Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord
Page 83
The words fell like lead between them, and she knew immediately that she had gone too far. He could no longer remain still. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close to him, forcing her to look into his eyes. “No. I will suffer your accusations. I will bear the brunt of your anger. But I am through with your assault on my honor.”
She opened her mouth to retort and he pressed on. “No, Isabel. You will listen to me. I came to help the girl. Not to hurt her. Had I known that she was here and safe, I would not have agreed to the mission. But I did not know those things. Instead, I knew that my friend was beside himself with worry. And I did what I could to help him. Yes. I found your little enclave of Amazonians. Yes. I discovered your secrets—not that they were very well hidden. But none of this is Leighton’s business. Leighton’s business is that girl”—he let go of Isabel’s arm to indicate Georgiana beyond the room—“and the child in her belly. You know nothing of who I am or why I am here. I was never going to give you up. I gave you my word that I would protect you. That I would keep your secrets. And so I shall.”
Isabel did not know what to say as he let her go and stalked to the door. As he set his hand to the handle, she found her voice. “How did you know? ”
Only his head turned back to her, and not enough to meet her eyes. His tone was clipped. “How did I know what? ”
“How did you know that Georgiana is increasing? ”
There was impatience in his tone when he replied. “I have said before, Isabel. I am very good at what I do.”
The words rankled. “As am I!“
“Yes. You are very good at hiding.”
“I am very good at hiding them,” she corrected.
He did turn back then, his lips twisted in a smile that she did not like. “You do it for them.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
She blinked. “Of course I do.”
“No. I don’t think you do it for them at all, Isabel. I think you do it to keep yourself in hiding. To keep yourself from having to face the world beyond your little kingdom. And what might come with it.”
She froze at the words.
They weren’t true.
They weren’t.
He waited for a long moment, as though expecting her to reply, before adding, “I will be gone in the morning. I find I am tiring of Yorkshire.”
And, with that last parting shot, he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Once he was gone, Isabel crawled onto her bed, exhausted from the verbal sparring and confused by the feelings coursing through her. He had seemed so honest—so true—so hurt.
But what of her?
How lovely had it been when they were rushing off to rescue Georgiana to have this strong, committed man by her side? How much had she adored the feeling of having a partner? Of being able to finally, after all these years, share her burden with another person? What of the comfort she had felt then, for the first time in so very long?
And what of the emptiness that came when he’d snatched it from her?
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was afraid.
She rolled onto one side, refusing to allow the thought quarter.
She must remain angry.
Because she did not think she could face the darkness if she allowed herself to think on the sadness that she could so easily summon.
Nick could not sleep, and so he headed for the stables, forcing himself into some kind of perverse penance for his betrayal of Isabel. He paced the floor, keeping the horses awake as he replayed the past days in his mind, thinking of all the ways he could have told Isabel the truth. Of all the times he could have confessed his part in this bizarre play.
But he hadn’t—and, instead, he’d lost her.
And, all of a sudden, that mattered more than anything else.
The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He had agreed to Leighton’s ridiculous mission because he had been so desperate to leave London and the silly magazine article behind. He’d been avoiding the mincing females who were immediately drawn to him for all the wrong reasons. He’d been eager to escape them and the drama that came with them.
And he’d landed here. In a houseful of females, so rife with drama that they spent most of their lives in disguise, hiding from kidnappers and dukes and God knew whoever else was determined to find them at any cost.
If it weren’t his life, it would be comical.
And at the center of their circus was Isabel—powerful, intelligent, strong-willed Isabel, his Boadicea. Beautiful, passionate Isabel, unlike any woman he had ever known.
There was so much about this woman to admire. To care for. To desire.
To love.
He froze at the thought.
Was it possible that he loved her?
Dread settled in his stomach at the thought. For so long, he had avoided love—a thing that was perfectly fine for others, but entirely wrong for him. He’d seen the way women wielded love as a weapon. He’d watched as his mother had destroyed his father. And, worse, he knew what became of him when he allowed himself to attempt to love. The way Alana had turned the emotion against him and, like a master puppeteer, maneuvered him through the deserts of Turkey and straight into prison.
If his past had taught him anything, it was this: If he allowed himself to love Isabel, there was no way it could end well.
He could take his escape. Here was his opportunity to leave her—and the insanity that came with her—behind. He could return to his normal, staid London life, to his antiquities and his club and his family, and forget the days he had spent here in Yorkshire.
Except, when he considered that life, which had so satisfied him before he’d arrived here, he found it sorely lacking. Lacking in Isabel’s strong will, and her smart mouth, and her sweet lips, and her wild, auburn curls that clung to him whenever she was near.
She opened her mouth to retort and he pressed on. “No, Isabel. You will listen to me. I came to help the girl. Not to hurt her. Had I known that she was here and safe, I would not have agreed to the mission. But I did not know those things. Instead, I knew that my friend was beside himself with worry. And I did what I could to help him. Yes. I found your little enclave of Amazonians. Yes. I discovered your secrets—not that they were very well hidden. But none of this is Leighton’s business. Leighton’s business is that girl”—he let go of Isabel’s arm to indicate Georgiana beyond the room—“and the child in her belly. You know nothing of who I am or why I am here. I was never going to give you up. I gave you my word that I would protect you. That I would keep your secrets. And so I shall.”
Isabel did not know what to say as he let her go and stalked to the door. As he set his hand to the handle, she found her voice. “How did you know? ”
Only his head turned back to her, and not enough to meet her eyes. His tone was clipped. “How did I know what? ”
“How did you know that Georgiana is increasing? ”
There was impatience in his tone when he replied. “I have said before, Isabel. I am very good at what I do.”
The words rankled. “As am I!“
“Yes. You are very good at hiding.”
“I am very good at hiding them,” she corrected.
He did turn back then, his lips twisted in a smile that she did not like. “You do it for them.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think so.”
She blinked. “Of course I do.”
“No. I don’t think you do it for them at all, Isabel. I think you do it to keep yourself in hiding. To keep yourself from having to face the world beyond your little kingdom. And what might come with it.”
She froze at the words.
They weren’t true.
They weren’t.
He waited for a long moment, as though expecting her to reply, before adding, “I will be gone in the morning. I find I am tiring of Yorkshire.”
And, with that last parting shot, he left the room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Once he was gone, Isabel crawled onto her bed, exhausted from the verbal sparring and confused by the feelings coursing through her. He had seemed so honest—so true—so hurt.
But what of her?
How lovely had it been when they were rushing off to rescue Georgiana to have this strong, committed man by her side? How much had she adored the feeling of having a partner? Of being able to finally, after all these years, share her burden with another person? What of the comfort she had felt then, for the first time in so very long?
And what of the emptiness that came when he’d snatched it from her?
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was afraid.
She rolled onto one side, refusing to allow the thought quarter.
She must remain angry.
Because she did not think she could face the darkness if she allowed herself to think on the sadness that she could so easily summon.
Nick could not sleep, and so he headed for the stables, forcing himself into some kind of perverse penance for his betrayal of Isabel. He paced the floor, keeping the horses awake as he replayed the past days in his mind, thinking of all the ways he could have told Isabel the truth. Of all the times he could have confessed his part in this bizarre play.
But he hadn’t—and, instead, he’d lost her.
And, all of a sudden, that mattered more than anything else.
The irony of the situation was not lost on him. He had agreed to Leighton’s ridiculous mission because he had been so desperate to leave London and the silly magazine article behind. He’d been avoiding the mincing females who were immediately drawn to him for all the wrong reasons. He’d been eager to escape them and the drama that came with them.
And he’d landed here. In a houseful of females, so rife with drama that they spent most of their lives in disguise, hiding from kidnappers and dukes and God knew whoever else was determined to find them at any cost.
If it weren’t his life, it would be comical.
And at the center of their circus was Isabel—powerful, intelligent, strong-willed Isabel, his Boadicea. Beautiful, passionate Isabel, unlike any woman he had ever known.
There was so much about this woman to admire. To care for. To desire.
To love.
He froze at the thought.
Was it possible that he loved her?
Dread settled in his stomach at the thought. For so long, he had avoided love—a thing that was perfectly fine for others, but entirely wrong for him. He’d seen the way women wielded love as a weapon. He’d watched as his mother had destroyed his father. And, worse, he knew what became of him when he allowed himself to attempt to love. The way Alana had turned the emotion against him and, like a master puppeteer, maneuvered him through the deserts of Turkey and straight into prison.
If his past had taught him anything, it was this: If he allowed himself to love Isabel, there was no way it could end well.
He could take his escape. Here was his opportunity to leave her—and the insanity that came with her—behind. He could return to his normal, staid London life, to his antiquities and his club and his family, and forget the days he had spent here in Yorkshire.
Except, when he considered that life, which had so satisfied him before he’d arrived here, he found it sorely lacking. Lacking in Isabel’s strong will, and her smart mouth, and her sweet lips, and her wild, auburn curls that clung to him whenever she was near.
