expansive gesture with his hands. “It was simple enough when you have the right connections.”

Isabel stared, patiently waiting for him to recall that she was no longer impressed with his knowledge or his connections.

Mr. Ruddel sighed. “Mr. Fawson mentioned that he had paid you a visit.”

“Ah.”

She motioned for him to sit, and then deliberately selected the chair farthest from him.

“Fawson also said that he made a generous offer on your father’s journals.”

“My father’s journals are not for sale,” she said in a clipped voice. “We have discussed this in the past, and I have not changed my mind on the matter.”

“Be reasonable, Isabel. Those old books are merely collecting dust sitting on a shelf. Fawson’s offer was fair. Your family could use the money.”

“Why do you care if I accept Mr. Fawson’s offer or not?”

His somber eyes conveyed his disappointment in her. “There was a time when you called me Malcolm.”

“That was before I caught you kissing my sister.”

“So you were jealous!” Mr. Ruddel glanced at the open doorway to ensure no one was listening. “Isabel, what you saw … it was regrettable. I can assure you that it will never happen again. Let us put this behind us and be friends again. I miss our discussions.”

“I miss our conversations, too, Mr. Ruddel. Nevertheless, it does not alter my decision about selling my father’s journals to Mr. Fawson.”

“Then forget Fawson!” he said fervently. “Sell them, keep them … I was only concerned about your welfare, Isabel.”

A soft sound at the doorway had both of them glancing up.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Mrs. Allen said, entering the room carrying a small basket. “There was a delivery at the back door for you, Miss Thorne.”

“What is it?”

“More like who, I’d say,” she muttered as she placed the basket on the table.

Warily, Isabel untied the ribbons used to secure the cloth covering. Mrs. Allen was correct. Whatever was beneath the cloth was moving. She peeled back the cloth and let out a soft gasp. Within the basket an orange tabby kitten stared up at her with large opaque green eyes.

“Well, well … look at you,” Isabel cooed as she picked up the kitten. “Goodness, aren’t you a darling?”

“Who would send you a kitten?” Mr. Ruddel demanded.

Rubbing her chin against the animal’s head, Isabel noticed the calling card at the bottom of the basket.

Vane.

Turning it over, she read aloud, “Not quite blue-green, but it will suffice for when—uh…” She glanced uncomfortably at Mr. Ruddel, refusing to read the rest.
For when I cannot cuddle you properly
was too intimate to be shared with anyone else.

Isabel could not help herself; she suddenly grinned. She had told Vane that blue-green was her favorite color. He had promised to find her a jewel that matched the color of his eyes, but she preferred a kitten to jewelry.

“Let me see that calling card,” Mr. Ruddel said, plucking it from her fingers before she could stop him. “Lord Vanewright. Arrogant scoundrel, thinking he has the right to send you gifts. Do you want me to have a word with him, Isabel?”

Isabel stopped smiling. A meeting between Vane and Mr. Ruddel would be disastrous. “Mrs. Allen, could you take the kitten to the kitchen and give him some cream.” She handed the kitten to the housekeeper and turned to Mr. Ruddel. “We must talk.”

Delia walked into the room, wearing one of her favorite morning dresses. “What have I missed?”

“Mr. Ruddel,” Isabel replied. “He is leaving.”

*   *   *

The afternoon did not improve Isabel’s disposition. Lady Netherley paid her an unexpected visit. She had learned that her son had left Lord and Lady Fiddick’s masquerade early, and there were rumors circulating that he had not left the house alone.

After her encounter with Mr. Ruddel, Isabel had little strength to engage the elderly marchioness. Delia sat between the two ladies with an uncharacteristic owlish expression pasted on her face until an annoyed Isabel ordered her sister to retire to her bedchamber. Once her sister had gone upstairs, she tried to comfort Lady Netherley by denouncing the lady’s suggestion that her son had taken up with his mistress again. If Lord Vanewright had left the ball early, Isabel speculated, he had departed with his friends.

By the time Isabel had said her farewells to the marchioness, she had developed a terrible megrim in her right eye. Mrs. Allen added a medicinal tonic to Isabel’s tea, and urged her to drink it. The scent reminded her of her mother, and she dumped the contents out the nearest window.

The notion of spending a quiet evening at home sounded appealing, but she and Delia had promised Lady Netherley that they would join her in her private box at the theater. Isabel assumed Vane would drop by to pay his respects.

The gentleman rarely disappointed her.

*   *   *

Vane entered his mother’s private theater box, his gaze immediately settling on Isabel. She and Delia had their heads together as they shared a private conversation. Both his sisters had joined his mother—and apparently Susan’s husband had been forgiven, for he was also present with two male companions.

His father was noticeably absent. For once, he was relieved. With his father’s threats dangling over Vane’s head like a hangman’s noose, he wasn’t in the mood to quarrel with the man or yield to his dictates.

Vane’s gaze settled on his mother.

“Christopher.” She motioned him to her side, patting the side of his face as he bussed her cheek. “You have been spoiling, of late. If this persists, you will have me believe you are a reformed rake.”

Vane cast a side glance in Isabel’s direction. She had yet to acknowledge him, but he was not discouraged by her coyness. He knew how to break down the barriers she erected to keep everyone at a distance. “Then I will have to do something truly wicked and depraved to convince you otherwise.” He straightened and bowed to his brother-in-law and companions. “Pypart. I see your wife has accepted your apology.”

“Leave him alone, brother,” Susan scolded. He noticed that his sibling had an expensive new bauble adorning her neck. “Pypart is striving to get back into my good graces, and it shall prove more entertaining than what is transpiring below on the stage.”

Ellen touched him on the wrist. “Are you joining us, Vane?”

His smile had a trace of regret. “No, I’ve come to steal away one of your charming companions. Isabel, the Moirae desire an audience.” At her blank expression, he swiftly explained, “Lady Rainecourt, Lady Sinclair, and Lady Pashley hope you will join them in their box. Lady Pashley, in particular, missed your entrance at the masquerade and she wanted to hear the tale from your lips since she believes Saint and Frost are exaggerating.”

The look Isabel sent his mother was apologetic. “I will accept only with Lady Netherley’s permission.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to brusquely remind his interfering family that Isabel was not bound by their dictates unless she chose to be, but the marchioness was already waving Isabel off.

“Go. We will look after your sister,” his mother assured her. “It is good that you are making friends, my dear.”

Delia stirred in her seat. The look she gave Vane was withering. “And what about me? Do I not deserve to make new friends?”

Isabel hesitated, conflicted about leaving her younger sibling.

Vane, on the other hand, had no such compunction. Delia was a spoiled young lady who got her way much too often. He extended his arm to Isabel as he managed to keep her sister from rising with a menacing glance.

“Behave yourself, Delia. Else I’ll send Frost over to keep you from getting lonely,” he said over his shoulder as he stole Isabel away from his family’s watchful gazes.

*   *   *

Vane did not seem to notice the curious stares as they strode down yet another one of the numerous dim, narrow corridors that split off into the private theater boxes of the
ton
.

“Vane,” Isabel whispered, making a soft hissing sound when she realized he had no intention of slowing down or releasing her. “Delia should have joined us. It must have seemed peculiar to your mother that you only invited me—”

“Not at all. In fact, I am certain my mother is giddy with relief that I am paying attention to you since she and my father have decided that I will select a bride this season or—” Vane abruptly halted in front of one of the curtained doorways.

“Or what?”

He focused on her face. Some of the bleak anger faded from his expression as his hand slid down her arm and captured her palm. “Or nothing. It is not important. Let me look at you, Isabel.”

She blushed at his brazen stare. There was an intimacy that had not been there before. It was as if he could peer beneath her flesh and see the secrets she kept hidden in her heart.

“By God, you are beautiful.” Vane stepped closer, breathing in the scent she had dabbed at her throat. He nuzzled her ear. “I have thought of nothing but you, sweet Isabel, since our parting. Our night together haunts me. When I close my eyes, I can summon the sensation of your skin as it rubs seductively against mine, the subtle musk of your desire … your soft cries of pleasure when I fill you.”

Isabel pressed her gloved fingers to his mouth.

“You cannot speak of it,” she cautioned, stunned that her body was warming to his words alone. “Your mother would never speak to me if she learned that I left the Fiddicks’ masquerade with you.”

Annoyance crept into his gaze. “Do not concern yourself with my mother’s opinion.”

“But I must,” Isabel countered, unaware that she was caressing his hand. “My sister and I do not really belong here.”

“What utter rot!” he began.

“I have no reason to lie,” she said, silencing him. “We do not possess the wealth or family to weather a scandal. We both know that your mother hopes you will find a bride this season.”

“Do not fret about my mother,” Vane said dismissively. “She is acquainted with disappointment and tolerates it admirably.”

“We both know that a casual dalliance is not what your mother is asking of you.”

“At the moment, I do not care what Lady Netherley wants, Isabel, so neither should you.”