And then his words came back: ‘I’ve heard about your services.’ Would he have phrased it like that if he’d started the rumour? Somehow she didn’t think so. And what if he mentioned the rumour to Will?
She stepped away from the window, unable to watch any longer. She slid down the wall to the floor and raised her knees, burying her face. Will would ask her to leave now—what other option had he? And even though just that morning she’d thought that leaving his house would solve many of her problems, she hadn’t been thinking that debtors’ prison might be her destination.
She’d composed herself on the small sofa at the foot of her bed by the time Will entered her room ten minutes later. He’d never been inside her bedroom, at least not since it had become hers, and he gazed round curiously for a few seconds. She wondered how it looked to him. Untidy, no doubt, which was its normal state, but embarrassing none the less. Two worn velvet cushions were on the floor, joining the slippers and shawl she’d shed when she’d entered. Papers cluttered her writing table—things she didn’t want him to see, that would notify him she’d been looking for a new position. Her plaster bust of Athena was the room’s only decoration; in a whimsical moment, she’d adorned it with a straw summer bonnet. Will shouldn’t be here, but what point was there in insisting on propriety at a time like this?
‘Isabelle?’ he said gently, closing the door behind him. ‘Are you all right?’
She blushed, feeling wretched. ‘I did not know you’d return today.’
‘I came back early,’ he said slowly.
She looked away. A good thing he’d returned, too. She pressed her lips together, trying not to cry. ‘I’m so sorry you were involved in that.’
‘Why?’ He crossed the room and sat down next to her, drawing her close. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
She sniffed, wiped her eyes and brought her stockinged feet up on to the sofa, tucking them beneath her. She knew it wasn’t her fault, but what did that matter? She had nothing to say, not even to reprove him for wrapping his arm around her. Not when it felt so nice.
‘He won’t bother you again. I wish you’d told me.’
She looked up at him, but didn’t pull away from his reassuring embrace. ‘Tell you?’
‘Yes. I don’t know why you didn’t.’
She sat up. ‘That my father was a thief? About the money I owed? What point would there be in telling you?’
‘I could have helped you sooner,’ he said quietly. ‘You should not have had to withstand that man’s demands alone.’
She allowed herself to enjoy the warmth created by his words for several seconds, but then their meaning started to permeate her still confused brain. ‘Help me sooner? And what do you mean he won’t bother me again?’
He sighed and looked at the wall, obviously trying to find the best way to tell her something he knew she wouldn’t like. ‘I mean he told me what you owed and I’ve paid him.’
She sat very still, dumbly horrified. She hadn’t been expecting that. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
‘And you shouldn’t be so ungrateful,’ he replied curtly.
‘Thank you,’ she said pointedly before repeating her words. ‘And you still shouldn’t have done it.’
He rose and started pacing. ‘What should I have done instead? Allowed him to have you arrested? Do you think I would just let him…let him—’
‘I would have been all right,’ she said, not wanting him to complete his sentence.
He looked at her incredulously. ‘All right? How would you have been all right?’
She glared at him stubbornly. ‘I have been taking care of myself for three years.’
‘And a splendid job you’ve done, too.’
‘I never asked you to help me, my lord.’
He returned to the sofa, looking weary with the argument. ‘Don’t you think we’ve moved past that kind of formality? You might use my Christian name.’
The invitation warmed her slightly, but she couldn’t do it. ‘It wouldn’t be proper.’
‘We’re not proper, my dear. You might as well accept it.’
She didn’t have the energy to glare at him again, and it really would be churlish of her to do so. As he said, she should be grateful, and she was…but her situation wasn’t much better now that he’d intervened. All he’d done was transfer her debt from Mr Cowes to himself. And although Will wouldn’t threaten her with prison, being in his debt would be far more shaming. She actually cared what he thought about her, and she didn’t want to be a drain on his purse. It was bad enough he knew she was the daughter of a thief.
‘I didn’t want you to know about my father,’ she said finally. ‘That is why I didn’t tell you.’
‘Oh, for the love of—It hasn’t changed my opinion of you, Isabelle. It doesn’t matter.’
She looked away. His words made her want to cry again. They were so kind and also so untrue. Of course he wouldn’t understand why it mattered. It wasn’t his father.
‘I don’t mind helping you. It seems as if you’ve done your best to repay him so far.’
‘Help? I don’t know how I’ll repay you.’
‘You don’t have to.’
She still couldn’t look at him. The problems that had ruined her, solved by him in ten minutes. She couldn’t simply accept it.
‘I do. I will.’
‘Isabelle, it’s a lot of money, but not such a crippling sum. To you, maybe, but not to me. You haven’t a chance of repaying it, and I don’t care if you do.’
‘I will.’
‘Very well.’ He said this to end the argument, not because he expected her to. They sat quietly for a minute. She slumped back in the sofa. Will leaned forwards, his elbows resting on his knees. He appeared deep in thought.
‘Your father…’ he began slowly.
She completed his sentence. ‘Wasn’t terribly honest, it seems.’
‘But you didn’t know about that?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d no idea, and if Mr Cowes hadn’t told me, I never would have guessed. I don’t think my father was dishonest in any other area of his life. It wasn’t in his character. He was…not a bad person.’
‘Then why do you think he did it?’
‘I’m not sure. I…as I said before, the war made travel impossible nearly until his death. For years, everything he sold was shipped to him from Italy sight unseen, and because he was unable to inspect the marbles first…I just don’t know.’
‘Perhaps he was deceived, too? He must have records of what he spent on the marbles—if he paid a lot, then it seems entirely plausible that he thought he was buying something genuine.’
She knew the records well; he had made a substantial profit on the small sums he paid. ‘I like to think so.’
‘Everyone makes mistakes,’ Will quickly reassured her. He didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘It was just to this Cowes chap, then?’
She nodded, not taking her eyes from his. ‘I believe so.’ Oh, it was one thing to be reticent with the truth, and another thing entirely to tell an outright lie. Even now, in this moment of frankness, she couldn’t bear to admit that Cowes was just one of many. She hated herself for being such a coward.
He stroked her hair, noting her distress. ‘I can see how that could happen.’
‘Do you?’ She was desperate to hear him say yes. Even though she knew she wasn’t to blame, knowing about her father’s deceit and doing nothing to put it right still made her feel complicit.
Her question was followed by a painful silence, and she looked down at her hands.
‘Isabelle…’ he touched her chin, forcing her to look at him ‘…I understand. It’s not your fault.’
‘I know, but that doesn’t make me feel much better.’
Will wiped invisible tears from her cheeks, wishing their lives had merged earlier, so that he could have protected her from Sebastian Cowes in the first place—from her father, too, who might have been a perfectly decent chap in some respects, but was s
till a scoundrel for putting her in this position.
At least her father’s dishonesty had brought her to him, but right now Will didn’t know if that was a good thing. Here, in her bedroom, with the door closed and her lips looking soft and kissable, his desire to protect her conflicted seriously with his need to push her back on to the sofa and make her forget about everything that had just happened. She was watching his face, her lips slightly parted, and he knew that she wanted him to kiss her, too. That she wanted him to reassure her that he didn’t hate her for the trouble she’d caused him. Perhaps she didn’t know that he could never hate her.
Kissing seemed like the logical thing to do. Her small hand had somehow found his shoulder, and through his jacket’s fabric he could feel indecisive pressure. Then she pulled her hand away, returning it shyly to her lap. Maybe she didn’t know what she wanted.
‘I missed you, Isabelle.’ He didn’t expect a response, didn’t know why he told her. Her face filled with colour and she bit her lower lip.
He watched her, wishing he were biting it instead. But when he leaned in to kiss her, he didn’t head straight for her mouth. He brushed a soft kiss against her forehead. She didn’t pull away. She tilted her head up, giving him permission to proceed.
He shouldn’t do it. She was upset, overwrought with guilt, and in more clear-headed times she wouldn’t permit these liberties. She wouldn’t be leaning forwards herself, silently entreating him to kiss her again, to do it properly.
But, damn it, she wasn’t clear-headed and neither was he. His voice of reason had grown faint, and he could no more resist kissing her than he could breathing. Once his lips found hers she was immediately kissing him back as if his lips offered some kind of solace. It wasn’t a tender kiss, or gentle. It was, in the catalogue of kisses he’d ever given, clumsy, urgent and without finesse. He pushed her back onto the sofa, and she pulled him down on top of her, her hands tugging at his jacket and her legs wrapping around his. His lips trailed down her neck, brushing over the swell of her breasts. Her back arched, and he groaned quietly, wishing he could rip her dress from her to taste her flesh.
He rose to sitting position, dragging her with him, lifting her on to his lap so she straddled his hips. He fumbled with the buttons at the back of her gown, trying futilely to unfasten them without taking his lips from hers. Then he gave up, tugged, and popped three or four loose, just enough to pull her dress down slightly to reveal…her shift, just as frustratingly high-necked as her dress.
Bloody hell. ‘I’m going to insist on a new wardrobe.’
‘Hmm?’
She hadn’t heard him. He didn’t repeat himself. Just tugged her dress down even further so her breasts were free of it, separated from his touch by nothing more than soft white linen. They fit his hands perfectly.
Damn. He’d emitted enough mental oaths in the past five minutes to secure his place at Satan’s side, if his lecherous actions alone weren’t enough. He had to stop, but he felt as if he were going to burst and he wanted nothing more than to thrust inside her. Instead of stopping, he let his hands slide down her back to cup her bottom, pulling her forwards, pressing her against his loins until she moaned. Until her fingers tightened in his hair, bringing his head close for another kiss.
‘My lord?’
Some voice, far away but slowly penetrating his febrile brain.
‘My lord?’ Again. Will went still. Isabelle froze. It was Bartholomew.
God, no, not Bartholomew. The man’s timing was horrendous.
He quickly lifted her from his lap and rose from the sofa. He did not want his butler to know where he was. Bartholomew’s voice came again, sounding as if he were calling from the second floor, by his bedroom. Unlike the man to make so much noise, but he’d have heard about the incident on the street and had witnessed Isabelle running inside, clearly distressed. He knew that Will had conducted a brief meeting with Mr Cowes, and would have heard their raised voices. Bartholomew knew something was wrong, and he was trying to be discreet by giving them fair warning.
In a few seconds he’d come upstairs, though, and Will did not want to pass him.
‘Isabelle—’
‘Will you go?’ She sounded panicked and angry, and she wouldn’t look at him.
‘My lord?’
The voice was louder, and he quickly crossed the room. Too quickly, bumping into a flimsy satinwood table as he flung the door open, unbalancing the plaster bust that sat on top of it. He tried to catch it, but the blood that normally serviced his brain was still pumping furiously below the waist, slowing his reflexes. The bust crashed to the floor, breaking into a dozen pieces.
‘Blast.’ It was unlike him to be so awkward. He bent over to pick up the pieces, but paused to stare. The bust had been hollow, which explained why it had broken so easily. It had also been full of bank notes. Now, a small fortune decorated the floor.
‘Isabelle?’ He turned around to face her, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was trying to tug up her dress to restore her modesty, although she couldn’t repair the damage he’d done to her buttons.
Holding it to her chest, she hissed, ‘Please go!’
He glanced at the floor again. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered.
‘My lord?’ Bartholomew now sounded as if he might be standing at the bottom of the stairs. Will paused to look at Isabelle once more as he closed the door behind him. She was sitting up on the sofa, straight and very still. She’d noticed the money.
Chapter Eighteen
Will straightened his cravat as he descended the staircase.
Bartholomew stood on the landing below, wringing his hands as he debated whether he should climb the steps to the third floor. He looked relieved to see Will, pleased not to have to make that decision.
‘I was visiting Miss Weston-Burke in the nursery,’ Will explained unnecessarily. He knew Bartholomew wouldn’t believe him.
The butler nodded vaguely. ‘It is Mrs Sandon-Drabbe, my lord. She is in the hall.’
Will certainly wouldn’t acquiesce to Henrietta’s unreasonable demands right now. Bartholomew’s voice had acted like cold water on his desire, but his heart rate had not returned to normal. He wanted to go back to Isabelle’s room and carry on where he’d left off. ‘Tell her to go away.’
Bartholomew looked increasingly unhappy. ‘She says it is urgent, my lord.’
‘I don’t care,’ Will said impatiently. By now, Isabelle would have rearranged her clothes, straightened her hair, primmed herself neatly, unassailably. This had already taken too long. ‘She always says it’s urgent. Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow.’
‘William!’ Henrietta’s voice carried up the stairs.
‘Tell her, Bartholomew. Go now.’
The butler turned reluctantly, obviously also in no mood to face her. He was saved from the confrontation, though—Henrietta was already marching up the staircase.
Will frowned at her darkly. ‘Henny, I’m rather busy. Come back tomorrow.’
She stopped halfway up to glare at him, looking breathless and annoyed. ‘I am not leaving, William! Come downstairs this instant.’
He closed his eyes, searching for patience. ‘What, exactly, is the problem?’
Her gaze touched on Bartholomew briefly. ‘It is a private matter.’
‘Private? Is that why you’re making a scene?’
‘I will tell you in the drawing room. I have been waiting for your return for days, and I will not leave until we’ve—’
‘Very well,’ Will said tersely. The sound of her voice grated on him, and he’d just waste precious time arguing with her any further. It would be some trifling matter. He’d deal with it quickly and send her on her way.
Isabelle sat at the top of the stairs, listening to them arguing on the landing below. The exchange between Will and Bartholomew had been barely audible, but the agitated, high-pitched voice of his cousin had carried clearly. She waited tensely until their voices ceased. They’d almost certainly headed to the drawi
ng room on the first floor and would be there for many minutes. She’d a pretty good idea what had caused the woman’s distress. She’d heard the rumour. Unfortunately, at that moment Isabelle was no longer sure it was false. She wasn’t Will’s mistress, but she’d definitely enjoyed what he’d just done to her. He’d been moments from…Oh, God, and she’d let him do it. She’d been begging for more. How mortifying.
Shaking slightly, she returned to her bedroom. She sat on the floor, next to the broken bust. She shifted the pieces to the side, revealing even more bank notes. Obviously her father had neglected to mention something rather important before his heart had failed. How much was there? Enough to repay Will, she hoped, and perhaps enough to have saved her from being in this situation in the first place.
If only she’d known.
But she hadn’t. And now it was too late.
‘What in the name of God is this about, Henrietta?’ Will demanded once he’d shut the door firmly behind them. His face flushed with anger and frustration, but he tried to remain calm.
Her nostrils flared slightly. ‘How can you not know?’
‘Not know what? I’ve been in the country all week, as you’re aware.’
‘Yes, but I’m shocked it didn’t reach you there, considering everyone has heard about it. I shrugged it off at first, but everywhere I’ve been…’ She paused, looking at him accusingly. ‘Do you know how I learned of your return?’
‘I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.’
‘Mrs Westerham, your neighbour, saw you strike a man on the street—just outside. She came to my house and told me at once. She knew I’d been beside myself with anxiety during your absence.’
He wished Henny didn’t live so close, and he wished he didn’t live next to her gossipy friend, Caroline Westerham. ‘Is that what this is about? You raced over here because I hit someone? Does it matter that he deserved it?’
The Earl and the Governess Page 19