Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord
Page 45
“Marriage.”
She must tread carefully here. “I … I never wanted to marry.”
He waited. When she did not say anything more, he prompted, “But?”
She shook her head. “You are right—marriage would solve any number of my problems … but I imagine it would cause a fair number of new ones, frankly.”
He gave a little laugh, and when she looked at him curiously, he said, “I beg your pardon. It is only that I have never met a woman who feels so about marriage.”
She immediately understood that he was thinking of Pearls and Pelisses. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”
“You have no desire for wedded bliss?”
“If wedded bliss were an honest option, perhaps I would …” Isabel gave a little snort at the words, looking into her glass for a long moment before drinking the last of her brandy. The truth was coming easier now. “But wedded bliss never seemed viable for me.”
“No?”
She looked up, meeting his curious gaze. “Not in the least. You did not know my father? ”
“I did not.”
“How lucky for you.” For a moment, she thought he would say something in response to her acid words. When he remained silent, she continued, “He did not spend much time here—my mother was very much in love with him for some reason … although I could never see why. He was handsome enough, I suppose, and certainly the heart of any party. He was a carnival of a man. But when we needed him, he was never here.”
There was more to say—much more—but Isabel stopped herself. Lord Nicholas St. John, however easy to talk to, however compelling a companion, was a danger to her—to all of them—and she needed to keep him at arm’s length. “Suffice to say, the idea of a marriage like theirs has never sat well.”
He nodded once, slowly, as though he understood. “Not all marriages go the way of theirs.”
“Perhaps,” Isabel allowed quietly before looking back into her empty glass. “I suppose you have a warm, loving, wonderful family. You’re probably the product of a love match.”
Nick gave a little laugh at the words, and the sound drew Isabel’s curious attention. “You could not be farther from the truth.” He did not elaborate, instead changing the topic. “And so you are selling the collection.”
The pain of it flared. When she spoke, she could not keep the regret from her voice. “Yes.”
“But you do not want to.”
There was no point in lying. “No.”
“Then why do it? Surely there was a guardian named in your father’s will who is able to help? ”
“Our guardian, if one might call him that, has not been found. As usual, my father has left it to me to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads.” She paused, then flashed a smile. “Literally.”
He smiled at her joke, and in that moment of shared amusement, something changed in his eyes, the warm summer blue shifting with awareness, and Isabel knew precisely where his thoughts had strayed—to the roof, the rain, and their earlier encounter. Her cheeks warmed, and she fought the urge to press her fingertips to her face and chase away the color there.
“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.
She must tread carefully here. “I … I never wanted to marry.”
He waited. When she did not say anything more, he prompted, “But?”
She shook her head. “You are right—marriage would solve any number of my problems … but I imagine it would cause a fair number of new ones, frankly.”
He gave a little laugh, and when she looked at him curiously, he said, “I beg your pardon. It is only that I have never met a woman who feels so about marriage.”
She immediately understood that he was thinking of Pearls and Pelisses. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”
“You have no desire for wedded bliss?”
“If wedded bliss were an honest option, perhaps I would …” Isabel gave a little snort at the words, looking into her glass for a long moment before drinking the last of her brandy. The truth was coming easier now. “But wedded bliss never seemed viable for me.”
“No?”
She looked up, meeting his curious gaze. “Not in the least. You did not know my father? ”
“I did not.”
“How lucky for you.” For a moment, she thought he would say something in response to her acid words. When he remained silent, she continued, “He did not spend much time here—my mother was very much in love with him for some reason … although I could never see why. He was handsome enough, I suppose, and certainly the heart of any party. He was a carnival of a man. But when we needed him, he was never here.”
There was more to say—much more—but Isabel stopped herself. Lord Nicholas St. John, however easy to talk to, however compelling a companion, was a danger to her—to all of them—and she needed to keep him at arm’s length. “Suffice to say, the idea of a marriage like theirs has never sat well.”
He nodded once, slowly, as though he understood. “Not all marriages go the way of theirs.”
“Perhaps,” Isabel allowed quietly before looking back into her empty glass. “I suppose you have a warm, loving, wonderful family. You’re probably the product of a love match.”
Nick gave a little laugh at the words, and the sound drew Isabel’s curious attention. “You could not be farther from the truth.” He did not elaborate, instead changing the topic. “And so you are selling the collection.”
The pain of it flared. When she spoke, she could not keep the regret from her voice. “Yes.”
“But you do not want to.”
There was no point in lying. “No.”
“Then why do it? Surely there was a guardian named in your father’s will who is able to help? ”
“Our guardian, if one might call him that, has not been found. As usual, my father has left it to me to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads.” She paused, then flashed a smile. “Literally.”
He smiled at her joke, and in that moment of shared amusement, something changed in his eyes, the warm summer blue shifting with awareness, and Isabel knew precisely where his thoughts had strayed—to the roof, the rain, and their earlier encounter. Her cheeks warmed, and she fought the urge to press her fingertips to her face and chase away the color there.
“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.
