Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord

by Sara MacLean

  At her laugh, Nick said dryly, “I would not take it personally, Rock. Lady Isabel almost certainly would judge anyone who reads such gothic drivel.”

  “No!” Isabel exclaimed, “I am not passing judgment, Rock, not at all!”

  “All is well,” Rock offered in the face of her rush to reassure him. “Hang Nick. It is certainly a compelling story.”

  Nick chuckled, and Isabel shot him a quelling look before she rushed to correct the misconception. “It is! When the others read it …” Rock’s eyes widened at her words, and she rushed to correct her mistake. “By the others I mean Lara and our—friends. From town, of course—they enjoyed it.”

  “And you, my lady? “ Rock’s question covered her awkwardness.

  “Oh. I have not read it. Well, not all of it.” “You could not finish it?”

  Isabel shook her head. “I never started it. I did not care for the ending.”

  Nick leaned forward. “The ending? ”

  Isabel nodded. “I always begin with the end of books.”

  Rock’s brows went up. “Whatever for? ”

  She shrugged. “I like to be prepared.”

  Nick laughed, and she turned to meet his smiling eyes. Was he mocking her? “You find that amusing, Lord Nicholas?”

  He was not embarrassed by her insinuation that he had offended her. “I do, indeed, Lady Isabel.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it explains a great deal.”

  What did that mean?

  Isabel resisted the urge to press him on the subject, instead redirecting her attention to her other—more likeable—guest. She moved to a nearby bookshelf and busied herself with looking for the book, willing herself to ignore Lord Nicholas.

  “We have The Mysterious Mother here somewhere, as well. Let me find it for you!”

  “Lady Isabel,” Rock said, amusement in his tone, “while I am grateful for your offer, I do not need another book tonight. This one will do quite well.”

  She turned back at the sound of his calm voice. “Oh.” She smoothed her skirts. “Well. If you decide you would like to borrow it, I am happy to lend it to you.”

  Rock dipped his head in a gracious gesture and said, “I thank you. But for now, I think I shall take myself off to read more about the doomed Lord Otranto and his very unlucky son.”

  Isabel blinked as he began to move toward the door. He was going to leave her alone with Nick. This was clearly punishment. She would never mock the gothic novel again. Never. If only Rock would stay.

  Apparently, the gods had little interest in the good name of the gothic romance.

  She made a last-ditch effort to keep him in the room. “Oh! But wouldn’t you prefer to read here? The light is so fine. And we could discuss the … nuances of the text!”

  “At least, the end of the text, Rock,” Nick said dryly. Isabel wanted to hit him in the head with a text. A large one. The Gutenberg Bible.

  Rock smiled at her. “That sounds wonderful, my lady. Perhaps tomorrow?”

  She could not press him without appearing utterly inhospitable to Lord Nicholas and drawing attention to the tension building between them. A halfhearted “Of course. Tomorrow” was all she could manage as she watched him retreat from the room.

  At the sound of the door closing, the air in the room seemed to thicken, and Isabel was suddenly keenly aware of being alone with Nick. With a shaky breath, she turned to him, uncertain of what would happen now.

  He lifted the glass of brandy that she had refused earlier and moved toward her, reminding her of a large cat on the hunt. She met his gaze, marveling once more at the vivid blue of his eyes. “I should be off myself—I have interrupted your work for long enough.”

  Nick paused, considering the words. “Indeed, you have. But I would never dream of exiling you from your own library. Why not sit? We shall talk.”

  She did not notice that he had backed her up against one of the chairs in the corner until she felt the seat against the back of her skirts. “Talk? ”

  One side of his mouth kicked up at the disbelief in the word. “I am capable of conversation, Isabel. At least, I am told it is so.”

  It was not easy to focus on his words with him so close.

  She sat, taking the proffered glass from him.

  “Excellent.” He followed suit, relaxing into the chair across from her. “Now. Tell me your secrets.”

  Nine

  * * *

  Lesson Number Three

  Do not be afraid to share little gems of yourself to entice your lord.

  When he inquires after your inner thoughts, be sure to share small and compelling parts of your mind—nothing too intellectual … we would not like him to think you a bluestocking! But small, interesting tidbits of your wonder: your favorite color; your preference for embroidery over oils; the name of your childhood pony.

  Master the art of remaining forthcoming, yet not overpowering.

  Pearls and Pelisses

  June 1823

  She froze at the words, uncertain of how she should respond. “My … my what?” “Your secrets, Lady Isabel,” he repeated, his voice low and coaxing. “If my instincts are correct, they are considerable in number.”

  “What an absurd idea,” she said. “Why, my life is truly an open book.”

  He watched her from under heavy lids for a long moment—long enough to give her the real sense that he knew something she did not want him to know. Was it possible that Rock had betrayed her confidence? The confidence of a houseful of women in need?

  It didn’t seem very gentlemanly, but who was to say the enormous man was a gentleman? Indeed, his companion had not acted in accordance with any particular code of chivalric conduct earlier that afternoon.

  Isabel shook her head. She would not think of the events of the afternoon. Not when she was here in her cozy library.

  With a cad.

  One of Nick’s eyebrows rose and he leaned back in his chair—stretching out as if he owned the place—the arrogant man, crossing one leg over the other. Isabel made a show of moving her skirts out of the way of his boots. He watched, a smirk playing over his lips. His boots were nowhere near her skirts and they both knew it.

  Still. He could have been more courteous.

  “Forgive me, my lady, if I say I do not believe you.”

  Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?” she said, her tone as haughty as that of any queen. “Are you calling me a liar? ”

  “I am accusing you of withholding the truth.”

  “Well! Of all the—” It did not matter that he was right. That she was hiding several rather immense secrets from him. A gentleman did not question the veracity of a lady’s words. “Need I remind you that, as a guest here at Townsend Park, you owe me a modicum of respect?”

  “Need I remind you, my lady, that as my hostess, you owe me a modicum of generosity? ”

  Isabel leaned forward, no longer cozy. “What are you saying?”

  “Only that you would do well to tell me the truth about your situation. I’m bound to discover it soon enough.” “I—” She stopped. To which situation was he referring?

  “I know you’re in financial straits, Isabel.”

  “Lady Isabel.” He did not correct himself. “And I fail to see why this is at all a matter of concern to you, Lord Nicholas.”

  “St. John. Or Nick. Very few people call me Lord Nicholas.” She did not correct herself. “And it is a very serious matter to me, Isabel. After all, you brought me here to value your collection of marbles.”

  “I—” She had to tread carefully. “I released you from that request.”

  “Yes, but it seems that nature has other plans for us.” He paused. “How much do you need?”

  Really. The man was impossible. Gentlemen did not simply plop themselves down across from ladies and ask about finances. The conversation was more than crass.

  She could not imagine why any woman would want to land this lord, after all. She certainly did not want to.
>
  That made everything easier.

  “Lord Nicholas—”

  “For every time you call me Lord Nicholas, I shall bring up an additional inappropriate question.”

  “There aren’t many more inappropriate than this one.”

  “On the contrary, Isabel, there are far less appropriate topics that I would be happy to discuss with you.”

  For example?

  He seemed to read her thoughts; his piercing blue gaze glittered with an unnerving knowledge, and in that moment Isabel wanted for nothing more than a list of all those dark topics. She felt her cheeks grow warm at the thought. To cover the blush, she took a pull of brandy, the fiery liquid burning her throat. She coughed once, then twice, desperate to keep the action delicate and not draw attention to her discomfort. When he did not look away, her blush flared higher.

  She must not allow him the upper hand.

  “Two can play at that game, my lord. For every inappropriate question you ask, I assure you I shall be able to find one myself.”

  “Yes … but will you be able to ask it? ”

  It was a test. They both knew it.

  “Where did you—” She stopped.

  There was a long pause while he waited for her to finish the question. She looked down at the glass in her hands, keenly aware of the feel of the heavy crystal, the amber liquid swirling along its walls. She could not finish the question.

  “Where did I—?”

  Isabel shook her head, not looking up. There was a droplet on the very top edge of the glass and, in her nervousness, Isabel touched her finger to the spot, watching the liquid disappear into her skin, wishing she could do the same—to disappear from this room, from this conversation that was so very beyond her experience.

  His voice was low and liquid. “I am disappointed in you. I had hoped you would be a formidable opponent. And it seems you shan’t be a foe at all.”

  Her gaze snapped up at the words, softly teasing. She watched the hint of a dimple in his cheek flash and decided then and there to put an end to his teasing.

  “Where did you get your scar? ”

  The words were barely out when she desperately wanted to take them back. What was she thinking?

  He grinned wide and took a sip of brandy. “Good girl. I knew you could do it. You know, no woman has ever asked me that question before.”

  She was instantly eager to dismiss the question. “I’m sure they barely notice—”

  He raised a lone eyebrow, and the movement stayed her words. “Do not ruin my newfound view of you, Isabel. I acquired the mark in Turkey.”

  She shook her head once, as if to clear it. “I—I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you did.” He held up his glass in a toast. “Now that we’ve settled that, how much do you need? “ Isabel’s thoughts were racing with additional questions.

  He had opened the door…

  “I’m not sure. More than we make off the estate. When?”

  He did not pretend to misunderstand. He dangled his glass haphazardly from one hand, the liquid inside casually forgotten for the moment. “Nine years ago. Are you saying the estate cannot take care of itself?”

  Isabel drank again. She leaned back, pressing herself into the soft chair. “Some months, it can—when we have the livestock, the crops to be self-sustaining. But there is nothing left. Nothing for school for James. No new clothes …”

  “You would like new clothes?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m talking about new clothes for James … for—” She stopped. For the girls. She met his eyes. “Did it hurt?”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  “Worse than a four-inch-long gash on your cheek?”

  He shook his head slowly. “It’s my turn. For the record, I would like you to have new clothes. I’d like to see you in bright, bold colors. I think they would suit you—certainly better than the colors of mourning. I’d like to see you in red. A deep, welcome rose.” Whether from the brandy or his thoughtful tone, Isabel felt warmer all of a sudden. She waited for him to speak, wondering what he might say next, eager for him to continue the conversation even as she feared the topics he might broach. “Why haven’t you married?”

  The question was not at all what she had expected. “I …” She paused, uncertain. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  One side of his mouth twitched in a crooked, knowing smile. “Ah. I see we have found a topic of interest.”

  “I assure you, my lord, I am not at all interested in it.”

  “No … but I am.” He stood, moving across the room to refill his glass. She tracked his movements, wide-eyed, and when he returned with the bottle and offered her more of the brandy, she did not refuse. “Marriage is the answer to your problems, Isabel. Why not marry? ”

  She hadn’t thought there was a topic she wanted to discuss less than the estate’s finances. It seemed she had been wrong. “It’s never been an option. How did it happen? ”

  He sat again, facing her once more. “Wrong place at the wrong time. I do not believe that marriage has never been an option. Try again.”

  “The only men who have ever expressed an interest were friends of my father. If you knew my father, you would not consider marriage to any of his acquaintances an option, either.” She drank again, the liquor smoother—more pleasant—this time. “I do not believe that you were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Try again.”

  A smile flashed as he recognized his own words. “A palpable hit, my lady.” He leaned back in his chair. “I shall tell you, but then you shall have to be honest with me. Are you certain you are up to the challenge? ”

  No. But, in that moment, there was nothing she would not promise to hear his story. “Of course.”

  He raised one eyebrow, but spoke, nonetheless. “By a stroke of immensely atrocious luck and a fair bit of bad judgment, I landed myself in a Turkish prison while in the Orient.” She sucked in a short breath as he continued, “I was there for twenty-two days before Rock found me and brought me to safety. The fact that I walked away with a single visible scar is rather impressive, I think.”

  How horrid. How lucky he had been that Rock had found him. What if he had not been saved? What if he had gone a month? A year? What other, more sinister scars might there have been? Might there be?

  He leaned forward then, reaching one arm out toward her. She started when his long fingertips brushed the space between her brows, smoothing the furrow there that she had not noticed. “I can see your imagination running away with you.”

  She shook her head at the words, pulling back from his warm touch. “Nonsense. I am only happy that you were able to escape your captors. How horrible that must have been. How lucky you were to have Rock.”

  “Do not romanticize it, Isabel,” he said. “I assure you, I deserved the scar.” The words fell like stone between them. What did that mean? How could this man, this lord, this … antiquarian … have done something worthy of such a wound? Isabel’s mouth opened, but Nick continued before she could ask any of the questions racing through her head. “It’s your turn.”

  She blinked once, twice. What had he wanted to know?

  “Marriage.”

  She must tread carefully here. “I … I never wanted to marry.”

  He waited. When she did not say anything more, he prompted, “But?”

  She shook her head. “You are right—marriage would solve any number of my problems … but I imagine it would cause a fair number of new ones, frankly.”

  He gave a little laugh, and when she looked at him curiously, he said, “I beg your pardon. It is only that I have never met a woman who feels so about marriage.”

  She immediately understood that he was thinking of Pearls and Pelisses. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”

  “You have no desire for wedded bliss?”

  “If wedded bliss were an honest option, perhaps I would …” Isabel gave a little snort at the words, looking into her glass for a long
moment before drinking the last of her brandy. The truth was coming easier now. “But wedded bliss never seemed viable for me.”

  “No?”

  She looked up, meeting his curious gaze. “Not in the least. You did not know my father? ”

  “I did not.”

  “How lucky for you.” For a moment, she thought he would say something in response to her acid words. When he remained silent, she continued, “He did not spend much time here—my mother was very much in love with him for some reason … although I could never see why. He was handsome enough, I suppose, and certainly the heart of any party. He was a carnival of a man. But when we needed him, he was never here.”

  There was more to say—much more—but Isabel stopped herself. Lord Nicholas St. John, however easy to talk to, however compelling a companion, was a danger to her—to all of them—and she needed to keep him at arm’s length. “Suffice to say, the idea of a marriage like theirs has never sat well.”

  He nodded once, slowly, as though he understood. “Not all marriages go the way of theirs.”

  “Perhaps,” Isabel allowed quietly before looking back into her empty glass. “I suppose you have a warm, loving, wonderful family. You’re probably the product of a love match.”

  Nick gave a little laugh at the words, and the sound drew Isabel’s curious attention. “You could not be farther from the truth.” He did not elaborate, instead changing the topic. “And so you are selling the collection.”

  The pain of it flared. When she spoke, she could not keep the regret from her voice. “Yes.”

  “But you do not want to.”

  There was no point in lying. “No.”

  “Then why do it? Surely there was a guardian named in your father’s will who is able to help? ”

  “Our guardian, if one might call him that, has not been found. As usual, my father has left it to me to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads.” She paused, then flashed a smile. “Literally.”

  He smiled at her joke, and in that moment of shared amusement, something changed in his eyes, the warm summer blue shifting with awareness, and Isabel knew precisely where his thoughts had strayed—to the roof, the rain, and their earlier encounter. Her cheeks warmed, and she fought the urge to press her fingertips to her face and chase away the color there.