Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord
Page 73
“That is very generous of you, Isabel. Thank you.”
She did not know what to say at that point, so she hovered in the doorway, her uncertainty clear.
One of his brows rose in obvious amusement. He knew she was nervous. He was enjoying it. “Would you like to come in? ”
She took one step into the room, keenly aware of the fact that only yesterday, he had kissed her here. More than kissed her.
Perhaps she should close the door.
Her pulse sped at the thought. Surely, if she did, he would take it as an invitation to repeat the events of the prior afternoon.
Close the door, Isabel.
She couldn’t. What would he think?
Did it matter?
Surely it was too early for such activities.
They had only just had breakfast.
She met his glittering blue eyes, and saw that he knew precisely what she was thinking. There was a dare in the way he looked at her, as though he were willing her to close the door and take that which she had been unable to stop thinking of since yesterday.
She moved further into the room, leaving the door open, ignoring the pang of disappointment that flared. Her attention flickered to a nearby statue. She grasped for a safe topic. “How did you become so interested in antiquities? ”
He hesitated before answering, as though choosing his words, and in that moment’s pause, she found herself desperately curious. “I have always liked statues,” he said, “from when I was a boy. In school, I found myself fascinated by mythology. I suppose that it is no surprise that when I left school and headed for the Continent—I was drawn to the ancient cultures.”
Isabel perched on a pedestal nearby. “So you spent your time in Italy and Greece?”
He looked away briefly. “Italy was difficult to get to, considering there was a war on. It was easier to go east, and so I did, through the Ottoman Empire and deep into the Orient. The art there is unparalleled; their history is more ancient than anything on the Continent. You would never imagine such paintings, such ceramics … the art they have passed down through generations is like nothing I have ever seen. And not just painting or sculpture. Their whole bodies are their art, their spirits.”
She was transfixed by the reverence in his voice. “How so?”
He met her gaze, and the excitement in his eyes set her pulse to racing. “Things are sacred in the cultures of the East—those who study music and dance and theatre do so with their entire being. In China, there are warriors who spend years learning the art of their combat. In India, dance is a ritual, the beginning and end of the world is held in a single movement of the female form.”
His words had grown softer, drawing her in. “It sounds wonderful.”
“It is. It’s exponentially more sensual than the dance we shared last night.”
Isabel found it difficult to believe that anything could be more sensual than their waltz the night before. There was something dark and liquid in his eyes when he continued, “I would like to teach you the things I learned in India.”
She wanted to learn them. “What kinds of things? ”
“Unfortunately, things that good English ladies do not learn.”
“I find I have never been very good at being a good English lady.”
There was a long silence then, during which she was flooded with embarrassment—where had those words come from? Should she apologize?
“I—”
“If you are going to apologize, I would prefer you not. I find I like this bold Isabel quite a bit.”
Her gaze skidded to his, and the flash of his wicked grin transfixed her.
She could not help but match it, enjoying the feeling of sharing a secret with this intriguing man. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted to know everything about him. “How did you come to learn about Greek and Roman antiquities if you were whiling away your days in the Orient?”
He thought for a moment, then said, simply, “After a few years in the East, I returned to Europe.” “To Turkey.”
He did not answer. He did not have to. “My recovery took place in Greece. I had months to learn about Greek antiquities … to learn their secrets. The Romans came last, before I returned to London.”
She wanted to ask more about his time in Greece. In Turkey. But she knew instinctively that he would not share more than he already had. She searched for a new topic—something that could return them to the friendly conversation they had shared earlier, before she had resurrected his dark memories. Her gaze settled on the statue that he had been scribbling notes on when she had entered. “You are still working on Voluptas?”
“I find myself unable to leave her.”
“She is beautiful.”
“Indeed, she is.” He indicated the statue. “Do you see how she is different from the others? ”
Isabel considered the face of the goddess, the half-closed eyes, the full lips just barely parted. She recognized the emotion on the goddess’s face—one she had always considered somnolence. She knew better now. She felt her skin heat.
“Ah. I see you do.” His voice had changed; it was liquid now, warm and soft and private—sending a thrill up her spine. “It is not just her face, however. What makes this statue different from the others is the care the sculptor took to make every part of her so clearly Voluptas.”
She was mesmerized by his voice, and when he moved his hands to the statue, she could not look away. “You can see her passion in every inch of her … in the angle of her neck, in the way that her chin is lifted, as though she cannot deepen her breath for the sensation coursing through her.”
She did not know what to say at that point, so she hovered in the doorway, her uncertainty clear.
One of his brows rose in obvious amusement. He knew she was nervous. He was enjoying it. “Would you like to come in? ”
She took one step into the room, keenly aware of the fact that only yesterday, he had kissed her here. More than kissed her.
Perhaps she should close the door.
Her pulse sped at the thought. Surely, if she did, he would take it as an invitation to repeat the events of the prior afternoon.
Close the door, Isabel.
She couldn’t. What would he think?
Did it matter?
Surely it was too early for such activities.
They had only just had breakfast.
She met his glittering blue eyes, and saw that he knew precisely what she was thinking. There was a dare in the way he looked at her, as though he were willing her to close the door and take that which she had been unable to stop thinking of since yesterday.
She moved further into the room, leaving the door open, ignoring the pang of disappointment that flared. Her attention flickered to a nearby statue. She grasped for a safe topic. “How did you become so interested in antiquities? ”
He hesitated before answering, as though choosing his words, and in that moment’s pause, she found herself desperately curious. “I have always liked statues,” he said, “from when I was a boy. In school, I found myself fascinated by mythology. I suppose that it is no surprise that when I left school and headed for the Continent—I was drawn to the ancient cultures.”
Isabel perched on a pedestal nearby. “So you spent your time in Italy and Greece?”
He looked away briefly. “Italy was difficult to get to, considering there was a war on. It was easier to go east, and so I did, through the Ottoman Empire and deep into the Orient. The art there is unparalleled; their history is more ancient than anything on the Continent. You would never imagine such paintings, such ceramics … the art they have passed down through generations is like nothing I have ever seen. And not just painting or sculpture. Their whole bodies are their art, their spirits.”
She was transfixed by the reverence in his voice. “How so?”
He met her gaze, and the excitement in his eyes set her pulse to racing. “Things are sacred in the cultures of the East—those who study music and dance and theatre do so with their entire being. In China, there are warriors who spend years learning the art of their combat. In India, dance is a ritual, the beginning and end of the world is held in a single movement of the female form.”
His words had grown softer, drawing her in. “It sounds wonderful.”
“It is. It’s exponentially more sensual than the dance we shared last night.”
Isabel found it difficult to believe that anything could be more sensual than their waltz the night before. There was something dark and liquid in his eyes when he continued, “I would like to teach you the things I learned in India.”
She wanted to learn them. “What kinds of things? ”
“Unfortunately, things that good English ladies do not learn.”
“I find I have never been very good at being a good English lady.”
There was a long silence then, during which she was flooded with embarrassment—where had those words come from? Should she apologize?
“I—”
“If you are going to apologize, I would prefer you not. I find I like this bold Isabel quite a bit.”
Her gaze skidded to his, and the flash of his wicked grin transfixed her.
She could not help but match it, enjoying the feeling of sharing a secret with this intriguing man. She wanted to know more about him. She wanted to know everything about him. “How did you come to learn about Greek and Roman antiquities if you were whiling away your days in the Orient?”
He thought for a moment, then said, simply, “After a few years in the East, I returned to Europe.” “To Turkey.”
He did not answer. He did not have to. “My recovery took place in Greece. I had months to learn about Greek antiquities … to learn their secrets. The Romans came last, before I returned to London.”
She wanted to ask more about his time in Greece. In Turkey. But she knew instinctively that he would not share more than he already had. She searched for a new topic—something that could return them to the friendly conversation they had shared earlier, before she had resurrected his dark memories. Her gaze settled on the statue that he had been scribbling notes on when she had entered. “You are still working on Voluptas?”
“I find myself unable to leave her.”
“She is beautiful.”
“Indeed, she is.” He indicated the statue. “Do you see how she is different from the others? ”
Isabel considered the face of the goddess, the half-closed eyes, the full lips just barely parted. She recognized the emotion on the goddess’s face—one she had always considered somnolence. She knew better now. She felt her skin heat.
“Ah. I see you do.” His voice had changed; it was liquid now, warm and soft and private—sending a thrill up her spine. “It is not just her face, however. What makes this statue different from the others is the care the sculptor took to make every part of her so clearly Voluptas.”
She was mesmerized by his voice, and when he moved his hands to the statue, she could not look away. “You can see her passion in every inch of her … in the angle of her neck, in the way that her chin is lifted, as though she cannot deepen her breath for the sensation coursing through her.”
