I will not cry, he told himself. Whatever they do to me, I will not cry.
In the end, he screamed.
Conrad opened his eyes, fully alert, his hands fisted and ready to swing. However, a quick glance revealed that violence was unnecessary: he was alone in his bedchamber. Exhaling a slow breath, he let the shadows fade. He rubbed his hands over his face, relieved that Isobel was not presently beside him. He’d brought her home from the Temple of Flora, and they’d played out one of his fantasies, but the scenario had fallen flat. There’d been nothing nymph-like about Isobel, and she was a shoddy actress. She’d been too lazy to run and too fussy about comfort to enjoy being swived on the carpet.
“The rug will chafe my knees. Forget the games and fuck me,” she’d cajoled.
He’d given up and obliged her. She bore no resemblance to his fantasy female anyway, and no amount of chasing her around would change that. Thus, he had plowed her in bed and, after they both spent, rolled to his side of the mattress and fallen asleep.
Sitting up, he ran a hand through his hair and wondered where Isobel had gone. Seeing the closed door of his attached bathing room, he guessed she was inside. His gaze veered to the pile of clothing on the carpet. Noting her garments entwined with his, he sighed. It had been too much to hope that she was getting dressed and ready to leave. The chamber smelled of sex and cloying rose perfume. Isobel had wanted champagne at some point, and the sour note of alcohol added to the pungency. The mix of smells was familiar—what he privately termed Eau de Regret.
Grunting, he flopped back down and draped an arm over his eyes. He cursed himself for giving in to Isobel. Now he had to deal with her in the light of day when she was someone he only got on with in the dark. He’d had a rare moment of weakness last night, and he knew the cause of it: the country maid. Dwelling upon her had stirred his adolescent fantasies…desires he hadn’t felt in a long time. Not since his ill-fated affair with Lady Victoria Jordan five years ago. He knew the folly of his secret longings. Life had taught him repeatedly not to trust a woman’s promises, even—nay, especially—if the woman claimed to love him.
I’ll come back for you, his mother had said. I promise, darling. Your stay at Creavey Hall will be temporary.
Temporary had turned out to be ten years, and he’d never seen her again.
Annoyed at the direction of his thoughts, he turned onto his side. What the bloody hell was wrong with him? He was no maudlin fool, yet that country maid clung to his imagination like the sticky, reddish streamside mud had to his boots (his valet had complained for weeks after). She stirred up stupid, irrational longings. It was her fault that he’d taken Isobel to his bed because he’d wanted, in that moment, to feel less...less alone.
Less like an unwanted beast running around in the dark with a raging cockstand.
Now he would pay for his decision because he was stuck with Isobel. At minimum, courtesy dictated that he should offer her breakfast. Talking to her would be unavoidable, and he’d never enjoyed her conversation, which consisted mostly of gossip. Outside of bed, they had little in common.
No, he didn’t have the patience for her this morning. Then the idea struck him, and he felt instant relief. Yes, jewelry would do the trick. He would say that he had to leave for an early meeting and, in lieu of his company, he would send her to Garrard to pick out a trinket. She would be dashing out the door in no time.
Pleased with his stratagem, he wondered what the hell was taking her so long in the bathing room. He decided to hasten the process and went to rap on the door. When no answer came, he looked inside.
No Isobel.
His nape prickled, and since his instincts rarely steered him wrong, he shoved his feet into slippers, donned a robe, and exited his bedchamber. He descended the mahogany staircase, listening for unusual sounds. He followed them to his study, and his tension grew when he saw that the door was ajar. He pushed it open. Isobel, dressed in one of his dressing gowns, was at his desk, rifling through one of the drawers. She jerked upright as he crossed the navy and gold Kidderminster carpet to face her.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?” he demanded.
“Conrad.” She gave an uneasy laugh. “You startled me.”
“What are you looking for?” he said coldly. “Who paid you to spy on me?”
She regained her composure with an ease that made him revise his earlier assessment of her acting skills.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, darling,” she said coyly. “Since I woke up early, I couldn’t resist giving myself a tour. I didn’t think you would mind. Your home is so grand that I got lost and wandered in here?—”
“And decided to pick the lock to my desk?”
Tossing her hair over her shoulders, she traded her mask of innocence for one of outrage.
“How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”
He’d definitely underestimated her dramatic ability. If only she had applied herself more while playing the role of the nymph.
“I always secure my drawers,” he said evenly. “If I were to search your person, would I find a lock pick?”
Fear flashed in her eyes, but she held onto her bravado.
“You are an unfeeling bastard,” she hissed. “I will not stay and be slandered in such a fashion.”
When she tried to move past him, he blocked her exit.
“You are not leaving until you tell me who hired you to snoop in my affairs.” He took her by the arm. “Was it Trowbridge? Smedley?”
