Isabella noted that Lord Poole had changed his travel-stained clothes and was now elegantly garbed in immaculate doeskin breeches, a starched white linen shirt, an impressive waistcoat . patterned in silver and gold, and a handsomely fitted dark brown jacket. The intricate tie of his cravat suggested that Lord Poole’s valet had also made the journey from London. No man could be so well turned out in such a short span of time without expert assistance, and Isabella highly doubted Jenkins had offered his services to their unexpected guest.
Isabella studied him openly as he presented his gifts with a flourish to Catherine and Ian, allowing that Lord Poole was an attractive man, in a polished and florid way.
“Oh, look, Miss Browning,” Ian called out excitedly as he pulled out a lethal-looking sword from the box his uncle gave him.
“My goodness, is that blade made from steel?” Isabella questioned in alarm, attempting but failing to extract the toy from Ian’s grip.
“ ’Tis made of wood,” Lord Poole responded, “and painted rather cleverly to resemble metal. I’ll own I know nothing of small children, Miss Browning, but even I possess the good sense not to purchase something that would pose a danger to my nephew.” He took the sword from Ian and swung it experimentally in the air. It made a swishing sound. “I saw the sword in the window of a shop on Bond street and couldn’t resist buying it. It seemed like great fun. I do hope you will enjoy it, Ian.”
“Oh, I shall,” Ian assured his uncle reverently, his young eyes shining with pleasure.
Clearly impressed by her brother’s toy, Catherine anxiously tore into the large box with the red bow. Her disappointment was audible as she drew out an exquisitely dressed doll, its long golden hair elaborately coifed.
“It is very pretty, Uncle Thomas,” Catherine said quietly, replacing the doll back in the box. “Thank you.”
Ignoring Catherine’s lukewarm response, Lord Poole hunkered down on the floor beside Ian and Catherine, intent on making a positive impression. “There are several more boxes to open, children. I certainly hope you will find something more to your liking, Catherine,” Lord Poole said gently.
Backing away, Isabella allowed them a bit of privacy as she set the schoolroom to rights, but her eyes and ears strained often to the group on the floor. It was obvious that Lord Poole had indeed spoken the truth. He had little experience with children, but clearly he wanted very much to increase his knowledge.
A gift box crammed full of intricately painted toy soldiers met with a cry of delight from both Ian and Catherine. Riflemen, horse soldiers, infantry, even artillery was brought forth and exclaimed over. Isabella could almost feel Lord Poole’s pleasure at the genuine smile Catherine bestowed upon her uncle. The three began an immediate campaign, pressing the new recruits into active duty.
After a time, Lord Poole stood to stretch his cramped limbs. He noticed that Isabella had remained in the room, and with Ian and Catherine effectively occupied, he seized the opportunity for a private conversation with their intriguing governess.
“You must excuse my forward manner, Miss Browning,” Lord Poole insisted, as he drew himself in front of Isabella. “Your resemblance to my late sister is nothing short of remarkable. Please tell me something of your family history. I feel certain we must in some way be related.”
Isabella deliberately swept her head aside, shielding her eyes. Recalling the many hours she had spent staring at the alluring painting of Emmeline, she admitted it was an idea that often crossed her mind. There was a similarity between her and Emmeline, a resemblance around the mouth and nose. And of course they shared an identical rare shade of violet eyes. And Isabella did not know the identity of the man who had sired her.
Perhaps she was related to Lord Poole and his sister. The notion piqued Isabella’s interest and stirred her fears, yet she felt uncomfortable discussing the matter with a total stranger.
“We have never met before, Lord Poole,” Isabella said softly. “If we were in fact related, I feel certain we would be acquainted.”
Lord Poole shook his head in doubt. “The resemblance,” he repeated softly. His finger reached out and grasped Isabella’s chin firmly. He slowly lifted her face toward the light. “You are her very image.”
“Only a rather bizarre coincidence, I am sure,” Isabella insisted, pulling away from him. Lord Poole was beginning to make her edgy. He had prominent, light blue eyes and a way of dropping his lids over them to effectively shield his expression when he desired. Yet, more often than not, his light blue eyes held a faint look of mockery and his lips an ironic twist as he skillfully probed a reluctant Isabella about her past.
“Where did you first meet Damien? In London?”
Before Isabella could reply, she heard a muffled curse behind her and turned to find Damien watching them with a cryptic expression on his handsome face.
“I so hope I am not interrupting anything of importance,” Damien drawled.
“I was just leaving,” Lord Poole interjected smoothly. “I look forward to continuing our discussion at dinner this evening, Miss Browning.” With a lithe movement, he bowed at Isabella, then turned toward the children to bid them good-bye. Grinning slyly, Lord Poole sauntered out the door, all the while pointedly ignoring the earl.
Isabella stepped forward hesitantly to face Damien, half afraid of the anger she would see in his smoldering gray eyes. But the earl seemed unimpressed by his brother-in-law’s snub. Instead, Damien’s attention was centered entirely on her, casting her a look that gave her a melting feeling right down to her toes. Isabella’s cheeks heated with the memory of the torrid, intimate passion they had shared, the message in Damien’s eyes conveying his strong recollection of that same event.
“I thank you for not further provoking Lord Poole,” Isabella said in a desperate tone, determined to ignore the strong sensual current between them. “I know what an effort it took.”
“Yes, it is indeed difficult for me. Behaving in a civilized and tactful manner is quite wearing,” Damien remarked with a wicked glint of amusement in his grey eyes.
“Especially when one is so unaccustomed to acting civilly, my lord,” Isabella promptly retorted.
Damien merely smiled at her cheeky response, pleased that she felt comfortable enough to engage in verbal fencing. His pride was still smarting from her refusal of his marriage proposal, and having fixed the idea firmly in his mind, Damien was now determined to have Isabella as his wife. He knew he could never win her over if he allowed Isabella to withdraw completely from him.
“Good gracious, what is all this?” the earl exclaimed distractedly as he noted the new toys and boxes strewn about the room.
“Uncle Thomas brought them for us,” Ian explained. He picked up his new sword and lunged toward the earl. “Isn’t it grand, Father? I’ll wager you have one just like it.”
“My saber is safely packed away in the attic, where it belongs,” Damien replied as he neatly dodged his son’s enthusiastic sword thrust. “For pity’s sake, be careful with that thing, Ian.” The earl’s scowl deepened as he stared at the offending toy. “On no account will you aim this sword at your sister, or Miss Browning, or the servants, or any other living creature. Is that clear?”
