Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (24 page)

Later, he thought the sadness he occasionally glimpsed in Isabel’s brown eyes was her unspoken regret for giving her innocence to a man who had no interest in marriage. He had been wrong. It was not regret that had been eating away at Isabel’s happiness, but guilt. She saw him as Delia’s future husband and felt she had betrayed Lady Netherley’s trust.
Deceitful, stubborn, and selfless to a fault,
Vane silently raged. Not once had Isabel thought to keep him for herself. The insight put him in a nasty mood. He furiously wondered: If he had married Delia, would Isabel have continued to welcome him into her bed? If so, perhaps marrying into the Thorne family would bring its own rewards.

“Marrying Delia would have been a disastrous choice,” his mother said, blithely unaware of his dark thoughts.

“How so?” he asked silkily.

“You are too much alike in temperament. I doubt the bliss of your union would have lasted a fortnight.” His mother dismissed his fictitious marriage to Delia with a wave of her hand. “Isabel, on the other hand…” She left the sentence unfinished and gave him a shrewd look.

“She has been lying to me since the first day I met her,” he said, trying not to think of her shy smiles or her unfeigned responses when he coaxed her into his bed. It was probably the only time she had ever been honest with him. “And because of you, she still seems to have her heart set on me marrying her annoying sister.”

His mother’s frown deepened at the bitterness in his voice. “So I was wrong about Isabel, after all.” She bowed her head and sighed. “Forgive me, Christopher, I only wanted you to be happy. I would never have meddled if I did not think Isabel was perfect for you.”

Vane dropped to his knees and clasped both of the marchioness’s hands. “It was wrong to manipulate me and Isabel, especially when hearts are involved.”

His mother shuddered as tears slipped down her cheeks. “I know, son. Never again. I have learned my lesson.”

Vane nodded and inhaled deeply. He slowly exhaled. “You weren’t, however, wrong about Isabel. About her being the perfect woman for me. Before I learned about your damn scheme and Isabel’s part in it, I was working up the courage to ask her to marry me.”

The marchioness’s face creased as she fought back her tears. “Oh … oh, Christopher!” She brought his hands to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

He gave her a stern look. “This does not mean that you are forgiven so quickly for your mischief,” he warned.

“No, no … of course not.”

The discord with his father remained, but he did not want to upset his mother further by mentioning it. Vane leaned closer so his mother could wrap her arms around him. He hugged her tightly to his chest when her sobs racked her body.

“There, there,” he said, rubbing her back to comfort her. “Forget what I said. You are forgiven.” Vane kissed the top of her head. He would never have met Isabel if not for his mother. “Besides, I may need your help if things get sticky.”

“Anything,” she said, drawing back and giving him a watery smile. “What do you need from me?”

He returned her smile. “Advice. How do I convince Isabel that I am the perfect man for her?”

*   *   *

Three hours later, a tight-lipped and very frustrated Vane stormed into his empty town house. Apparently Isabel had not been languishing in her rented house, waiting for him to forgive her. Without a word to anyone, she had packed up her family and departed London.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Disembarking from the stagecoach with the kitten Vane had given her curled up against her chest, Isabel smiled as she spotted their housekeeper near the side of the cottage. Mrs. Dalman was carrying a wicker basket of wet linen against her ample hip. As soon as she noticed the stage, she dropped the basket and rushed toward them.

It seemed as if nothing had changed in their absence.

“Gracious, I was not expecting you for another day!” The housekeeper hugged Isabel, and then Delia. Mrs. Dalman scowled when their mother poked her head through the open door of the coach. “I don’t care if this gets me sacked, I must have my say, Mrs. Thorne. Shame on you for locking me in the cellar and running off to London. If not for Mrs. Willow, I might have been trapped in my dank prison for days.”

“Fear not, Mrs. Dalman. I have been severely chastised by Isabel and half of London for my recklessness,” Sybil said, her exaggerated manner causing both Delia and Isabel to roll their eyes. The journey home had not been too taxing, since their mother had spent long stretches of the drive sleeping. Isabel had suspected her mother had gotten her hands on another bottle of laudanum at the coaching inn, but she had been too lost in her own thoughts to press the issue.

Sybil slipped past her daughters, still irked that no amount of arguing had persuaded her daughters to remain in London. To the housekeeper, she said, “If you do not mind, Mrs. Dalman, I will be taking my tea upstairs.”

“Make sure it is just tea,” Isabel murmured to the housekeeper.

“Yes, Miss Thorne.” Mrs. Dalman picked up one of the thick canvas satchels and hurried after Sybil.

Isabel nodded to the coachman and the postboy as they removed the family’s trunks from the coach. “I hope you are willing to grab one of the ends of that large trunk, because the days of having footmen waiting on us hand and foot have ended.”

Delia giggled as she sat down on one end of the trunk. “I do not recall us ever having a single footman, dear sister.”

“Well, you would have if you had married Lord Vanewright,” Isabel said teasingly, though her heart was breaking.

“An entire staff to fulfill my every wish,” her sister said wistfully. “It might have been worth putting up with a man who could barely tolerate me.”

Isabel sat down on the opposite end of the trunk. She leaned over and released her little tabby cat. It plopped down on its back and rolled from side to side. “Vane—uh, Lord Vanewright liked you.” Well enough that he did not prevent Delia from kissing him, Isabel glumly thought, thinking of the night of the masquerade. “Lady Netherley had a high opinion of you, too.”

Delia shook her head. “The earl never really looked at me. Not the way he looked at you.” Her sister raised her hand as the coachman touched the brim of his hat and said farewell. “Perhaps you should have stayed. Once Lord Vanewright’s anger cooled—”

“No,” Isabel said decisively. “It would have never worked. Lady Netherley wanted you for her son, and Vane … well, he will never forgive me for my part in his mother’s ruse. Besides, I have missed Cotersage. This is where we belong.”

“Not me.” Her sister stared at the cloud of dust left behind by the stagecoach. “You might be content to bury yourself in the country, but I plan to return to London. Your earl was not the only unmarried gentleman in town.”

“He is not
my
earl,” Isabel protested.
Oh, what is the use arguing?
She sighed and stood. “Come on. Mrs. Dalman is busy with Sybil and these trunks need to be brought into the house before it gets dark.”

*   *   *

By ten o’clock that evening the household was silent. Once she and Mrs. Dalman had unpacked the trunks, it amazed Isabel how quickly she fell back into her old routine. She helped the housekeeper set the table for the evening meal, and to Isabel’s relief Sybil requested that a tray be brought to her bedchamber. She was still sulking, but Isabel was too upset about her own woes to feel guilty about her mother’s bruised feelings.

After supper, Isabel played piquet with Delia. Neither of them seemed very interested in the game, so by nine o’clock they had decided to retire for the evening.

Unfortunately, Isabel could not sleep. The kitten she had dubbed Christopher had curled himself into a little orange ball and buried his nose near her right ear. She absently reached up and stroked his soft fur, and was rewarded with a low purr.

“Oh, Christopher,” she murmured to her pet. “I have made a fine mess of my life.”

It was early for London revelers, and Isabel felt restless. When she closed her eyes, all she saw was Vane’s handsome face, the corners of his mouth curled with revulsion. His parting words had been spoken in anger, and while her heart craved his forgiveness, Isabel knew she did not deserve it. So she had departed London without sending him a final note.

“Perhaps it was cowardly, but I could not face him again.” She blinked away the sharp sting of tears. “He was just so furious.”

By now Vane had likely resumed his debauched life of gambling and mistresses. His friends the Lords of Vice would help him forget her, and mayhap he would look upon their time together as an aberration because of Lady Netherley’s meddling. Oh, Isabel had no doubt that the earl would come to forgive the dear lady. After all, his mother had acted out of love, while Isabel had been motivated by less noble purposes.

Giving up her pretense of sleeping, she kissed the kitten and gently pulled her braid free from his tiny coiled body. She threw back the sheet and climbed down from her bed. Dressed in her nightgown, she tugged the cap off her head and tossed it aside because she felt overly warm. She was about to open the window when a soft shuffling noise outside her door caused her to halt.

Everyone was in bed. Isabel’s eyes rounded in trepidation when she heard a low, very male voice curse. Without hesitation, she grabbed the first thing that was within reach and crossed the room in her bare feet to the door.

As the latch on the door moved, Isabel bit her lower lip to keep from screaming. She raised her makeshift weapon above her head, prepared to teach this would-be housebreaker a harsh lesson for preying on helpless women.

A dark head appeared as the door opened, and Isabel struck with ruthless intent. Metal collided with flesh, and the thief was brought to his knees with her unexpected attack.

“Devil take it, it’s me!” a familiar angry male voice raged at her as he turned his head to glare at her.

“Vane!” Isabel gasped, his presence shocking her into silence.

He climbed onto his feet and snatched the handle from her loose grasp. “A bed warmer,” he said, shaking his head with disgust. “Why am I not surprised?”

“W-what are you doing here?” she asked, suddenly finding her voice when he shut the door and locked it. The key disappeared into a waistcoat pocket as he stalked away from her and set down the bed warmer. “Who let you into the house?”

Vane gave her a guarded look. “Delia. It appears that she is having trouble sleeping, too, and was helping herself to the port when she heard my knock.”

“And she just let you upstairs?” Isabel said, aghast at her sister’s impropriety.

“Well, she might have had a few glasses before my arrival,” he said with a careless shrug.

Delia was
drunk.
“I need to go downstairs and have a chat with my little sister.”

Vane cut off her escape by wrapping his arm around her waist. “Let her be. You can always lecture her tomorrow when she has a sore head and weak stomach.”

He stilled, suddenly aware that she was dressed only in her nightgown. Wary, she stood there rigidly with his arm around her and listened to his breathing.

“Vane.” She swallowed, realizing she had no right to claim such familiarity. “Pardon me, Lord Vanewright, what are you doing here in Cotersage?”

“You had it right the first time, Isabel.” Sensing her discomfort, he gave her a slow grin that bordered on lecherous. “As for why I am here, I think that is obvious.”

Isabel brushed aside his arm and stepped out of reach. “You did not have to leave London to find
that.
”

Vane laughed. “My, my … sweet Isabel, does your mother know you have such wicked thoughts? Not that I mind and I am willing to accommodate you, but first things first.” He pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

Isabel stared at him, wondering if she could reach the copper bed warmer before Vane. A few more bashes to the head might make him more reasonable.

As if reading her thoughts, Vane glanced at the bed warmer. “If you want me to put my hands on you, Isabel, all you have to do is ask.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You would not dare!”

“Sit!” he said in a thunderous voice.

Isabel sat, but she took her time about it. “Fine. As you can see, my lord, I am sitting as you have requested. Why have you come?”

There was a swagger in his gait that had her chin lifting and her upper lip curling.
Arrogant swine,
she thought uncharitably when he stopped in front of her, his fists planted on his hips.

“I’ve come for my apology.”

*   *   *

Isabel’s eyes were dark unfathomable brown pools as she stared up at him. Her lips parted in surprise at his demand. “You journeyed all this way and charmed your way past my sister so I might beg your forgiveness?”

His cocky grin faded.
Well, when she put it like that—

Isabel rose up from the chair, her slender body rigid with feminine outrage. “You had my apology, you pompous rogue, and you tossed it at my feet.” She shook her fist at him, and he wondered if she was planning to plant it in his face.

Not that I don’t deserve it.

Instead she pounded it against her breast. “I cried that day, and every day since because I knew that you despised me for helping your mother with her crazy scheme.”

“You cried over me.”

It pleased him that Isabel had shed a few tears at their angry parting. As he followed her back to Cotersage, Vane had had a few bad days wondering if Isabel had left London because her hopes of making Delia his countess had been ruined.

Misconstruing his joyful expression, Isabel flew at him with her fists raised. Vane caught her wrists, but she still managed to clip him on the chin.

“Heartless, jaded, conceited arse!” she shouted, her struggles causing him to stagger backward.

“Isabel, listen to me.”

“Never!” Isabel snarled, her long hair spilling out from her loose braid.