Sunrise with a Notorious Lord

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “It seemed appropriate since most of the ton believes we are beasts walking about on two legs,” Vane explained to the marquess.

  “Very true,” he said, his forearms resting on the top of the railing as he surveyed the crowd below waiting to greet Lord and Lady Fiddick. “Have you seen Regan, Juliana, and Sophia’s costumes? The ladies collaborated and are attending as the Moirae. I believe Sophia is portraying Clotho, Juliana is dressed as Atropos, and Regan is Lachesis.”

  Vane’s attention kept shifting back to the Fiddicks’ front door. “The Moirae … are they not depicted as old crones in Greek mythology?”

  All three women were exceptionally beautiful. Even masked, no one would mistake them for ugly hags.

  Saint chuckled. “I never said that they were striving for an accurate representation.”

  A small commotion below had both gentlemen leaning over. Vane grinned at Saint as he realized that Isabel and Delia had arrived. Even masked, he would have recognized them: Very few women matched their willowy statures. Delia strode through the threshold first wearing a light blue round dress with silver netting. Isabel had told him that her sister would be attired as a sea nymph. Her costume evoked approving murmurs from nearby guests.

  Saint apparently approved of Delia’s costume as well.

  “Hmm, this hawk might make an exception and plunder the sea for prey this evening.”

  Before Vane could reply, Isabel entered the front hall. Her half mask in place, she had donned the white stola he had selected for her. To cover her bare arms, a gold silk palla was pinned at her right shoulder and draped across her body.

  The guests around her started to laugh and applaud when they glimpsed her small companion.

  “By God, is that a pig?” Saint clapped, enjoying the spectacle as Isabel used a plaited leather tether to lead her pig toward her host and hostess. “Who is Isabel supposed to be?”

  Neither Vane nor Saint had noticed that Frost had joined them. Lifting his black reptilian mask from his face, he peered down at Isabel, his eyes glittering with undisguised appreciation.

  “Is it not obvious? The lady is Circe.”

  * * *

  Her grand entrance had been shared with a pig.

  Isabel would never forget Lord Fiddick’s expression when she handed him the pig with her compliments. It seemed the most practical solution, since she did not relish strolling about the ballroom with an animal nibbling on the hem of her dress all evening.

  Masked guests circled her, slowing her progress to the ballroom. Had Vane witnessed her entrance? She had searched for him, but of course everyone was masked and he had not revealed the nature of his costume.

  She had lost Delia before she had greeted Lord and Lady Fiddick. There was no sign of her pale-blue-and-silver costume. By the time she had reached the ballroom, an hour had passed. During her search, she had stumbled about Lord Sinclair and his wife, Juliana; received numerous invitations to dance, one of them from the Duke of Huntsley; and spent half an hour standing beside Lady Netherley in the hope that Vane would find her.

  Eventually, the tight mask and the overly warm ballroom took their toll on her high spirits. Excusing herself from the small group of people surrounding the marchioness, Isabel left the ballroom and ascended the large staircase. She removed her mask. Someone had mentioned that several rooms had been prepared for guests seeking solace from the music and confusion, and it was exactly what she needed before she renewed her hunt for Vane and her sister.

  What Isabel had not expected was to find them together.

  Her hand still poised to open the door, she silently stepped to the side so the couple could not see her. The large mirror mounted on the wall provided her a glimpse of their reflections without risk of discovery.

  Both of them had removed their masks.

  “You are not being very discreet, Delia,” Vane said, and Isabel could hear the humor in his voice.

  “Nor are you,” her sister countered. “I suspect neither one of us is burdened with such principles as Isabel.”

  Isabel recoiled as Delia spoke her name. They were speaking too softly for her to hear everything that was being said. She tilted her head and closed her eyes to concentrate. Her desire to eavesdrop on their private conversation had nothing to do with her own confusing feelings for Vane. Lady Netherley would want to be apprised of these latest developments.

  “I do not feel reasonable,” Vane muttered. “What do you want, Delia?”

  Her sister laughed smoothly. “Perhaps you are asking the wrong question, my lord. Here, allow me to demonstrate.”

  Isabel’s eyes opened at the deafening silence. With dread, her gaze sought out the mirror and her heart stopped. Entwined in a passionate embrace, Vane was kissing Delia.

  A soft gasp escaped Isabel’s lips.

  Her body tensed as Vane tore his mouth away from her sister’s ravaged lips, his hand still protectively clasping Delia’s shoulder. “Who’s there?”

  Isabel backed away from the partially opened door. A confrontation was the last thing she desired. Whirling away, she hurried down the corridor.

  “Isabel!”

  She ignored Vane’s order to halt, and made her way down the staircase. When she reached the landing below, she brought her half mask to her face and moved through the crowd. With her face covered, no one knew who she was, and Isabel was grateful for her anonymity. Stepping behind an alabaster column, she watched from afar as an unmasked Vane searched the sea of guests. A look of pure frustration darkened his features, but he had yet to give up his search for her.

  Isabel strolled away from the column, and used the steady stream of merry revelers to conceal her movements, though the ruse was unnecessary. Vane had decided to search other parts of the house for her. She did not realize she was holding her breath until pain in her chest forced her to exhale.

  “Pardon me,” a gruff, unfamiliar gentleman muttered as he tried to pass by her. Noting her attire, he stiffened, and Isabel braced herself for a stern lecture on the choice of her brazen costume this evening.

  “Are you Miss Thorne? Miss Isabel Thorne?”

  Isabel’s mouth parted in surprise. Although she had only glimpsed him from a distance, she was positive this masked harlequin was her grandfather Lord Botly.

  Unprepared for this inevitable encounter, she meekly replied, “No, my lord. I am Circe.” She curtsied and moved away from him.

  Isabel would rather risk running into Vane than confront her indomitable, unforgiving grandfather who had preferred to ignore her and Delia’s existence. He probably had come to warn her off. After all, this was his world, not hers.

  But it could be her sister’s world if Delia and Vane married.

  “No, damn you, I did not mean your costume. I—”

  Isabel did not hear the rest; Lord Botly’s explanation was muffled by the surrounding noise. She made her way toward the main staircase. With no sign of Vane, she descended the stairs, all thoughts centered on fleeing the house before she was caught again by the two gentlemen she intended to avoid.

  Collecting her cloak from a helpful servant, Isabel continued out the front door with her half mask in place. Once the wind caught her hair, an ominous sign of the storm that was approaching, Isabel belatedly noticed that the congested coaches and carriages all looked more or less alike in the gloom. Undeterred, she strove onward, ignoring the curious stares from coachmen and footmen, hoping that when she reached the end of the long, snaking line of equipage she would find a hackney coach willing to drive her home.

  A brutal gust of wind caught her skirt and cloak like a sail and pushed her sideways. Casting aside her half mask, Isabel struggled with her unruly cloak. A drop of cold rain hit her on the forehead, and she glanced up at the dark sky.

  Lightning flashed overhead.

  “Isabel!”

  An unflattering yelp escaped her lips as firm, rough hands seized her by the shoulders and spun her around. Hatless, Vane was scowling at her.

 
; “Only a madwoman would wander out into the night in the middle of a thunderstorm!” he yelled to be heard over the wind.

  “What concern is it of yours, Lord Vanewright?” she sneered, attempting to push him away. “Go back indoors!”

  Back to Delia.

  “Tell me what is wrong. I will fix it if I can.”

  Even under the dim lamplight of the nearby coaches, Isabel could see the sincerity in Vane’s face.

  She swiped at the wetness on her cheek, praying he would mistake it for rain. “There is nothing for you to fix. Everything is as it should be,” Isabel said, striving for the calm that always eluded her whenever she was around him. For better or worse, Vane had a bad habit of tilting the axis of the life she had built for herself. “Just go.”

  The wind caught the some of her hair and whipped the strands about, nearly blinding her. Vane closed the space between them and smoothed the offending wisps away from her eyes.

  “It was the kiss,” he said bluntly. “What were you doing? Spying on us?” He cursed under his breath. The coarse vulgarity directed at her made her cheeks burn in shame.

  “Of course not!” she replied, outraged by the mere suggestion that such a reprehensible purpose had brought her to that door. “I had spotted Lord Botly in the crowd, and I wanted to warn Delia,” she lied. “When I went searching for her, I did not expect”—the lump in her throat seemed to double in size—“I did not mean to eavesdrop. Not precisely. I felt awkward, and did not know what to do, particularly when I saw you and my sister…” She trailed off, unable to finish.

  Vane tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. The gesture was absent, almost tender. “You saw Botly. Did he approach you?”

  “Later, when I—he asked me if I was Miss Thorne. I told him that I was Circe and slipped away before he could question me further.”

  The rain was becoming a nuisance. Isabel reached back and tugged the hood of her cloak over her head. Her elegant coiffure was ruined. All she wanted to do was crawl into her bed and never leave it. In the coming years, Delia and Vane could bring their children to visit their bedridden spinster aunt.

  “You ran from me.”

  The steady intensity of his eyes flustered her. “N-no.”

  “It upset you to see me and Delia kissing.”

  Was he deliberately being cruel? Her heart was ripped from her chest when she saw them kissing. Sheer tenacity and pride kept her from dissolving into tears. “Not at all. In fact, I am very happy for you both.”

  The blackguard had the audacity to grin at her. “How many times do I have to tell you that you are an atrocious liar, Isabel? Admit it. You wanted to slap my face for kissing Delia.”

  Isabel gritted her teeth. “Calling me a liar gives me reason enough, Lord Vanewright.”

  She squeaked as he backed her up against the side of the waiting coach, his body sheltering her from the elements and preventing her from escaping. “If you do not have the sense to return to the ball, then I shall. Move aside!”

  “Poor little Isabel. How much did you glimpse through the narrow gap of the door? What did your sharp dainty ears overhear? Did you see me put my wicked hands on Delia? See me pull her against my aroused body, caress her tempting lips with my mouth? Did you feel a flutter of excitement in your own belly because you knew exactly what it felt like to have my—”

  “Yes! I saw it all and I am sorrier than you will ever know. There … are you happy?” She pushed against his chest, but somehow her frantic efforts to escape only brought him closer. The warmth of his body seeped into her, taking away the chilly dampness of the stormy night. “P-please, I beg of you. Just let me go.”

  Vane startled her by giving her a vigorous shake. “Either you weren’t paying attention or you might want to consider a good pair of spectacles, Isabel. You did not see me kissing Delia.”

  Her lips trembled with fury. “Now who is the liar? I saw you—”

  “No! You saw Delia kissing me!” he shouted at her. “Your clever brain took snippets of a conversation and glimpses of supposed misdeeds, and wove it all into a tragic tale of love lost worthy of Shakespeare.”

  “I know what I saw,” she said, though there was little conviction in her voice.

  “Heed me, Isabel Thorne, for I will only say this once. Delia followed me into the informal parlor with the purpose of discussing my attentions to you. When I refused to speak of our friendship, she decided to twist the meaning of my words and concluded that my interest in the Thorne sisters was because of her. Before I had a chance to deny it, your sister had wrapped herself around me like a choking vine and you were running down the passageway, convinced I was the worst kind of scoundrel.”

  Was it possible that Vane was telling the truth?

  The pain in her heart eased at the glimmer of hope his confession had given her. “I thought—” Isabel shook her head, ashamed by her behavior. “You were right to call me a madwoman. I should have stayed and demanded an explanation.”

  And slapped his face for good measure!

  Deducing her thoughts, Vane’s lips twitched. He placed his finger against her lower lip. “Hush.”

  Oblivious to the discomfort of the rain or their surroundings, he stroked her lip, the gesture igniting every nerve in her body as if she had been struck by lightning.

  “Now pay attention. I do not want any misunderstanding between us,” he said, his eyes dark and wild as the sea in a summer storm. “A lady filled my thoughts all evening, but it wasn’t Delia whom I longed to drag into my arms and kiss until she was warm and adoringly befuddled. It was you, Isabel.”

  His admission staggered her. “No, it cannot be true.”

  “Stubborn woman,” he admonished softly. The teasing, almost husky quality of his voice should have warned her that her denials were mild hindrances to a man such as Vane. “How can I prove myself to you?”

  “There is no need—”

  Vane lowered his head and kissed her.

  Chapter Twenty

  She tasted of tears and rain.

  Vane had been longing to put his hands on Isabel ever since he’d observed her grand entrance as Circe, complete with a tethered pig waddling along at her heels. Although Isabel would deny it, she was charming the ton with her beauty, quiet nature, and subtle wit. Lord Fiddick was probably still regaling everyone about Miss Thorne’s offer to change any of his disagreeable guests into pigs. When she presented the small pig as a gift to the earl and his wife, Lord Fiddick laughed so hard his face turned an alarming crimson hue.

  Fiddick and the ton were not the only ones under Isabel’s spell.

  With each meeting, Vane craved more from the lady. Dances and stolen kisses had whetted his appetite and imagination. There were nights when all he could think about before exhaustion claimed him was Isabel. He hungered for her caress, the softness of her lips, the shy awareness that crept in her expression when she sensed the desire he often tried to conceal from her.

  Satisfied that the storm had chased away even the most daring, Vane pressed Isabel against the wall of the coach and deepened their kiss. The kiss Delia had given him might have appeared pleasurable, but he had felt nothing—that was, until he realized that Isabel had stumbled across them. Then he was bloody furious. Delia was an obvious little minx. He should have guessed her intentions the moment she entered the room.

  Kissing Isabel was different.

  She was sunshine and innocence, and coaxing shy endearing kisses from her filled him with a tenderness that he thought he was incapable of giving to anyone.

  Isabel also maddened him with a wild, hot-blooded animal lust.

  Vane had lost count of how many times that he wanted to forget that she belonged to someone else and toss her over his shoulder. If she would have him, he would carry her off and keep her in his bed until the fever in his loins cooled.

  Isabel made a soft breathy sound against Vane’s cheek as his lips nibbled their way down to her bare neck. It was such a lovely neck, he silently mused,
wondering if she would allow him to buy her a diamond necklace. Paste would not do for Isabel Thorne.

  His hand slid possessively around her waist. “Damn your almost betrothed circumstances. The gent doesn’t exist here in London. Come away with me,” he said, nipping her neck.

  Thunder rumbled overhead.

  “What?” she asked, sounding bemused. “Delia—”

  Vane pulled back, and cupped her face with his gloved hands. “You were already planning to abandon Delia,” he said, kissing her again because he preferred to keep her off balance. If Isabel had little thought for the man who desired her hand in marriage, the man was less than nothing to Vane. “Let us leave. Now.”

  He wanted to take his time when he peeled her out of her damp garments. She deserved a proper bed, not a careless shag against the coach.

  Her brown eyes were large and luminous. “How can we? No, it is too reckless!”

  “We have the rest of our lives to embrace our responsibilities.” Vane could tell by her frown that she was considering his wicked proposition.

  “But—”

  Vane sealed off her words with a lingering kiss. With a gentle touch of his fingers, her lips parted and his tongue slid over her lower teeth. Proud of the lovemaking skills he had honed at a young age, he teased and tempted her without words.

  If that did not work, he was desperate enough to beg.

  “Say yes.”

  His heart was caught in his throat when Isabel remained quiet. Then she began to nod. It took him a moment to grasp that she was agreeing to come with him.

  “Yes.”

  Isabel offered him the shy, brilliant smile that always managed to bring his cock to life.

  Vane pounded on the side of the coach. “Maston, are you awake?”

  “Not likely sleeping with all this rain trickling down my back” was the coachman’s gruff reply.

  Wide-eyed, Isabel glanced warily up at the man who had been sitting silently on his perch. Clearly she hadn’t even noticed that they weren’t alone—something for which Vane would gladly reward Maston with a cask of porter.