by Sabrina York
So she turned to Lord Tully and offered him a glowing smile. “My lord,” she said. “I do believe my next dance is yours.”
Tully started, but then, with a grin and a glance at Nick, he nodded. “I do believe it is.” He offered Isobel his arm and led her back to the stairs toward the ballroom, leaving Nick sputtering in their wake.
In the clutches of Celia Swofford.
Served him right.
Chapter Ten
Well, that didn’t go well.
Certainly not the way Nick had planned.
He glowered at Tully, swirling around the dance floor with Isobel—his Isobel—and his gut churned. Everything else, the music, the laughter, the incessant chirping at his side, faded away as he tracked their each and every move.
Tully was his friend. He knew how Nick felt about Isobel. How dare he waltz with her? The fact that his hand was on her hip made his vision blur.
But what could he do? Storm across the crowded ballroom and rip them apart?
The idea had merit.
Better yet, he should wait until they swung ’round this way and just cut in. Ah, yes. That would be—
“So you’ll come?” The question, asked as it was in a piercing warble, and accompanied by the fervid cut of Celia’s nails on his forearm, captured his attention.
He glanced down at her. Her eyes were far too bright. Her attention too intent. Clearly he had missed something important. “I beg your pardon?”
She blew out a breath, with a hint of impatience and possessiveness that sent his nerves jangling. “To the opera with me. Mother has procured boxes.”
“Ah. I’m so sorry I already have plans.”
Her pointy face contracted. “But I haven’t said when,” she snapped.
“I am sorry.” He bowed to her and quickly took his leave, running, like a craven, to the card room.
It was what men did when they found themselves cornered at events like this.
William Swofford and Penny were already there, with a crowd of Nick’s contemporaries. They all nodded a greeting to the newest refugee, and Penny brought him a whisky.
“You look like you need this,” he said with a grin.
Nick nodded and tossed it back. Then he glared at William.
Who laughed. “What the hell did I do?”
“Your sister is hunting me.” He was damn lucky it was utterly inappropriate for her to follow him here, into this den of masculinity and cowardice.
“Your fault,” Penny said. “For coming tonight.”
“I had to come tonight. She was going to be here,” he muttered.
“She?” William chirped. “She who?”
Penny leaned against the mantel and chuckled. “Nick has his eye on—”
“No one,” he snapped.
“Yes,” Penny said primly. “No one from nowhere. She’s quite lovely.” He glanced at Nick. “Or not.”
“Well, you can’t leave it at that,” William said. “Do tell me more.”
But William lost Nick’s attention as Tully strolled into the room, looking far too smug. He sketched a salute and made his way to the whisky table. Nick joined him there.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snarled.
There was no call for Tully to smirk. “It was the polite thing to do, my man. Saving a damsel in distress.”
Nick nearly choked on his own fury. “She wasn’t in distress!”
“She most certainly was. I could see it if you could not.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
Tully clapped his palm to his chest. “Me? An ass? You’re the one who didn’t tell her.”
“Tell her what?”
Nick’s vexation rose to monumental proportions as William’s irritating query floated from behind him. The bastard had followed him over. “Nothing!” he barked.
“I say. A woman with no name, who hails from nowhere. Whom you’ve failed to tell nothing . . . You can see why I am curious.”
“It’s none of your business,” Nick snapped. “All of you.”
“It is an intriguing story, I must say,” Tully said. “And she is intriguing as well.”
“Oh, you’ve met her?” Penny asked, his eyes bright.
“Indeed, I have. We danced.”
“Do tell.”
“She’s every bit as fabulous as we were led to believe.”
“Who is this woman?” William wailed. “I must know.”
Nick attempted to quell his snarl, with little success.
“In fact,” Tully said smugly, “I will be paying her a call on the morrow.”
Oh. This was the hell. Absolute hell. “You most certainly will not.”
“I will, indeed.” Tully smiled. “Do you happen to know what kind of flowers she favors?”
Daisies, but he wasn’t telling Tully that. He simply glowered.
“I should pay her a call as well,” Penny said.
While irritation swelled in Nick’s gut, something even more heinous caught his attention.
Tully’s frown.
The fact that he didn’t want Penny calling on Isobel spoke volumes.
Tully wanted her for himself.
That was not going to happen. By God. If his friends were calling on Isobel Lochlannach tomorrow, he would be there first.
* * *
Isobel didn’t sleep a wink.
How could she, battered in turns by scorching humiliation and boiling fury?
Oh, and then there was the heartbreak, but it was so tangled up with the other emotions, it was easy to ignore.
How could he have done that? Lied to her? Toyed with her? And then shown up with a smile on his arrogant face, expecting her to simply accept his perfidy?
When she thought of it, she went hot, then cold. Sweat beaded on her brow. Her pulse thrummed.
Aye. Who could sleep? In misery, she fretted until dawn crept over her windowsill, and then some.
She shuddered when she remembered her little speech about the prancing lords of London. He could have told her then. He should have.
But he hadn’t.
And then . . . he’d kissed her.
Kissed her knowing he was just such a lord.
He’d probably laughed at her.
He undoubtedly had.
Probably told all his friends about the stupid, simple Scottish girl he’d seduced.
Och, it was untenable.
Absolutely untenable.
If she ever saw him again, she should shoot him in the arse. It was a damn shame Mama had made her leave her bow at home. Surely they had bows in London? Maybe she could find one.
Her bloodthirsty fantasies were shattered when her bedroom door burst open and an army of dark-hearted hellions flooded in, caterwauling at the top of their lungs. “Wake up, sleepyhead!” they bellowed, and before Isobel had time to steel herself, they launched themselves onto her bed and began to bounce.
The Lachlans were the worst. Aged five and six, respectively, they could only be told apart by the color of their hair. Isobel’s brother was a white-blond, as she was, but her cousin, Hannah’s son, had the jet-black hair of his father. The other beasts included Hannah’s twins, Alex and Alexia, who were ten; their brother, baby Andrew, who was four; Lana’s William, who was nine; and his sister Lileas, who was five and followed her brother’s every move as though he were the second coming. And then, of course, there were her own brothers. She was unsure why her mother had refused to give her a sister, but she had. It had been an unending parade of boys, ever since her parents had reunited and married. There was Andrew, Alexander, the aforementioned Lachlan, and of course Magnus, not even two and just finding his way in the annoying of his sister.
Since the troupe had arrived in London, they’d discovered great joy in descending upon her early in the morning.
Apparently, they were bored.
“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up,” Lileas chanted in time with her bounces.
Isobel caught her and pulled her down, then tickled
her until she squealed. “Do you have any idea how late I was up last night?” she growled.
None of them took her seriously, which was a good thing, because she was only playing.
“Your own fault,” her brother Andrew said with a smirk. “For staying up so late.”
“I had to. We were at a ball.” She glowered at each of them. “Where are your nurses?”
Alexia snorted. “We doona need nurses.”
“Aye,” her twin Alex crowed. “We’re perfectly behaved.”
Really? They were creatures from the bowels of hell. “Did you lock them in the water closet again?”
The twins blinked, quite innocently, and then smiled. It was an expression that sent shivers down Isobel’s spine. “Ach. You canna torment the servants. It’s no’ civilized.”
“You did, when you were our age,” her brother Lachlan reminded her.
“That was different,” she sputtered.
“I doona see how,” William said.
“We’re only following your lead,” Alexia added with a wicked grin.
Isobel sat up in bed and scraped her hair from her face. “I refuse to take the blame for your monstrous behavior.”
“At least we doona shoot arrows in the library,” Alexander said slyly.
“Perhaps we should,” Andrew, the elder, suggested.
Isobel frowned. “If you find a bow, do let me know. I may be needing one to survive this Season.”
Because they all thought she was referring to them, they laughed, throwing themselves onto her duvet and howling with delight. This continued until one of their nurses appeared at the door, looking frazzled and overwrought.
She gusted a sigh of relief and called down the hall, “I’ve found them.”
“Blast,” the Lachlans said beneath their breath.
As the nurses rounded up their charges, replete with apologies to Isobel, little Lileas took baby Magnus’s hand, and before they followed the others from the room, she whispered, “See you tomorrow.”
As the door closed behind them, sealing her into her private bower, Isobel flopped down on her pillows and covered her eyes with her arm.
After that there would be no more sleeping, but at the very least, the little monsters had distracted her from her agony over Nick’s duplicitous behavior. At least for a while.
In fact, somehow, when she thought of it, of him, it didn’t seem so bad.
She still had her family. She still had her life and who she was.
And somehow—she wasn’t sure exactly how, but felt certain it would come to her—she was going to make him pay.
If she ever saw him again.
* * *
Damnation.
When Nick woke up, it was past eleven.
He blamed it on the whisky. Or the fact that he’d lain awake all night thinking about seeing Isobel again, about not seeing her again. About what Tully had said.
Surely she had not been annoyed to learn his true status.
It had been humorous, amusing, and, yes, even a little gratifying that she’d thought him a stable hand . . . and still been interested in him.
And she had been.
Obviously, Tully’s comment about her being a damsel in distress had been designed to annoy him.
It had worked
It worked so well, he’d lain awake all night and overslept in the morning.
Damn, and blast.
He called his valet and dressed quickly, although not too quickly to overlook something critical. When he scrutinized himself in the glass, he was pleased. He looked all that he was. A wealthy, powerful lord, on his way to call on a woman.
Ah. Except the daisies.
Fortunately, he was able to find a flower girl with just such an offering, and he bought her entire basket.
And then, with a whistle on his lips, he made his way to Sinclair House.
He ignored the fact that he’d never actually made a morning call before.
Surely that churning in his gut was excitement and not dread.
To his horror, as he approached the Scottish duke’s residence, he spotted Penny coming from the other direction, with an armful of red roses, probably purchased from a hothouse at great expense.
As the two men saw each other, they both stilled, and then picked up their pace, in time with each other; by the time they reached the door, they were practically running.
Naturally, Nick made it first, but only by a hair. He shot his friend a smirk as he pulled the bell.
Penny glanced at his daisies and snorted and then they stood in uncomfortable silence as they waited to be admitted. Fortunately, it didn’t take long for the butler to come to the door. He took a moment to survey them—down his nose as any good butler would—and then he asked for their cards.
The guardian at the gate did allow them into the foyer then, which, Nick noticed, was wreathed in hothouse flowers. The odor was dizzying. He sent a slick smile to Penny, who had noticed as well. Penny’s consternation was amusing.
The butler took their cards into the parlor, and in that brief moment, when Nick caught a glimpse into that hallowed room, he was left with the impression of pastel dresses, perfume, and feminine laughter.
For a moment, he had to question his decision to come here.
Was he ready for this? Facing the mavens of the ton? Declaring himself officially on the market?
Because that was what this meant.
He was not fool enough to think otherwise.
By afternoon, the word would be out. Viscount Stirling was available.
He shuddered at the thought.
But then, he remembered Isobel’s laugh, her smile . . . her kiss, and he decided it was worth it. Whatever was to come as a result of this declaration.
He wasn’t getting any younger.
And he’d never met a woman like her.
And the thought of Penny, or Tully, or anyone else getting in first drove him to distraction.
So, as the butler opened the grand doors to the parlor and announced them, he pushed in front of his friend and stepped into the room first.
Which, of course, meant he took the brunt of it. The stares. The hungry, slavering smiles. The predatory assessments.
And one frown.
It was the only one that mattered. And damn. Tully had been right. She was upset.
Damnation.
It would take some time to soothe her ruffled feathers. Minutes at least. And in this crowd—he glanced around the crowded room—there would be no privacy.
None at all.
His gaze fell on one maven, one with a particular brand of shock on her elegant face.
“Edward?”
Ye gods. His mother was here.
“Edward!”
And Sorcha. Lovely.
“I say. Penny. Nick. Nice of you to make it.”
Nick’s head whipped ’round and to his horror, he saw that Tully had arrived before them both. His friend smirked as he strolled to Isobel and handed her a glass.
“Your lemonade, my lady.” And then he had the audacity to sit next to her on the divan.
To sit next to her on the divan.
Nick wanted to pummel him.
But there was no time to obsess on this.
Not with the predators moving in.
“Do sit down,” an elderly lady, who was holding court by the fireplace, snapped. “You’re looming.”
“Do sit, Edward,” Sorcha said, patting the seat beside her. It seemed a safe enough place, considering there was another maven, a beautiful woman with red hair, like his mother’s, on his other side.
“What lovely flowers,” she said to him.
“They’re daisies,” he responded, though given her expression, she probably had divined this for herself. “For Isobel.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Indeed?”
“I brought roses,” Penny announced, apropos of nothing.
“Henley,” one of the women called. “More vases please.”
“It’s been a busy morning,” the woman at his side said with a twinkle in her eye.
“I can only imagine,” he muttered, looking around at all the evidence of other men’s ardor. It made him grind his teeth.
“Shall we make introductions?” the elderly woman asked, though it was not a question. “Lord Edward, Viscount Stirling. Mister Edward Pennington. I am Lady Esmeralda Van Cleve, relation to the Duchess of Caithness.” She nodded to a lovely woman with blond hair and a peaceful demeanor. “Her Grace. Lady Lana.”
Lady Lana nodded at him. “It is an honor to meet you both.”
“And,” Lady Esmeralda continued as though Her Grace had not spoken, “Her Grace’s sister, the Baroness of Dunnet.” She waved toward a dark-haired woman across the way. When she smiled at him, a shiver danced up his spine. There was something so familiar in her expression. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Not until Lady Esmeralda pointed his attention to the woman by his side . . . who had very familiar features as well. “And of course, their sister, Susana Lochlannach.”
Of course. Bloody hell.
This was Isobel’s mother.
Sitting right next to him. Horrors.
He swallowed deeply as he nodded to her. Nerves suddenly racked him. This was a woman he had to impress.
What a pity he had no idea how to do so.
He’d never wanted or tried to do so before.
“So nice to meet you Viscount Stirling,” she said, taking his hand in hers.
“Oh, please, call me Nick,” he said, before he thought better of it.
She tipped her head to the side. “Nick?”
“Everyone calls him Nick,” Sorcha said. “On account of all the Edwards.”
“Yes. Of course.” Susana nodded. “Well, welcome.”
Henley appeared then to collect their flowers, and bless her, Susana made a point of mentioning, “The daisies are for Isobel.” She smiled across at her daughter and added, “She does love daisies.”
“Does she?” Penny pouted. “I brought roses.”
Isobel frowned at Nick and then smiled at Penny, which was beyond irritating. “Roses are lovely, too,” she said sweetly but Nick knew she was speaking to him.
Blast.
At his side, Susana chuckled softly.
Nick sent her a frown before he could stop it.
She lifted a perfectly arched brow. “I see you’ve irritated her already,” she murmured. And then she smiled. “Good show.”