“I don’t need to marry her for the marbles. I would buy them anyway. And I’m not entirely certain she does need me.”
“I note you don’t deny the desire to bed her.”
Nick signaled for another card. He wanted her. With a visceral intent. The events of the afternoon, the way she had given herself so freely, the way she had tilted her head back as she had fallen apart in his arms had made dancing with her—touching her—sheer torture. It had taken all his control to keep from kissing her in the darkened ballroom in the face of her confession, and when she’d finally taken to her bed, he’d had to force himself to remain belowstairs instead of following her into her bedchamber and showing her every conceivable pleasure.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, ignoring Rock’s knowing smirk.
“I can tell you that I do not care for your phrasing.” Nick tossed a coin onto the table. Rock matched the bid, turned over a card for himself, and swore under his breath. “What was it you were saying about my losing to you? ”
“What is it you Englishmen call them? Red-letter days?” Nick began to shuffle as Rock continued, “The girl doesn’t need you. She needs money. Buy the marbles.”
“She needs more than money.” He paused. “And she doesn’t really want to sell the marbles.”
Rock snorted. “Then what are we doing here? ”
“Until five minutes ago, we didn’t have a choice.” Nick met his friend’s dark gaze. “And you were enjoying yourself, reading your effeminate novels and quietly fleecing me of my fortune. What has changed? ”
Rock reached to pour himself a new snifter of brandy. “Nothing. I am simply ready to leave.”
“Has something happened with Lara? ”
“Miss Caldwell, to you.” Rock scowled.
“I beg your pardon. Has something happened with Miss Caldwell? You seemed thick as thieves earlier.” Nick stopped, the words sinking in. “Ah.”
Rock looked up sharply. “What does that mean? ”
“It seems I am not the only one with a female predicament. Is yours as infuriating as mine? ”
Rock threw a coin onto the table. “Deal the cards.”
Nick did as he was told, and the next few rounds passed in silence. Finally, Rock said, “She’s quite lovely.”
Nick nodded. “She is.”
“Not simply lovely. Perfect.”
The words were so unexpected that it took Nick a few seconds to register their meaning. “I do not understand. What is the problem, then? ”
“Nothing can come of it.”
“Why not?”
Rock leveled Nick with a frank look. “Look at me, Nick.”
“I am looking.”
Rock threw his cards down on the table. “She’s a gentleman’s daughter. I am a heathen, born in the back alleys of Turkey.”
“She lives in a house designed to harbor fugitives. She cannot be entirely beholden to the rules of society. At least, not in the way you suggest.” Nick paused. “I assume that your intentions are honorable?”
Rock stood, unable to remain still. He moved to the window, throwing it open and letting in fresh air, still heavy with the recent rain. “If anything were to happen between us … she would be exiled.”
“Farther than Yorkshire?” Nick said dryly.
Rock did not look back as he said, softly, “Her current exile is self-imposed.”
Nick watched his friend for a long moment before standing and moving to join him at the window. “You overthink this. You have dozens of friends who are wealthy and titled, plenty of whom would happily accept your interactions with her.”
Rock shook his head. “You know that isn’t true.”
“I know no such thing,” Nick scoffed. “Not one of them would care.”
The Turk turned away from the window, meeting Nick’s eyes. “You only think that because you would not care. But they would. When I descended from the carriage in London with a beautiful blond Englishwoman by my side, they would care. And I would no longer be a friend. I would be a dark-skinned enemy, robbing them of their women.”
Nick held Rock’s gaze for a long while, the truth of his words sinking in. Finally, Nick swore quietly and clasped his friend’s shoulder. “You care for the girl?”
“I do.”
“Well, that seems to me that it should be enough. Hang the rest of them.”
A small smile crossed Rock’s lips. “It is easy for you to say such things. Second son of a marquess, planning to marry the daughter of an earl.”
“She hasn’t said she’ll have me.”
“She will have you. She would be mad not to. But promise me something. Promise me you are marrying her for more than your own insane desire to save her.”
Nick considered the words. He knew what Rock was asking. Was Isabel his way of repairing the damage that Alana had wrought? Could this brave, unmatched Englishwoman erase the memory of her wicked Turkish counterpart?
He recoiled at the comparison of the two. “It is not the same.”
“I am not certain you could survive at the hands of another woman whom you cannot help.”
“What makes you think I cannot help this one? ”
“Only that you have never been able to help them, Nick. Not in all the time I have known you.”
There was a long moment of silence before Nick gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Not in all the time before that, either.”
“You can help the girl without giving up your life. That is all I am saying.”
Nick considered the words, playing them over in his mind. Was that all he wanted? Simply to help Isabel? Certainly that was a part of it—certainly he wanted to ensure her safety, to give her the peace of mind that came with knowing that her house would stand, that her girls would thrive, that her brother would succeed. But Rock was right, of course, he could give her all of those things without marrying her. He could leave here and go back to London, track down Densmore and convince him to turn over the guardianship of Townsend Park to him. If he guessed correctly, Densmore would happily relinquish the responsibility.
So why was it that marriage was there, looming so large in his thoughts?
What was it about this woman that had him tied in knots and willing to sacrifice everything for her?
What made him want to help her so very much?
An image of Isabel flashed, fresh and beautiful and relaxed—happy and certain that her world was not going to come crashing down around her. He had never seen her that way. He had seen her beautiful and teasing, beautiful and bold, beautiful and concerned for those around her, beautiful and coming apart in his arms, but never beautiful and sure of herself. Of her future. Of him.
He wanted to give her that.
Perhaps it was his weakness for women. Perhaps this was Turkey all over again. Perhaps Nick was destined to be trapped by this woman in the same way he had been trapped by his mother, by Alana. But he found it difficult to believe that Isabel was anything like them.
She seemed infinitely more honest.
She threatened to become infinitely more dear.
This was more than his history.
It was his future.
He met Rock’s eyes. “I am going to marry her. We would make a good pair.”
Rock nodded once. “Fair enough.” There was a long silence as they both looked out the window, into the darkness beyond. “You know you can’t do it without telling her the truth.”
The words fell like lead between them. Of course Nick knew. He had known from the beginning that he would have to confess his relationship with the Duke of Leighton. He would have to tell Isabel that he was looking for Georgiana. And he would have to bear the full weight of her anger and interrogation.
But there had been a small part of him that had hoped that he might convince her to marry him and get the deed done before he had to admit his less than honest actions.
He was not entirely certain that it was not still possible.
There was something very te
mpting about wedding her, tying her to him, and only then, when she could not leave him, telling her everything.
Rock read the thought. “Your telling her is far better than her discovering it for herself sometime in the future.”
“I know.”
But he did not like the sound of either option.
Fifteen
* * *
The next morning, Isabel found Nick in the statuary, working.
She had gone looking for him after breakfast, telling herself that she was doing the gracious thing by seeking him out to inform him that the roads were once more passable after the rain. The excitement she felt when she saw him bent over his notebook in the brightly lit statuary, however, indicated a slightly different motivation for her coming to find him.
His hands flew across the paper, strong and sure, and she felt a fleeting envy at the complete attention he was giving his work. She watched as a lock of midnight hair fell, catching in the frame of his spectacles, and her breath hitched.
He was really very handsome.
And she was becoming an utter ninny.
The thought brought her back to reality, and Isabel cleared her throat delicately, gaining his attention. He turned his gaze on her, and she felt his scrutiny; she clasped her hands in front of her skirts to refrain from smoothing either her dress or her hair.
“I did not want to bother you, but I thought you might like to know that Rock has returned to town—to fetch your belongings. We are happy to host you here … at Townsend Park … for as long as you need lodging.”
He removed his eyeglasses, and Isabel felt a pang of remorse. There was something about the spectacles that she found compelling—something that underscored the intelligent, honest man beneath the handsome, overwhelming façade.
He smiled, a warm, welcoming smile that weakened her knees. Yes. She much preferred him with the buffer of the eyeglasses.
“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.”
Isabel watched, transfixed, as his strong, tanned hands caressed the angle of the statue’s jaw, his fingertips tracing the line of her neck. He kept talking, his hands following his dark, lush words. “Her pleasure is articulated in the way her shoulders are thrown back, the way one arm reaches up to absently touch her hair, the way the other crosses her rounded stomach, as though to still the trembling there.”
Without thinking, Isabel’s hand mirrored the action of the statue. His words, the
way his hands stroked softly across the marble, it was enough to shake her to her core. She looked to him then, meeting his fiery blue gaze, seeing the knowledge in his eyes, the passion there. He knew what he was doing. He was seducing her.
When he turned back to the statue, Isabel sucked in a long breath. “But perhaps the most telling indicator of her emotion is here.” He ran a hand across the smooth white marble to cup one of the statue’s breasts in his hand. “Her breasts are fuller than those of other Roman statues of the time …”
How could he remain so unmoved?
“And she is anatomically perfect. You will note the hint of a hardened nipple …” Isabel bit her lip as she watched the circling of his thumb, resisting the urge to mimic his motions.
She wanted his hands on her.
She released the breath she had been holding on a long, shaking sigh, barely audible. But he heard it. His head snapped toward her, and he released Voluptas. He met Isabel’s gaze, and she noted that his eyes had darkened to a lovely, promising blue. “Shall I continue?”
She took a step toward him, coming as close as she could without touching him. She noted the tension in his shoulders then, the muscle that twitched in his cheek in a motion that she was learning to recognize as restraint. He wanted to touch her, but was waiting for her move.
Well, she was through restraining herself.
Isabel set her hands to his chest, then used him as leverage to stand up on her toes, to get as close to him as possible. When she answered, she was not certain where the words came from. “Not with the statue.”
She kissed him.
There was an exhilaration that came from taking one’s own pleasure, Isabel discovered. He remained still under her kiss, not touching her, not moving against her lips, and Isabel realized that he was allowing her to take the reins.
She found she liked that idea very much.
She wanted to laugh at the heady sensation of her newfound power. But that did not seem at all appropriate.
She slid her hands up, wrapping them around his neck, pressing her body fully against his. He set his hands to her hips, holding her steady, and the feel of his warmth there through the layers of her dress sent a heady wanting through her. She opened her lips against his, softening, making it known that she was willing to be here, in this room, in his arms. When he did not take her mouth, she ran her tongue tentatively along his full, firm bottom lip.