Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord (9 page)

“For each statue I identify, you shall tell me something of Townsend Park. And your life here.”

There was silence as she considered his offer—a silence that stretched out long enough for him to believe that she might not answer at all. He heard her take a deep breath, and looked back at her, meeting her eyes. He considered their dark, mahogany depths, so private and uncertain. So many secrets hidden there—so much that he wanted to discover. The legacy of the
bulan
—he could not leave a mystery unsolved.

What would it take to unlock those secrets? To see her with her guard down?

An image flashed, quick and intense—Isabel, her head thrown back in passion, open and unguarded, her long, lithe body spread across his bed, waiting for him. The force of the vision pushed him back, away from her, to a safer distance.

He indicated a nearby bust. “That is Medusa.”

She gave a short burst of laughter. “Of course it is. Even I could have identified her. You can’t really expect me to share my secrets for
that.”

“I never said they had to be secrets,” he teased, “but if you are offering information of such value, the bust is Medusa, in black marble, likely from Livadeia. More importantly, it is Medusa after she was decapitated by Perseus, but before her head was seated at the center of Athena’s shield.”

“How do you know that?”

He indicated that she should move closer to the statue. Pointing to a small indentation where the head of one asp was consuming the tail of another, he said, “Look carefully. What do you see? ”

She leaned closer, peering into the shadowy nook. “A feather!”

“Not just any feather. A feather from the wings of Pegasus. Who was spawned from the blood that spilled from Perseus’s blade.”

She turned wide eyes on him, and he resisted the urge to preen. “I’ve looked at this statue dozens of times and never seen it. You
are
the best.”

He bowed exaggeratedly. “As such, you owe me payment, my lady.”

Isabel nibbled carefully on her lower lip. “All right. I shall tell you about the collection.” “An excellent beginning.”

She paused a long moment, and Nick thought she might change her mind. When she finally spoke, the words came from far away as she looked from statue to statue, lost in her thoughts. “My father won them from a French smuggler in a game of chance.”

Years of practice kept him from replying—and she filled the silence with more of her thoughts. “In the early days of the war. He had always been an inveterate gambler. He wagered on everything, money, servants, houses …” She paused for a moment, lost in thought, then caught herself, and continued. “We would go weeks without seeing him, and then one day, he would arrive on the doorstep, a basketful of puppies in hand, or a new curricle in the drive. He gave these to my mother as a gift three days after I turned seven.”

There was more to the story. He was certain of it.

“And she gave them to you,” he prompted.

She nodded, stiffly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “She did. They are mine.”

There was something in that word,
mine,
that called to Nick. Here was a woman who cared deeply for that which was hers.

“You do not want to sell them,” he said. That much was obvious.

His words pulled her back from wherever she had been. Silence stretched between them, and he thought she might not reply. When she did, there was little emotion in her tone.

“No.”

“Then … why? ”

She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Sometimes, my lord, we must do things we do not want to do.”

She breathed deeply and he noted the pull of her bodice across her breasts. Feeling guilty for the awareness that pulsed through him at the movement, he looked away, his gaze landing on a nearby statue, towering above them. Recognition flared, and he gave a short, hoarse laugh.

“What is so amusing? ”

“That statue. Do you know who she is? ”

Isabel turned, considering the nude, one hand at her breast as though she could hide her embarrassment at the statue’s state of undress. Taking in the curve of the marble spine, the serene pleasure on the statue’s face, the garland of roses that wound up one leg, Isabel shook her head. “No.”

“She is Voluptas. The daughter of Cupid and Psyche.”

“How do you know that? She looks like every other female statue here.”

He gave her a frank look. “I know because I am the best.”

She smiled, and he felt a supreme satisfaction in her amusement. When she was not wary of him, she was exquisite.

The air between them became heavy, the room suddenly warmer, the musty air thick with the clean scent of her—a mix of orange blossom and something fresh and welcome that he could not place.

He noted the flush of her skin, the hollow at the base of her neck where the column of her throat met her shoulder, and he was struck with want—quick and intense—more than he had felt in a long while.

He watched as the moment hit her, as well—his nearness catching her breath. Their gazes collided, and he was keenly aware of their position, so close, pressed between two statues, on the brink of touching. They were alone, with none but the marbles to see them.

Desire moved him forward.

He reached for her, one hand nearly brushing her cheek before he realized the mistake that touching her would be. He took in her wide brown eyes, rich and liquid with emotion, a heady mix of curiosity and excitement and fear that brightened her whole face, turning her into an innocent siren—flesh and blood, surrounded by her marble sisters.

Isabel closed her eyes against his nearness, and he considered her lovely face—high, strong cheekbones, lush mouth, brow clear of worry. Her beauty was generous when it had time to be.

She released the breath she had been holding in a rattling, unsteady sound, and her lips parted, marking the moment with an elegant pink sigh.

There wasn’t a man on earth who could resist that sigh.

He leaned in, even as he knew it was wrong.

Nothing good could come of kissing this innocent country miss.

His lips were a hairsbreadth from hers when the sound came from outside the room.

He snapped back, straightening, and cursed briefly under his breath. He took a long step back, immediately wishing he had not gone anywhere near this woman, who seemed to have an inexplicable negative effect on his good sense.

Her eyes flew open, a mix of emotions in their depths, and for a moment, he wanted nothing but to pull her into his arms and damn everyone else.

And then Miss Caldwell and Rock returned and Nick was too busy moving to place a safe distance between him and Isabel, who pressed herself into the statue of Voluptas so firmly that Nick worried, fleetingly, if she might push the thing off its pedestal.

That certainly would distract from their activities.

“What did you find?” Nick asked, hoping to cover the energy that remained between them.

Rock looked from Nick to Isabel, then back again. One dark brow rose. Nick matched it, daring the Turk to draw attention to the situation inside the room.

After a pause, Rock spoke. “I’ve not seen anything like it outside of Greece.” He went on to describe the scope of the marbles in the second room, and Nick watched from the corner of his eye as Lara crossed to her cousin. Isabel smiled a too-bright smile, one that betrayed everything.

She had wanted him.

He shook himself from the thought. He should be grateful for the interruption that prevented the immense mistake that kiss would have been. This girl was everything he did not seek out in his women. She was innocent and alone and precisely the kind of female he avoided—the kind who would want more from him than he was able to give. He’d wager she’d barely ever been satisfactorily kissed, out here in the countryside with no one but the stable boys to toy with.

He did not deny that he would very much like to show Isabel how satisfying kissing could be.

“You owe me ten pounds.”

Rock’s words pulled Nick back to the present.

The collection was real. Its owner, a mystery.

They were staying.

Ignoring his friend’s smirk, Nick slid his gaze back to Isabel, who was watching them, curiosity in her eyes. When she noticed his attention, she blushed, patting her hair nervously.

“Lady Isabel,” he said, enjoying the sound of her name on his tongue. “If it suits you, we will begin our work on the collection tomorrow morning.”

He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, followed immediately by the recognition that she had taken them too far down this particular path to turn him away.

She patted her hair in a movement that he was quickly coming to recognize as nerves. “By all means. Tomorrow would be … fine.” She edged around them, heading for the door. “And … Lara will see you out today … I am … I must …” She paused, and Nick waited, a half smile on his face, for her to finish. “I must go.”

And she was gone, the skirts of her drab gray dress the last thing he saw as she fled the room.

While absence may make the heart grow fonder, only nearness will result in a sound match. Remember, if your lord is to recognize his desire for a wife, he must be reminded of the existence of such a woman! Do your best to stay in his sight; pass near to him at balls; learn his preferences for promenading in the park; and encourage your servants to befriend his own. Knowledge of his schedule is the very best tool for ensnaring a true gentleman.

Indeed, she had escaped the room at as near to a run as a lady could reasonably get.

At least, a lady in full mourning attire.

She’d wanted him to kiss her.

Quite desperately.

Which would have been a mistake of mythic proportions.

Thank goodness for Lara and Mr. Durukhan, or who knew what might have happened.

What, indeed.

Isabel hurried through the maze of servants’ passages that led to the kitchen of Townsend Park, knowing that she was in the middle of, quite possibly, the most craven afternoon of her life.

But what other choice had she had? She’d had to leave the room, to clear her mind, to … chastise herself.

What had she been thinking?

Inviting a strange man into Minerva House was one thing—one very unintelligent, risky thing. But allowing herself to consider him anything more than a means to a vital and important end? That was unacceptable.

She needed Nicholas St. John to value her marbles and to see them sold. No more.

If a lifetime around men and the women who were hurt by them had taught Isabel anything, it was that they were not to be trifled with. She’d seen enough women ruined by their hearts and their bodies, enough women—her own mother—fall victim to charming smiles and compelling touches. And she had vowed never to let it happen to her.

She was not about to allow one Londoner to change all that—no matter who thought him one of the most eligible bachelors in Britain.

She took a deep breath as she turned the final corner to the kitchen, newly prepared to ignore the presence of Lord Nicholas in her house. How difficult could it be? The man was an antiquarian. He would certainly be interested only in antiquities. It would be easy enough to avoid him.

Besides … she had a house to feed.

A house to
purchase.

A houseful of people to care for.

“You cannot make me go to school. I am an earl now. No one tells earls what to do.”

At the words, Isabel came up short, just outside the kitchen. Peering around the corner, she watched James reach across the scarred wooden table for a biscuit and plop it carelessly into his tea, splashing the brown liquid over the rim of his cup. He pouted into the tea for a moment before returning his gaze to Georgiana, who was seated on the opposite side of the table.

Isabel fell back on her heels, eavesdropping. She had asked Georgiana to begin suggesting school to James, in the hopes that he would warm to the idea.

Apparently he had not done so as of yet.

“Unfortunately, James, there is always someone who can tell us what to do. Even earls.” Georgiana poured herself a cup of the warm brew.

“I hate being told what to do.”

“Yes, well, I don’t much enjoy it, either.”

“I’m clever,” James said defensively.

Georgiana gave him a little smile, taking a biscuit for herself. “You are exceedingly clever. I never denied that.”

“I can read. And I know my sums. And I am learning Latin. You are teaching me.”

“You most certainly are. It’s very impressive. But young men … young
earls …
go to school.”

“What will school teach me that you cannot?”

“All sorts of things. Things that are reserved for earls.”

He watched as she considered her biscuit. “You should dip it in your tea. It’s better that way.”

Isabel smiled. She would wager that Georgiana had never in her life soaked a biscuit in her tea.

“Like this,” James added, plopping a second biscuit into his teacup before fishing out the first, several fingers submerged to the knuckle in the liquid. When he produced the treat and held it high, half of the cookie dropped back into the tea, splattering it across the table. Georgiana made a show of grimacing at the action; James laughed.

Isabel wrapped her arms around herself and leaned back against the wall. Earl or no, she was not ready to lose James to his title.

“Do you think the men from earlier go to school?” James’s question was rife with curiosity.

“Oh, I am sure of it,” Georgiana said. “They seemed like fine gentlemen. And fine gentlemen go to school.”

There was silence then, as James considered the truth of the statement.

“I have a brother, you know,” Georgiana added softly, and Isabel leaned closer to the doorway. In the three weeks that she had been here, the girl had not spoken of the life she left in London.

“Really? Does he go to school?”

“He did do. In fact, he is very bright because of it. One of the brightest men in Britain.”

And one of the most powerful,
Isabel added silently.

“You must have learned from him,” James said matter-of-factly, “or else how would a girl know to speak Latin?”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Reddich,” Georgiana said pertly.
“Girls
know plenty of things … not only Latin.”

Isabel couldn’t stop herself from peering around the corner again. James’s nose was wrinkled—he clearly wasn’t sure that girls did know plenty of things. “You’re the cleverest girl I know.”

Isabel raised her brows at the reverence she heard in his tone. She would ignore the insult to her own intelligence in light of her brother’s obvious infatuation with his governess—certainly the prettiest one he’d ever had—but she could not resist interrupting their cozy chat.

Pasting a bright smile upon her face, she entered the room with a cheerful “Is it time for tea already?”

James turned eager eyes on her. “Isabel! What happened to the men? One of them was very large! Did you notice?”

Yes. And one of them was very handsome. I nearly made a cabbagehead of myself.

Isabel moved to pour herself a cup of tea. “I certainly did.”

“Where are they? Will they stay here? ”

“They are still abovestairs, in the statuary.”

“May I go and see them?” His eager face was almost impossible to resist. “You may not.”

“Why? I am the earl now, you know. It is my job to keep the residents of Townsend Park safe—I think they should meet me.”

James’s reference to safety—so soon after his concern for her earlier—surprised Isabel. They had always done everything they could to keep the seriousness of the girls’ situations from James, but he was growing older, and more astute, and Isabel sensed that this conversation required more care than usual. “I appreciate that,” she said with a nod, “and I agree that your role as earl is critical to the safety of the manor. But these gentlemen shall be very busy when they are here and we cannot afford to have them distracted.” Isabel considered James’s determined look. “Perhaps we shall have them to dinner one evening. How does that sound? ”

James considered the option seriously. “I should think it would be the right and gracious thing for us to do.”

Isabel popped a piece of biscuit into her mouth. “I am so happy you agree,” she said with a wink to Georgiana, who hid her smile in her teacup. “Now … off with you.”

James considered the two women before obviously deciding that there were more interesting adventures to be had beyond the kitchen. Stealing an extra biscuit, he hopped down from his chair and left, into the darkened corridor from which Isabel had come.

Isabel assumed her brother’s seat, reaching for another biscuit herself. With a sigh, she looked to the young woman across the table and said, “Thank you for speaking with him about school.”

“I am happy to. An earl needs a proper education, Lady Isabel.”

“You know you may dispense with the formalities, Georgiana.”

The other woman smiled. “On the contrary. I am your servant.”

“Nonsense,” Isabel scoffed. “We both know you are of a higher rank than I. Please. It would make me feel better for you to call me Isabel.”

A flicker of sadness passed in the girl’s gaze. “My rank is that of governess now. I am lucky to have such a valued position as that.”

Isabel knew she was getting nowhere, and changed the course of the conversation. “Do you know the men who arrived today? ”

Georgiana shook her head. “I was working on the afternoon’s lessons for James and did not hear that they had arrived until after you had shown them to the statuary.”

“They are Londoners.”

“Aristocracy? “ An edge crept into Georgiana’s tone.

“Not entirely. Lord Nicholas St. John. Brother to the Marquess of Ralston—the antiquar—” Isabel stopped as Georgiana’s eyes widened to saucers. “Georgiana?”

“Lord Nicholas and my brother—they are—acquainted.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I have not met him, but—”

Of course they would know each other. One more thing that made the whole situation a challenge.

“Georgiana.” Isabel’s voice was firm and smooth. “You will be all right. When I took you in, I told you that Minerva House would care for you, did I not?”

The younger woman swallowed and took a deep breath.

“Yes.”

“Then care for you it shall,” Isabel said calmly. “We shall simply keep you well hidden. ‘Tis a large house. And you are James’s governess—there is little reason why a guest should see you.”

“Why is he here? In Yorkshire?”

“I do not know. I was led to believe that he was simply on a summer journey.” She paused, considering the girl’s fear. “You are safe under the protection of the Earl of Reddich.”

As safe as any of us can be.

Isabel rejected the small, contrary voice in her head.

They were safe. She would make sure of it.

Georgiana remained silent in the face of Isabel’s words. Eventually, she nodded once, placing her trust in Isabel—in the house.

“Good.” Isabel poured more tea for them both, hoping to reinforce the girl’s calm before she added, “When you are ready to discuss your reasons for coming here, I am ready to hear them. You know that, do you not? ”

Georgiana nodded again. “I do. I simply—I am not—What if—”

“When and if you are ready, Georgiana, I shall be here.” Isabel’s words were simple and direct. She had years of experience coaxing young women out from their fear. Sisters of dukes or barmaids from Cheapside, girls were not that much different from one another.

Not that different from her.

If she had had another choice, she would never have allowed Lord Nicholas St. John into her house.

But the threat of the other choice—of turning Georgiana, and the others, out into the world with nothing but the clothes on their backs—was unthinkable. And so Isabel was taking a calculated risk.

Lord Nicholas.

The irony was not lost on Isabel that she was placing the future of a houseful of women into the hands of one of the most dangerously compelling men she’d ever met. But as she looked at Georgiana, small and uncertain, both hands wrapped around her teacup, her gaze fixed on the liquid inside, Isabel knew that he was their best chance at success. Their best hope for a future.

They would simply have to keep him confined to the statuary.

That would not be so difficult.

The next afternoon, Isabel was feeling exceedingly proud of herself.

All her worrying about Lord Nicholas had been for naught. He was no trouble at all.

In fact, since he and Mr. Durukhan had arrived that morning and she had closeted them in the statuary and delivered careful instructions that they were not to be disturbed, Isabel had effectively avoided the pair.

Hidden from the pair, more like.

Nonsense. Isabel shook the thought away. So she was on the roof once more. The roof was still leaking. And, if the clouds careening toward them from the east were any indication, the repairs were going to be particularly welcome that evening.

So she was in breeches and shirtsleeves with Jane, and they were on their knees carefully applying a wicked-smelling paste to the underside of the clay tiles that seemed to have come loose all across the roof. It had been seven years since the first of the Townsend Park servants had left, including the skilled men—those who were most marketable to other large estates across the county. With them had gone any knowledge of the craft of roof repair, stone and woodworking, and several other skills that came in particularly handy on a country estate.

Isabel sighed at the memory. She supposed they had been lucky to have gone so many years without needing to take on major structural repairs of the house. Thank goodness for the manor’s library, and its collection of titles on architecture and building practices. She smiled wryly. Roof repair was not the preferred reading of most young ladies, but it would do if she could remove the chamber pot currently perched on the end of her bed to capture the rain that seeped regularly through the poorly tarred roof.

“Would you like to tell me what happened yesterday to send you into hiding from Lord Nicholas? ”