She stepped back, breaking away from a moment that couldn’t—shouldn’t—be. Over her shoulder, she said, “I shall be a few minutes, will you—?”
“I’ll be here.”
She should feel mortified about her unasked question and that he’d intuited it so easily. But she couldn’t quite summon the feeling. A lightness had filled her at the reassurance. She wanted him here when she returned downstairs.
What a dreadful, awful, wonderful feeling that he knew her so well. It could lead nowhere good, of that she was certain, but, mayhap, inside Rosebud Cottage they could let its magic spell protect them from the harsh realities of the world outside its walls and not worry about where matters would lead.
Rather, they could justbe.
And leave the future for later.
Chapter 20
Percy watched Isabel disappear up the stairs with the babe. He had finally worked the conversation around to where it needed to be, then he’d—entirely too predictably—become distracted.
Pay a mind to your priorities, man.
He couldn’t protect Isabel if he couldn’t win her trust.
And how could he win her trust if he rhapsodized like a smitten swain? Really, what was that rose talk all about?
He wasn’t certain, except it was the truth. A truth he didn’t think she trusted in herself. She was beautiful,andshe could protect herself. Two rare qualities to find within one woman.
A voice echoed in his head that sounded suspiciously like his old self. Not his old, wicked self, but a self even older, the one who held a capacity for joy.
It was true that she’d become a need in his veins. No use denying it. But . . .
It didn’t feel so very wrong or terrible.
It felt strangelyright.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that she was an addiction that wasgoodfor him. The wickedness she provoked, well, was it so very wicked?
Her light step tapped down the staircase, and he busied himself with an arrangement of purple foxgloves so as not to look the besotted fool he felt. Still, he was unable not to observe her from the corner of his eye as she resumed her place beside the bow window. She was in every way as the Duke had described her—beautiful, intelligent, compassionate—but more.
She wasfresh.
The way the sunlight caressed her, catching streaks of rich, light brown in her sable hair, lingering on cherry red lips parted in concentration on her work. Even Nature couldn’t resist her.
He was but a mere man. What chance had he?
“Do you enjoy arranging flowers?”
His hands froze, clutching a small bunch of pink Sweet Williams, and his gaze lifted. Amused eyes shone out at him. “’Tis”—he labored for a word, any word—“soothing.”
Her eyebrow lifted. She was enjoying this. “Soothing?You’ve never struck me as the sort of man who particularly needs soothing.”
Percy picked up the vase. “This would look lovely on the console table at your back.”
“Is that so?”
In truth, he didn’t know, or care.
In truth, he was seeking an excuse to cross the room and be near her, which he did in quick fashion. He placed the Sweet Williams in the center of the console and, as if it had only now occurred to him, settled on the opposite end of the sofa. Her attention remained decidedly fixed on her sewing. ’Twas time to stop acting like a lovesick swain and start getting some answers. “I’ve found myself curious.”
Isabel didn’t lift her gaze. “Curious?” She pulled needle through cotton.
“About your connection to the Spanish royal court.”
