“Bride?” Was the woman mad? “We’re not married.”
She jutted her thumb over her shoulder. “Theydon’t know that.”
Hot blood turned to ice in his veins. “Are you threatening me with exposure? I don’t take well to threats.”
Her mouth snapped shut and opened again. “No, I, um, simply meant that I might enjoy being a lady for a bit is all.”
He searched her eyes and found no malevolence there. Could he trust her with his family? He could. He felt it. “Do as you like,” he relented. “Now, if you will excuse me,wife, I have other matters to attend.”
“How will you explain it to them?”
Instantly, he took her meaning. “When the time comes, say in a month or so, I shall tell them that in our rush to be wed we hadn’t done the correct paperwork, and the marriage is invalid. You will have decided you were better rid of me and ran away with an Italian lord.”
Her head canted to the side, assessing. “How easily the lie comes to you.”
He felt himself flinch. “They expect no better of me. I’m the scapegrace of the family, haven’t you heard?”
With that, he strode out of the stall and called for a groom to attend Lady Daisy. Clearly, Isabel could handle herself. His boots a sharpclick-clackagainst herringbone bricks, he stalked to the opposite end of the stable and climbed up to the hay loft, his mind racing. He grabbed a pitchfork and began pitching hay in no particular direction. He needed the physical exertion.
It was that bloody mystifying woman.
When he’d first seen her strolling arm in arm with Montfort and noted their close proximity, it had been all he could do not to give in to the urge, protective and unexpected, to pull her bodily away from the man. It was those eyes of hers. They were clear and direct, yet within them Percy sensed a vulnerability that caught between the chinks of his armor.
A woman with that gaze shouldn’t have dealings with Bertrand Montfort. First, he would exploit her. Then, he would crush her. And, lastly, he would discard her like rubbish once he’d finished with her.
Sometimes circumstance and bad luck bent people to its will and left them with no choice. Percy understood at a fundamental level how expert Montfort was at exploiting such circumstances to his benefit.
Coercion was at the root of Isabel’s relationship with Montfort, Percy felt it in his bones. He needed to get close to her. He needed her to trust him.
There was but one problem: he wanted her.
He’d convinced himself that he could control and channel his true nature into an asset as the Savior of St. Giles. He’d been wrong.
Instead, it had gotten him last night and landed him Isabel. He should have known that his wickedness, once wakened, took on its own life. He should have known he couldn’t control fire. And now he’d landed in it.
He tossed the pitchfork to the loft floorboards and made his way out of the stable. He needed to send a message to Hortense, informing her of his location and that plenty of intrigue was to be had here.
Then he would get himself down to the estate’s beach for a dip in frigid water.
How many years had it been since he’d felt the intimate touch of a woman? He’d stopped counting. The Percy who would have pursued the promise of a woman’s touch and acted on his desire had been locked up long ago, the key thrown away.
He wouldn’t become that man again.
Chapter 10
The library of Gardencourt Manor was a grand room.
Anchoring it was a single long wall lined from floor to ceiling with all manner of leather-bound books that swept down its entire length as myriad bibelots from around the world filled in the remaining space, including a standing globe and pianoforte near the exterior French doors.
But so, too, was the library a cozy room, a place where the family could enjoy a comfortable evening. If one sought conversation, a large central group of sofas and chairs invited convivial repartee beside the carved marble fireplace. If one sought solitude, a snug nook or two beckoned one to settle in and read silently in the far corners of the room. If music was what one was after, the pianoforte and the free-standing harp awaited one’s musical fingers. If one wanted to sample the room’s intellectual offerings, a long rectangular table with bench seating ran along the wall of books, encouraging one to spread out several volumes and dig in to their contents.
It was the latter pursuit that was currently occupying the Misses Bretagne and Radclyffe. Instead of books, they appeared to be consulting no fewer than three maps in muted tones not meant for the rest of the library’s occupants.
The Duke, Lord Exeter, and Lord Avendon weren’t quite so circumspect as they discussed politics in the warm tones that implied more disagreement than accord. In truth, Lord Avendon didn’t appear fully committed to the conversation between his father and grandfather as he kept half an eye on the girls at the opposite end of the room.
It was clear the girls were devising a plan. Isabel had a feeling that Miss Bretagne—she didn’t feel she had leave to call the girl Lucy—was ever in the midst of hatching a plan.
She called to mind the girl Eva had once been. An ache of guilt and grief passed through Isabel, as it always did when she thought about the Eva who had returned to her after her dealings with Montfort.
