To Sin With A Stranger (10 page)

It was hard for Sterling to concentrate on the dance, with Miss Carington looking at him that way. Could the wager actually be the reason? It seemed impossible to him.

Why, though his heart had oft raced at the heft of a full coin bag, no amount of money had ever made him gaze at a lass the way she looked at him.

Not that it bothered him. It merely confused him. Truth to tell, the thought of what notions might be behind that intoxicating gaze of hers was beginning to stir him to no little extent. Enough that as the last notes of the music played out, Sterling was already plotting how to leave the brightly illuminated ballroom—where very soon every member of the
ton
would know the extent of his physical attraction to Miss Carington.

“Miss Carington,” he began as the musicians lowered their instruments, “since we are to be married, shouldn’t we at least know each other’s names?”

She looked down at his hand, still holding hers, but he did not release it. He wouldn’t until he was sure she would not leave his side for the Englishman who flitted about nearby like a bothersome moth.

“Sterling Sinclair, Marquess of Blackburn. I believe I am correct, so…Sterling would be your first name, no?” The haze in her eyes had lifted, and the tone of her voice—which surprisingly did not offend his ears like those of the gaggle of English matrons and misses clamoring throughout the ballroom—was decidedly sarcastic.

“Aye, it is.” Why did she make him feel like a lad wanting to press his lips to a lass for the very first time? “Though I don’t know yours…”

“Do you not?” She raised both eyebrows in doubt. “I somehow doubt that, my lord. But if by some set of circumstances you have not heard my name bandied about in connection with the wager at White’s, I will tell you. My name is Isobel…Miss Isobel Carington.”

“
Isobel
,” he muttered unintentionally beneath his breath. When he heard her name on his lips, he straightened and took rein over his words. “It suits you well. Much better than Miss Carington.”

“Is that so, my lord?”

“Aye, ’tis.”

“Though knowing my name does not give you leave to use it—even though you clearly feel at ease enough with me to hold my hand well after the dance has ended.” She dropped her gaze to their clasped hands once more.

It was then that he realized his thumb was caressing the top of her hand. Still, he was not about to release it.

“A house this grand must have a garden or a terrace, aye?”

Her face lost all expression. “Y-yes, it does.” She raised her free hand a few inches from her side and gestured to the doorway to the staircase. “But…I do not think—”

“I don’t think it wise to remain in this sweltering ballroom either. Some cool air will be most reviving.” Sterling gave her a playful tug toward the doorway.

The idea of leaving with him seemed to startle her, and she did not move from her spot on the parquet dance floor.

“Och, come now.” Sterling gave her an easy, comforting smile. “Joining me in the garden, where I am sure dozens of other guests are taking the air, is much less apt to cause talk than the two of us holding hands in the center of the ballroom—which we’ll do until you agree to come to the garden with me.”

The twitch of her chin was hardly a nod of assent, but Sterling took it as such anyway. He released her gloved hand and offered his arm, which, to his relief, she took, and allowed herself to be led from the ballroom.

Isobel understood her father’s mingled expression of pleasure and worry as she left the ballroom with Lord Blackburn. She was feeling the same unsettling rush of feelings.

It was a godsend that she had managed to snare Christiana’s attention just before she and the Scot had disappeared through the doorway to descend the sweeping staircase for the garden. At least she was sure they would not be alone for long.

It was less apprehension than excitement she felt as they walked through the open French windows and out into the garden.

The night air was crisp and bracing, in complete contrast to the ballroom, which had left her skin damp and her chemise clinging to her. She had been so warm, and entirely distracted by Lord Blackburn, that she didn’t register that the footmen at the foot of the staircase had been positioned there to bring wraps for those who might wish to stroll through the moonlit garden.

He escorted her directly to an oyster-shell pathway ringing a lush garden of early white moss roses.

As they strolled the shell-paved walk, the crunch beneath their feet sounded abnormally loud, but the sound matched their pacing exactly.

She stopped, causing Lord Blackburn to do the same. The crunching of shells stopped. When they started again, the sound did too, only this time a chorus of giggles rent the night. She whirled around and saw a herd of women running through the open doors and into the house.

The larger of the two footmen, at the direction of Lady Partridge herself, closed the French windows. A metallic click reverberated through the walled garden.

“No!” Isobel pulled away from Lord Blackburn and raced to the door. She tugged on the brass knobs, but the windows were locked. Peering through the glass, she rapped hard, calling out to the ladies, but they and the two footmen had retreated down the passageway and were already disappearing from her sight.

“They’ve locked us in the garden!” Isobel cried out to Lord Blackburn, who hastened to a narrow window at the edge of house. But that too slammed closed before it could be reached.

“Och, you don’t really wish to go back inside the ballroom so soon, do you now?” Sterling turned from the house and slowly walked in the direction of an iron bench in the farthest corner of the garden. “Come this way. We will sit and enjoy the cool air while the rest sweat through their finery.”

She tried jiggling the lock again.

“Lassie, they will not open the French windows any sooner if you stand there.”

Isobel sighed, then as she crunched toward him, an unsettling thought sailed into her mind. She peered warily at her lone companion in the garden. “You did not have anything to do with this, did you, Lord Blackburn?”

He chuckled at that and slapped his knees. “What sort of Scotsman would contrive to trap an English beauty in a garden, only to be observed by half the women in London?” He gestured to four open windows high above, filled three-deep with ladies of the
ton
.

Isobel groaned. She rolled off her gloves and pinned them against her side with her arm as she rubbed her temples with her fingers. “Why would they do this?”

“Why, they are playing Cupid. Surely you realize this.” He patted the bench. “Come, they cannot hear us so far from the windows, and the roses screen their view…if we only lean back a wee bit.”

He was right, and more than anything Isobel needed a respite, no matter how brief, from the prying, probing eyes of Society. Isobel closed the short distance to the bench, then stepped out from the fan of rose bushes, just enough to be sure she was completely visible, then gave a pronounced curtsy to the gallery above before sitting down beside the Scotsman.

Isobel could not help but be amused at the absurdity of all of this. Lud, the entire wager, and that she was at the center of it, was completely mad.

Lord Blackburn chuckled along with her, making her laugh even harder.

She looked at him. Could it be that he wasn’t really as wicked as she first believed? In truth, he was as much of an unwitting victim in this blasted wager as she herself.

“Lord Blackburn, perchance have you seen White’s betting book? Who placed this wager?” she asked. “No one seems to know.”

He sucked his lips into his mouth as he seemed to consider his answer. “I have not seen the book or the entry myself, though my brother has.”

Isobel felt a jolt rush through her. “Who is it? Please tell me. Who is this bettor with so much to risk on such a worthless wager as whether we will marry?”

“Lord Anonymous.” He shrugged. “I wish I could tell you more, but the wager was placed anonymously.”

“But why would the bettor wish to keep his name a secret? I would think all the gentlemen of White’s would be congratulating him on his ability to inspire the whole of the
ton
to participate.”

Lord Blackburn rubbed his hand across his mouth, drawing her gaze momentarily to the glittering ring on his finger. “I would say he did it to increase interest in the wager—and it seems to have worked brilliantly.” He peered hard at her. “Do you really believe the wager was…
inspirational
?”

“No,
I
do not!” Isobel drew a deep breath through her nostrils to calm herself. “I believe the wager exemplifies the greed…the completely selfish nature of men—and women, evidently.” She glared up at the crowd-filled windows.

He seemed to flinch at her impassioned response.

“I apologize for being so blunt, but it is sometimes hard to restrain my true feelings when so many people are in such great need of money, while others waste no opportunity to cast it willy-nilly to the four winds.” Without realizing it, she set her hand on his atop his arm. “When we first met, I had been walking by the Pugilist Club on the way to pass along a few shillings I had managed to save for a war widow and her children. I had walked from Leicester Square instead of hiring a hackney, so I could give her as much as I might.”

Lord Blackburn exhaled and stared down at the broken oyster shells beneath his feet. He raised his toes and absently ground a few shells with the heel of his shoe.

Isobel realized he was uncomfortable hearing her recount the night at the Pugilist Club—the night he treated her so abominably, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself from continuing. “When I saw so many gentlemen of breeding and wealth entering the club, drawing pouches of money from their waistcoats, I was incensed.”

“And so you took the opportunity to ask for money…for your charity,” he said flatly.

“You know of my work? That I am trying to raise funds to purchase Wenton Inn to provide a permanent place of lodging for them—at least until they find their own bearings in this town?” she asked, somehow feeling very surprised.

He scratched his neck. “Och, I know. You showed up during my battle waving pamphlets in my face, if you don’t recall.”

She widened her eyes. “But you ridiculed me and what I was trying to do.”

“I didn’t know what you were trying to do, except get your nose broken by stepping between two fighters.” He looked down at her hand upon his arm.

She pulled it away.

“That doesn’t mean I did not hear you, and admire you.”

Isobel was filled with warmth and, admittedly, no little amount of confusion.

How could she have misjudged this man so entirely?

He saw her staring at him, assessing him as though for the first time. Heat surged through her cheeks, and she waved her gloves before her like a fan. What a cake she was making of herself. The night was cool. Only he was making her feel very warm. “D-do you think someone will come for us soon?” she stammered.

“Don’t fash, Isobel,” he told her. “The gentlemen of White’s will hear what the women have done soon enough. They will not want to lose their position in the wager and will free us from the sweet fragrance of the moss roses.”

His eyes, as bright as quicksilver, held her gaze as surely as his arms had held her in the ballroom, so strong and unyielding. Making her want to lean closer, to fold into him and savor the moment of rapture again.

“Soon enough, they’ll come and…shade the shimmer of the moonlight,” he whispered so softly that she was compelled to turn her head up to his to be sure she heard him, “and they’ll save us from the blessed silence of the garden…any moment now.” He moved his lips so near that his breath warmed her cheeks with every tantalizing word he uttered. “So don’t fret, dear Isobel.”

His moist lips hovered just above hers, inviting her. The roses were tall, a lush, perfumed fan. No one would see. She closed her eyes, knowing that she needed only to tilt her chin upward, an almost imperceptible shift, and their mouths would touch…in a gentle kiss.

And then the unimaginable happened.

Before she realized it, her lips brushed his warm mouth. For the briefest instant, their breath mingled, the pressure of lips increased as the thrum of her heart trebled with desire.

She sighed at the sensation of it, her mind reeling…before settling into the present again.

“Oh, oh blast.” Her eyes flew open. Lud, she had given in to a moment of missish musing. “I didn’t mean to…” Her fingers hurried to her mouth, and then awkwardly to his, before she realized she was touching his mouth—again. “I do apologize, my lord. I do not know what came over me…Please forgive me, won’t you?”

She felt her eyelashes fluttering.

His brow rose, and he looked confused. “I don’t know what you mean, Isobel. You did nothing wrong. The heat made you swoon a wee bit, ’tis all.”

She stared up at him. Was it possible that he truly thought her kiss was naught but faintness? No, she could not be so blessed with luck.

But as she gazed at him, his expression gave suggestion he thought otherwise. Could it be?

“Issy!” came a female shout.

Isobel leaped from the bench and saw Christiana standing in the open French windows. “Oh, thank heaven!”

Christiana beckoned. “Hurry, come inside before the footmen return. They’ve been instructed to keep you locked in the garden.”

Isobel started to rush for the open doors, but stopped when she realized Lord Blackburn was not following her. “We must hurry. You heard Christiana, did you not?”

Lord Blackburn leaned forward on the bench until he could see the upper windows. “Just as I thought.” He pointed to the upper levels of the house.

Isobel yanked her head upright. Dark-coated gentlemen were drawing the women away from the windows, amid a flurry of protests.

“I think they’ve had their entertainment for this evening,” he said, grinning. “More than enough excitement for tonight, eh?”

Isobel swallowed hard. No, tonight could not be at an end!

She’d managed to extract promises from the guests for only a few pounds to support her charity. And, from what the other ladies had witnessed, they likely believed they were halfway to winning the wager.