To Love a Wicked Scoundrel (17 page)

‘Yes, I should.’ Her whisper barely met his ears.

‘Goodnight, Isabelle.’

He reached forward and adjusted the edge of one sleeve before he pressed a kiss meant to reassure to her warm swollen lips. He lingered. He could not help it. By its end, he managed to banish her trembling. With reluctance, he watched her follow the pathway until he could see her no more.

***

‘Isabelle!’

Meredith’s insistent summons met her ear as she approached the carriage line, her emotions under control, although her heart burst with the passion of the evening. After she left Constantine, she had strolled the estate grounds on the fringe of a strand of party guests and reviewed in infinitesimal detail, every touch, every kiss, of their secret tryst in the gardens. Her body tingled and an indescribable sensation danced deep within her. She hoped the feeling would never end, or at least suffocate the practical, insistent consequences that roared in her ears.

She forced a smile and joined the line. It would not be long before their carriage pulled forward. She sent a thankful prayer skyward, anxious to be out of the lantern lit driveway and within the dim confines of their coach. It was not so much Meredith’s perspicacity that caused her concern as much as Isabelle’s inability to disguise her true feelings. Never very good at subterfuge, her failure to hide her emotions proved a quality her father enjoyed exploiting, and the primary reason the entire household at Rossmore House knew of her personal insecurities.

‘Where have you been? You missed dinner and the final dance set.’ Meredith frowned, a brow raised in question, before she continued in a rush of conversation. ‘I made excuses for you when possible, but in truth, were I not so busy fulfilling the obligations of my card, I would have sent someone to search for you. It is so unlike you to disappear without reason.’

They took a step forward and the footman extended the steps of their carriage. Isabelle climbed in without hesitation, her mind in a clamour to find the proper words said in the correct tone to convince Meredith nothing was amiss. How smart it would have proven to practice perfunctory replies instead of wandering around the estate reliving the exquisite exhilaration of Constantine’s embrace. She’d never been so vulnerable and emboldened within his arms, and the heady mixture of emotions boosted her confidence and fortified her resolve.

At her unusual silence, Meredith peered across the coach with sagacious interest, and Isabelle cringed, having invoked the opposite reaction desired.

‘It was the temptation of the gardens, wasn’t it? You just could not keep yourself from wasting the evening in exploration of flowers.’ Meredith turned a satisfied smile. ‘I am correct, am I not?’

Isabelle offered a blithe answer, her relief of reprieve tempered by a hint of guilt. ‘Yes, I went into the gardens. The flowers were lovely.’ She dropped her eyes to her skirt, her bare hands resting there, and her heart thudded at the realisation she’d left her gloves behind. When she darted a glance across the carriage, Meredith still watched her with keen interest.

‘Where are your gloves? We just purchased them this morning.’

‘I left them behind in the garden when I removed them to appreciate the varietals. I admit it was thoughtless to leave them behind.’ She manipulated the truth more than lied, but regret shadowed her succinct explanation and she suspected her stepmother noticed.

Indeed, something changed. Meredith made a show of smoothing her skirts and her face grew pensive as if she considered the words with discerning scrutiny.

‘You were with a gentleman.’ Meredith’s eyes drilled into her. ‘You were, weren’t you?’ She continued with a large measure of insistence. ‘You must tell me who he is. You must tell me everything. How utterly exciting for you.’

Isabelle pressed her lids closed and drew a shuddering breath. She must not be discovered. She cherished the attention Constantine showed her with each kiss.
And his mouth
. His mouth was carnal sin. How effectively he stole all logical thought from her with one lush sweep of his tongue.

‘There is nothing to talk about. Really.’ Her voice sounded weak, her thoughts a nervous jumble.

‘Oh, don’t be a stick in the mud. I merely wish to know who caught your attention. You danced through the beginning of the evening with several partners but not one more time after Lord Highborough left us. Then I did not see you again for the entire evening.’

Isabelle tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She held no hope her stepmother would abandon the subject, no matter how she might protest. Gossip, clandestine meetings, affectionate gestures, to Meredith were the true entertainments of the ton, not the glittering ballroom or fanciful eveningwear. Certainly not the flowers.

She dared a fleeting glance across the interior of the coach.

‘You are all right, are you not?’ Meredith leaned forward and searched her face with assiduous attention. ‘This gentleman did not upset you or press his advantage?’

Isabelle had no ready reply and managed a small nod to dispel the question.

‘I believe you, although I’d call him to task if he did. I would speak to Lady Newby directly and make sure society became aware of the cad even if we had to take it to the scandal sheets.’

A small strangled sound escaped Isabelle’s throat. She already believed Constantine slandered. The man who held her, kissed her, and caressed her, with unmatched reverence, was far from the scoundrel depicted in the social pages. She wished she could defend him and dispute the gossip bandied about, but it would fall on deaf ears. Meredith, like most everyone else, yearned to believe in the reputed rakehell promoted by the newspapers. Her stepmother had dragged them to London for that very purpose.

‘All you offer me is silence. Do you deliberately wish to torture me?’ Meredith’s tone turned petulant. ‘Unless you do not wish me to know.’

The words hung between them and Isabelle watched her stepmother consider the idea in earnest. All at once her conflicted realisation sliced through the tension filled interior.

‘And why would that be, pray tell me? Was it merely a coincidence Lord Highborough was not present during your absence?’

The sting of Meredith’s truculent accusation caused Isabelle to avert her eyes and she turned towards the small window, her teeth worrying her bottom lip. She could not breathe, the air heavy and unwilling to fill her lungs. ‘I do not wish to discuss it. I have already told you as much.’ Anger peppered her response. She would not allow her stepmother to mar the evening, nor would she provide her ammunition to destroy her happiness.

‘Then tell me if I am incorrect. Tell me and we will never speak of it again.’

Isabelle fought an apologetic smile. ‘Wait, you do not understand – ’ Once the words were out, she knew Meredith would brook no protest.

‘You deceitful little fool. You believe he cares for you? He is the most reputed rake in London. He has no good intentions. You cannot be that naïve. Lord Highborough can seduce any woman, any beautiful
experienced
woman he desires, why so ever would he choose you?’ Meredith released a tight laugh and her eyes flashed in the fractured lantern light.

‘No.’ Isabelle struggled to keep the emotion from her voice. ‘It is not like that at all.’

‘Spare me the histrionics. I have no desire to hear the details. How you played me the fool. I never believed your conniving, but your father knew the truth of it all these years.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Tears flowed down her cheeks and she wiped at them in a useless attempt to keep her emotions intact. ‘Please, let me explain.’

‘So that you can weave more lies and share the amusement behind my back? You are ungrateful and spiteful when I have shown you kindness. I tried to protect you and you’ve returned my favour with malicious deceit.’

‘Please let me tell you what happened.’ Isabelle reached across the carriage and her hand trembled as it hung suspended in the darkness.

‘I don’t wish to hear another word. I am certain the earl seeks to satisfy a curiosity. No doubt he endeavours to settle a wager at the club. Otherwise, why would he, when I…’ She jerked her head to the window and peered out into the night. ‘Have you suddenly developed all the qualities of a lush courtesan? You cannot expect to hold his interest with conversation of flowers and poetry.’

The hurtful words hung in the air and Isabelle had no easy rebuttal as they pricked at the same insecurities that caused her relentless unease. She withdrew her hand and clenched her fingers together in her skirt.

‘For all your logical thinking you are little more than a romantic fool.’ Meredith spat the words with unfamiliar vehemence. ‘Your father was right. You are nothing but a disappointment.’

She bowed her head. What had she been thinking? Had she never considered the consequences of her actions?

The carriage filled with oppressive silence.

Isabelle jerked her chin up and her tears slowed. Insults were not unfamiliar. She had years of practice to draw on in learning to dull the pain.

A newborn emotion unfurled within her. Rebellion, or was it long-forgotten pride? She straightened her shoulders and found her voice. ‘Do I not deserve happiness? Did you not haul me here to London for the sole intention of enjoying the season? To experience an adventure of my own?’

‘An adventure? Is that how you label what you have done? You purposely pursued the one man I set my eye on while we remained in Wiltshire. You have muddied everything with your selfishness. You should be ashamed of your behaviour. You are plain, Isabelle, and you reach too high.’

Isabelle’s fingers tightened on the edge of the bench. She sat perfectly still, although her entire being quaked. Memories flooded her with an onslaught of suppressed emotion, her father’s condescending remarks, the insults and mockery that taunted her fledgling poise with a heavy cloak of self-recrimination since her earliest childhood days.

‘We will not speak of this again.’ Isabelle laced and unlaced her fingers, desperate to do something with her hands as hot indignation stung her cheeks. She blinked hard and shifted her eyes to the coach window, relieved they were nearly returned to Grosvenor Square. ‘There is nothing left to say.’

Meredith released an inelegant snort. ‘There you are correct. You delude yourself with this sudden burst of confidence, but forget how out of depth you play. You are better suited for the country, lost amidst your flower gardens.’ She shot a glare across the dimly lit interior, the cold emotion in her eyes a stronger insult than her words. ‘Return to Wiltshire tomorrow, as I cannot bear to look at you any longer.’

Isabelle’s lips quivered. Her behaviour was unforgivable. Meredith’s words cut to the heart because they reiterated the very same suspicions she’d considered herself. Why
would
Constantine want her? A sinking feeling of loss and hopelessness immured the very depths of her soul.

‘Yes, it is for the best. I will leave London as soon as I am packed.’ Isabelle’s throat choked with emotion, her broken whisper interrupted by a sudden twinge of panic in her chest, but in truth, it would be a relief to be away from the city. When she spoke again, the words came no easier. ‘I will return to Wilshire and be gone by tomorrow afternoon.’

Chapter Thirteen

Constantine swallowed the last of his brandy as Brooks entered the study. The valet carried correspondence and an appointment book, his discerning gaze as sharp as his pencil. Business needed to be conducted regardless of the late hour of half past three. Brooks indulged Con’s unorthodox schedule and he, in turn, overlooked his valet’s frequent impudence. In truth, he enjoyed Brooks’ cocky audacity, but he would suffer a thousand deaths before he’d admit it to the man.

‘Did you find the letter I left for you from the curator of The National Gallery?’ Brooks removed Con’s empty glass and gave his attention to the desktop. He wiped a nonexistent water ring with his handkerchief, then picked up the appointment book and scanned the page.

‘I did. And my patience grows shorter. The curator claims the artwork arrived anonymously and is to be considered a donation. He refuses to release the pieces unless he discusses the matter with the owner. It is possible my visit and subsequent questions evoked his nervous nature into automatic defence, yet the whole bloody mess leaves my hands tied unless I reveal myself as the artist.’

‘Would an imposter suffice?’

The servant straightened his shoulders as if he offered his services and the action provoked Con to chuckle. He had no idea what type of trouble Brooks dabbled in during his first lifetime, but he certainly would not encourage him to revisit the past.

‘No, I am afraid that will not resolve the issue. As long as the paintings are safe, I see no urgency to settle the matter until I decipher the best way to proceed. In the meantime, I am considering a change of scenery.’

It would be difficult to leave London,
to leave Isabelle
, but he did not plan to be gone long. Other issues demanded his attention and he would somehow make her aware. Were she not an innocent, he could have taken her along for the trip. A smile turned his mouth as his thoughts clouded with memories of the sleek softness of her beautiful body, her skin as delicate and fragrant as a newly opened rose.

If he didn’t distract himself with purpose, the same ardent condition would plague him whenever Isabelle invaded his thoughts. And that was too damned often.

‘Milord?’ Brooks’ voice obliterated the fantasy.

‘Send word ahead to alert the staff.’

‘The townhouse in Paris?’ The servant began to write in his book.

‘No. Paris is more crowded than London at this time of year.’

‘Your estate in Hampshire then?’ The valet crossed out a line with vigour.

‘No, the vineyards there are thriving.’

‘Then I presume we speak of Highborough House?’ Brooks held his pencil motionless.

‘Yes, a visit is long overdue. Although I won’t be hanging artwork, will I?’ He muttered, exasperated with the recent turn of events. ‘I need to check on the vineyard and I am sure Gillie wonders at my absence.’