Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord (16 page)

“Perhaps you know him? ”

“Your guardian? ”

She nodded. “Oliver, Lord Densmore.”

Nick’s brows shot up. “Densmore is your guardian?”

She did not like the sound of that.

“You do know him, then?”

“I do.”

“And what is he like? ”

“He is …” She watched Nick intently as he searched for the appropriate adjective. “Well, he certainly is entertaining.”

“Entertaining.” Isabel tested the word on her tongue, deciding that she did not care for it.

“Yes. How was it that you described your father? A carnival of a man? ”

Isabel nodded.

“Like follows like. But he is not a man I would choose to protect my family.”

Of course he wasn’t.

Isabel had known the truth, but a small part of her had hoped that in this, his last act, her father might have been a father to her. And if not to her, at least to James.

Instead, at Nick’s words, an immense pressure built in Isabel’s chest. All of a sudden, she could not breathe, so unsettled was she at the thought of yet another man, irresponsible and nevertheless so powerful, holding sway over her … over James … over the girls. She could feel the panic rising, pure and unfettered.

She had to get the girls out. Now. Before they were trapped.

Before they were found.

Before everything she had so carefully built was torn down by a man just like her father.

She tried for a deep breath—but the air wouldn’t come.

“Isabel.”

The sound of her name came from far away as she closed her eyes and willed herself to breathe. Nick was next to her then, his strong hand on her back, running along the bones of her corset. “These things are torture devices,” he muttered as he lifted her chin with one finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Look at me. Breathe.”

She shook her head, “I am …” She paused, trying again. “I am fine.”

“You are not fine. Breathe.”

The firm calm of his voice settled her, and she did as she was told. She took several deep, shaking breaths under the guidance of his liquid gaze and the warm stroke of his hand at her back.

When she had returned to normal, Isabel squeezed back against one arm of the chair, desperate to get away from his unsettling touch. He released her, but did not move from his position, crouched low, at the side of her seat. She looked away from him, guilty, embarrassed by her actions. Her gaze fell on the door at the far end of the room, and she considered the myriad reasons she could fabricate to flee.

“You aren’t leaving this room.”

She could leave if she wanted. It was her room, for heaven’s sake. He needn’t be such a lion about it. She gripped the edge of her chair, her knuckles turning white. “There is no need for you to be concerned.”

His eyes flashed as he shifted his weight to one knee and took both her hands in his. “You are weighed down with secrets, Isabel. At some point, you are going to have to share them.”

She looked at the man across from her—this man who seemed to be good. And strong. And rich. And she realized that he was, indeed, her best hope.

If only she didn’t feel so guilty about it.

“Why not start with your father?” She pulled back, physically resisting the idea of opening up about the man who had started her down this path. He squeezed her hands then. “Why not speak what you cannot stop thinking?”

Isabel caught her breath at the words, so soft, so coaxing.

What if she told him?

What if she let some of her secrets go?

They hovered there, on the brink of something more powerful than either of them, and Isabel felt the silence as if it were a physical weight. Neither of them had worn gloves that evening; the casual nature of the manor house had not required it.

He rubbed her hands between his carefully, tracing his broad, wonderfully roughened fingertips down each of her fingers in turn. She watched the movement, wondering at his calloused skin—how had one of London’s most coveted lords developed the hands of a workman? She was so distracted by the feel of his warm bare hands on hers that she nearly gave in to his request.

Nearly.

But somewhere, deep within her, she knew that if she opened up to this man, it would be the most dangerous thing she ever did.

He made her want to believe that she could share her burdens.

When the truth was that she was alone.

And she always would be.

In the beginning, she had thought that was best. Because every woman she’d known who had chosen to share her life had regretted it. She learned from her mother, from the women of Minerva House. Sharing life with a man would ultimately lead to being half a woman. And she never wanted to feel that way.

No matter how much his warm hands and encouraging words tempted her.

She swallowed, willing her voice to come out strong and firm. “There is nothing to say. You know his reputation as well as I. Better, I would imagine. We did not know him. He did not care to know us.” She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug and tugged at her hands, eager to be free of his grasp.

Nick did not respond, releasing one of her hands, but keeping the other in his firm grip, turning it over and baring her palm to his gaze. With his thumbs, he began to rub slow circles across her hand. The sensation was instantly overwhelming.

When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “You do not have to tell me … but believe me when I tell you that you cannot allow him to turn you against life. Do not let him rob you of its pleasure.”

Her eyes flew to his, but he was not looking at her. Instead, he was watching his ministrations, the press and stroke of his thumbs that sent the most marvelous waves of pleasure through her. She sighed and fell back against the cushion of her chair, knowing she should stop him, but unable to muster the energy to do so. Whatever he was doing to her hand … it was
lovely.
Far lovelier than anything she’d experienced in a very long time.

Except maybe his kiss.

That had been rather lovely, as well.

She really should remove her hand from his.

But something that he was doing to her—the way his fingers seemed to find the most sensitive spots on her hand … she’d never noticed the pleasure one’s fingers could experience.

Her gaze slid from where she watched the play of his hands up to his neck, where the corded muscle slipped beneath his shirt collar in lovely, sun-kissed lines. She had never noticed anyone’s neck before, and, as she followed the length of his throat up to his jaw, she wondered why.

Necks were quite magnificent, actually.

He shifted the pressure on her hands, rubbing the base of her thumb with the strong pads of his fingers, and she turned liquid at the touch, sinking further into her chair. Nick continued his ministrations, pressing and stroking in the most marvelous way, sending waves of pleasure through her. She sighed, knowing she should stop him, but unable to muster the energy to do so.

Instead, she raised her eyes to his face, taking in the sharp angle of his jaw where it met the lines of his throat, his strong chin and firm, soft lips. She did not linger on that mouth … or the unsettling memories it wrought; instead, she turned her attention to the slight, nearly imperceptible bend in his nose.

It had been broken at some point. Perhaps at the same time he was scarred?

Who was this man, at once gentleman antiquarian, mysterious prison escapee, and infuriating kisser?

How did he seem to understand her so well?

And, more importantly, why did she want so very much to know him?

She braved a look at his eyes then, and was relieved to discover that he was focused on her hands rather than her face. She watched his intent gaze. The brilliant blue that she had noticed from the start—that every woman in London had noticed at one point or another if the silly magazine was to be believed—they were not simply blue. They were a stunning combination of grays and cornflowers and sapphires … framed with lush, sooty lashes any courtesan would envy.

He was beautiful.

The thought broke through, and Isabel sat up straight, yanking her hand from between his and pushing aside the immediate sense of loss that came over her as she did so. She swallowed once, collecting herself. “You are too familiar, Lord Nicholas.” She managed not to cringe at the shaking of her voice, and was quite proud of her restraint.

Without missing a beat, Nick set his hands to his thighs, not moving aside from the slight lifting of the corner of his mouth in a small, wry smile. “I heard your sigh, Isabel—your body did not find me at all overly familiar.”

Her eyes widened at the words. “Of all the arrogant … ungentlemanly … things to say!”

He gave a small, almost unnoticeable shrug. “I did warn you of what would happen if you called me Lord Nicholas again.”

Isabel opened her mouth to retort, but found she had nothing to say. She closed her mouth. How frustrating. In novels, the heroine always had something witty to say.

She was no heroine.

She shook her head to clear it of the thought, then stood, squaring her shoulders and pushing past him, taking pleasure in the sound of her skirts brushing against his shoulder where he crouched.

When she was far enough away from him, she turned back.

To find him standing altogether too close.

She froze, immediately nervous as he lifted one hand to her cheek, running his fingertips over the skin there, sending a tremor through her. She was surrounded by the scent of him, a heady combination of brandy and sandalwood and something wonderful that she could not place. She resisted the temptation to close her eyes and breathe him in—to lean into the light touch and encourage him to take the moment further.

What if he did? What then?

Would he kiss her again?

Did she want him to?

She remained utterly still, transfixed by the softness of his touch.

Yes. She wanted him to kiss her.

Her gaze flickered to his, and she willed him to move closer—to repeat his actions from the afternoon.

He could read her thoughts; she knew he could. She could see the flicker of masculine satisfaction in his gaze as he registered her desire … but she didn’t care. As long as he kissed her.

He was so close; it was maddening. She couldn’t bear the waiting—the intense anticipation of a caress that might not come—and she closed her eyes finally, unable to maintain the contact with his intense, knowing blue gaze. Without the benefit of sight, Isabel felt herself begin to sway toward his heat. She knew it was brazen, but there was something about this man that made her forget herself … her past. Everything that she had ever promised she would not become.

“Isabel …” He whispered her name and she resisted the urge to open her eyes for fear of breaking this warm, intimate spell that had been woven around them. Instead, she reveled in the sound of her name on his deep voice as her hands rose of their own volition, just barely touching the coarse fabric of his topcoat—itching to explore the wide expanse of his chest.

He had spoken of life’s pleasures. She wanted him to show them to her.

The light touch seemed to spur him forward, and Isabel sighed as he settled his lips to hers … and she was overcome with a mix of pleasure and relief.

The kiss was softer, less urgent than the one they had shared that afternoon, an exploration of a caress. His hands slid into the hair at the nape of her neck as his lips passed over hers in a feather-light touch once, twice … intoxicating her with sensation. Isabel sighed, her lips parting, and he rewarded her by deepening the kiss, aligning his mouth to hers, and sliding his tongue along her full bottom lip, leaving a path of fire in its wake.

Isabel spread her fingers wide, passing her hands over his broad shoulders and pressing herself against his chest, willing him closer. He understood, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer, into the cradle of his arms, and stroking his tongue against hers before breaking off the kiss to trail his lips across her cheek to her ear where he whispered her name—more sensation than sound—and took the soft lobe between his teeth, worrying the skin there until a shiver of intense pleasure sent her arms around his neck.

She could feel his satisfied smile against her skin as he pressed his lips to the soft spot behind her ear, where her pulse beat in a mad, unbearable rhythm. He rained soft, irresistible kisses down the side of her neck, pausing to scrape his teeth against her skin until she whimpered her pleasure and struggled to remain standing.

He lifted her in his arms then and, without removing his mouth from her neck, returned himself to the large winged chair by the fireplace, and settled her on his lap. He lifted his head, capturing her gaze as if to confirm her willingness to continue. She sighed her approval as he tilted her chin up and returned his mouth to the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder, licking softly, the roughness of his tongue making her wild.

She gasped, and the sound brought his attention back to her mouth. He took her lips again, stroking his tongue past her lips as one hand slid up her side to the edge of her breast. Once there, his hand stilled, and the lack of movement proved to be Isabel’s undoing. Her breast felt infinitely heavier than it ever had, full and wanting in a way that made her desperate for his touch. She wanted his hand on her in a way she had never dreamed of prior to this moment—to this man.