He dipped his head and exhaled deeply before his gaze returned to hers. “How may I secure your silence, sprite?”
Isabella dragged herself free of the shadowy hold he had over her, glanced back through the open door, then reached behind her to close it. Leaning against the panel, unwilling to take the chair drawn close to the bed, she gave a half-shrug. “I don’t understand.”
His lids lowered as he swallowed, and she wondered if exhaustion pulled at him in ways that had little to do with the wound. “The laudanum will soon render me incapable of negotiating. I beg of you, don’t play games. It was somewhat amusing earlier, but it’s done now.” He smiled, though forced didn’t begin to describe it. “You can’t blackmail a man who’s asking for it.”
Still clutching the amber vial, Isabella rolled the glass between her palms. “Why this charade?”
“I can’t tell you.”
She moved nearer until his enticing scent displaced the medicinal one lingering in the room. Vetiver, possibly, in his soap, and the fresh hint of rain (though they’d had none in days). She was tempted to slip back in after he’d fallen asleep and bury her nose in his coat to better understand it. Challenging herself, Isabella took another step, close enough to see his dark lashes tremble against his skin as he fought to stay awake. He was almost within reach, should she decide to give in totemptation.
“Things like this only happen in novels,” she finally said—not what she’d planned, but the truth nonetheless.
He laughed, then groaned, his fingers curving around his hip. They were slender, the nails ragged, bitten to uneven edges. It was the first hint of nervousness she’d seen in him. “What do youwant, Isabella Anstruther-Colbrook? Everyone wants something.”
She stared and couldn’t seem to stop. A dreadful moment to discover she was exactly what she’d always been: a girl who dreamed of adventure and fell mute when it arrived.
He sighed and sank back against the headboard, his hand falling idle at his waist. Unlike most men in society, the Earl of Merevale was elegantly shaped, leanly muscled, his long frame claiming most of the narrow bed. A streak of blood marked his jaw, and Isabella had to resist the urge to wipe it away. “Think big, sprite. I’m only advising this because I’m medicinally inebriated.”
Isabella slid into the chair by the bed, fist closing around the amber bottle. The beveled edges cut into her palm. What did she want?
Freedom.
It would do for now, until she decided the rest. Another wasted season or two and she would be firmly on the shelf. Hopeless, and thankfully forgotten.
He had dropped off, his eyes closed. “My lord. Merevale. Regarding the negotiation…” When he didn’t respond, Isabella addressed him more intimately. “Percival.”
“Do I look like a Percival?” he whispered, his lids lifting just enough for emerald to flash through. “My father’s name, oddly bestowed on the second son. Let’s just say I’ve never used it, and I never will.”
“Ever, then.” His mouth hardened, and she struck the bottle against her knee. “Yourdoctorcalled you that. Is the name reserved for a select few? May I join the club?”
His fingers played a jaunty tune against his stomach, drawing her attention. Heat climbed her neck; her toes curled inside her slippers. She began carefully, then rushed the rest. “Freedom is what I’d like. You court me for one month. A fabricated union that looks anything but. The Landry’s ball next week, and one—no, two—teas. And a musicale. I get invited to those tedious things all the time. And a ride along Rotten Row during thebusiesthour of the day. Then they’ll back off until I decide the next step.”
“The next disaster, you mean.” With a pained grunt, he shifted onto his elbow, closing the space between them. His pupils were wide from the drug, but purpose still burned there. “What about Ireton?” He gestured to his torso, the very place her gaze had lingered since she entered the room. “Will I be forced to engage in conflict over your doomed love affair with that popinjay? As you can see, it may be a few days before I’m able.”
She rocked forward, hands braced on her knees, fingers biting hard. “There is no agreement, and there will be no agreement. Not after—” A sharp breath left her as she fell back against the chair’s spindles, setting it swaying. “You won’t be forced to engage in conflict with the Marquess of Ireton. If I told my family, they’d do worse to him than you.”
“Became insistent, did he? Sounds like a typical entitled fop.” Ever eased back onto his side, his mouth tightening with pain. “Remind me, and I’ll grind that little shite into the dirt the instant I’m able. The moment we begin the pretense that you’re mine.”
“Oh,” Isabella breathed, absurdly pleased by his crude manner. Aside from her brothers-by-marriage, she’d never been protected by anyone. “Well, truly, no matter about him. He’s a bit of a noodle, not worth the scrutiny. Nevertheless, if you and I are seen about, cozy but nothing scandalous, then I break it off for a valid reason that harms no one’s reputation,that will do the trick. It must be me who ends it. The woman is always the one who risks ruin.”
When he didn’t answer, she sighed. “You may act pleased when it ends, if that relieves the sting for you. I don’t care.”
“Of course, you’ll be the one to break my heart,” he intoned through a yawn. Would he even remember this negotiation? Would he bargain at all? She had no notion how such arrangements were struck. He did.
“You could profess to be reformed by love,” she said, offering him something in return. “And give yourself the occasion to drop this exhausting performance.”
Reaching more swiftly than she would have thought possible in his battered state, he grasped her hand. His palm burned against hers, heat seeping through skin and bone, his grip gentle but unyielding. She tried not to curl her fingers around his in desperate response. “How do you know I want to drop it? How could youpossiblyknow that?”
She held his gaze, breath lodged high in her throat. “I just do.”
Leaving them locked together as the air thickened,pulsed, an invisible pull her sister Penny had once described after meeting her husband. Isabella lingered in it, letting the sensation wash over her while something unnamed moved through her. His bright green eyes caught the lamplight, sharp and alive, telling her he felt it, too.
“I’m too old for you,” Ever whispered hoarsely, releasing her and sinking back to the mattress.
Pretending the moment had not felt defining, Isabella folded her hands in her lap, fingers closing around the little amber bottle. “I know that. But it’s been done a thousand times, in a thousand marriages. You’re not ancient. Or not very. Not enough, anyway.”
“I have a plan for my Derbyshire estate, and I won’t alter it for you, sprite. I won’t be in London much longer, so weadhere to the rules of this gambit, every last one of them. I won’t be swept into chaos I didn’t design.”
