From her most ardent and affectionate friend
Lambert
Instantly, his mind traveled to the Lord Lambert he knew, a viscount, the only man who would sign his name as a title. Heir to the Earl of Denton. They were old Etonian chums, though Lambert had turned into something of a useless fribble with age. Benedict recalled a pale, quiet youth who had been inclined to philosophy. Later, a sallow-faced fop who was always fawning over the latest artist or writer to arrive from Paris. He had married some years ago at the behest of the earl, who ruled his family with the iron fist of a true tyrant.
Surely this Lambert and the Lambert who was Isabella’s ardent and affectionate friend were not the same? It made no logical sense that her path would have crossed with a viscount’s, or that Lord Lambert would have inscribed a volume of poetry in such personal and romantic fashion.
And yet, for all her claims that she was of a different social strata, her speech, conduct, intelligence, and the surprising signs of prosperity in her home all suggested a woman of means. Perhaps not a lady, but not a costermonger’s daughter, either. The scrawl seemed to mock him, so jarring and unexpected.
Well, what had he thought? Had he truly believed a woman as lush and sensual in nature as Isabella Hilgrove would have never been appreciated by a man before him?Good God, the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Lord Lambert and the swain who had professed himself Isabella’smost ardent and affectionate friendwere the same. And if the positioning of the book suggested what he thought it did, that she had been recently reading it…
After he had kissed her and made her come in his orangery, or before, damn it?
He knew a surge of jealousy so sudden and virulent, his hands shook and his gut clenched. Lambert and Isabella?
“Your Grace.”
Her cool voice interrupted his inner torment. He had been so mired in the depths of his thoughts that he had somehow failed to sense her presence. He drank her in now. She was dressed in her weeds once more, hair pulled tightly into a modest chignon at her crown, a few loose tendrils curling round her face. How had he failed to hear the door? Failed to note the way the very air seemed to change whenever she entered a chamber?
He was holding the evidence of his invasion of her privacy in his hand, but it was too late now to hide his curiosity. He snapped the book closed and bowed. “Isabella.”
He could not bear to refer to her formally after what they had shared in that orangery.By God, she had shown him a richness of ecstasy he had never imagined existed. For the past two nights, he had lain awake in his bed, her phantom scent on the air, thoughts of her as impossible to remove as an ink stain, blotting out all else. When she had walked away from him, he had been unable to resist lifting the fingers he had used to pleasure her to his lips. He knew her taste now, musky and sweet, like honey.
“What are you doing here?” she asked him coldly. “And need I remind you to call me Miss Hilgrove?”
If he had expected a warm welcome or even an acknowledgement of what had passed between them, he knew better now. Fair enough. If she intended to pretend she had never unraveled in his arms or spent against his fingers, he would allow her to cling to her falsehoods.
He inclined his head. “I need to speak with you.”
But he would be damned if he called her Miss Hilgrove.
“I am not at home,” she told him, and then she spun on her heel and quit the room.
What the hell?
How quickly their positions had changed. Not long ago, he had denied her entrance to his study with the same excuse. She had marched inside just the same. Did she truly expect any less of him?
He stalked after her, still clutching the bloody book in his hand, so intent was he in his pursuit. And now that he had it, it seemed his albatross. What was he to do? Toss it over his shoulder? She swept down the narrow hall lined with its landscape pictures. Without bothering to look over her shoulder, she reached the stairs and began taking them two at a time.
The damned maid was bustling toward him. He caught her eye. “No tea.”
Her round cheeks went pink. “Your Grace, you cannot…what are you…but that is…”
“I can,” he told her firmly. “And I am.”
With that, he left the stuttering servant as he took the stairs three at a time. He was intent upon his quarry now. Isabella was ahead of him, doing her utmost to feign serenity. One look over her shoulder belied her calm. She looked alarmed.
As well she should.
“You cannot follow me to my chamber, Your Grace,” she hissed, hastening her pace.
Poor lamb. She was short, her limbs petite. Her harried strides could not match his long-limbed ones. He was gaining on her with scarcely any effort. One more look over her shoulder and her eyes went wide. She grasped her hideous black skirts in her hands, hiked them to her knees, and began to run.
He gave chase.
Down the hall she ran. Quick, but not quick enough. She disappeared into a chamber, slamming the door behind her just as he wedged his foot over the threshold and braced his forearm against the portal.
There was no way in the world this tiny woman could match his strength, not even as she plied her entire weight to the other side of the door. Her face appeared in the thin slat, blue eyes, delicious pink lips he could not help but want to kiss.
