How had she managed to imperil her beloved job and be interrogated by a handsome foreign agenton the same day?
In theory, she could have dodged Hooke’s proposal and bought more time, but she’d lost her temper instead.
She could have told the Duke of Northumberland she had nothing to contribute, but she was following him into a dark, secluded park.
Agues come on horseback, but go away on foot, she recited, although she really had no idea what this one meant.
“Bollocks,” she muttered, tripping over a root. Northumberland came to a stop at that same moment and Isobel collided with his back.
“Oof,” he said, taking a step to brace himself. Isobel let out a little yelp, arms flying. The duke half spun and caught her at the waist.
“Careful,” he said, rocking her against him. He was as hard and solid as a tree. For a fleeting moment, she settled her hands on his biceps, pressing her fingers into the fine wool of his greatcoat. The muscle beneath was contoured steel.
“Why are you stopping?” she whispered, snatching her hands away.
“We’ll be safe here, I think,” he said, watching her. A smile quirked the corner of his mouth.
The path had opened up into a clearing. Two benches sat adjacent in a beam of silver moonlight. A birdbath pooled black water that reflected the stars. Night sounds of the city could barely be heard through the dense vegetation of the square.
Isobel bit her lip. Mayfair was not meant to offer up secluded moonlit gardens inhabited by handsome men with mysterious half smiles. Mayfair supplied honest work, a cozy flat, and a peaceful new life. How cunningly Mayfair had misled her. Likely, it was all her fault—her past, stalking her to the ends of the earth. How foolish to believe it would not.
The duke, in no way betrayed by Mayfair, drifted away and dropped onto a bench. He leaned back and a low-hanging rhododendron knocked his head and dislodged his hat. Now the brim extended at an angle, low-slung and rakish. He smiled again, and the expression actually stopped Isobel in place. She felt the very first stirrings of a kind of... shimmering inside her chest.
He whipped off the hat and dropped it on the bench, running his hand through his hair.
“Do you think he’ll really sack you?” he asked, sitting back.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hooke,” he prompted. “Do you really think he’ll sack you?”
“Yes—No.” She thought a moment more. “I cannot say what he will do. I’ll not marry him. If he sacks mefor refusing, he will have no wifeandno business. At the end of the day, he is self-serving. He may keep me on for sheer sloth. He fancies himself a gentleman and does not enjoy work.”
“Oh, to trade places,” Northumberland sighed. He stretched his legs on the crushed gravel, crossing his Hessians at the ankle. “I’d rather work than be a gentleman.”
Isobel was not prepared for the duke to reveal personal details about his situation. But this was a large part of charm, wasn’t it? Openness and honesty were like currency for charming men.
In no way was sheintriguedby his preference for work over a life of gentlemanly ease. But better to indulge his musings than not discuss her future with Drummond Hooke.
“Perhaps,” she ventured, “you are a gentleman with the freedom to also work.”
“I’m a gentleman, I suppose.” A beleaguered sigh. “But the missions I lead for the Foreign Office have been my life’s work. There’ll be no time for spy craft when I return to Syon Hall. I would never be able to do both—not properly. Who has time to meet informants in dark London squares when they are in Middlesex, minding the smelter?”
“Am I an informant?” Isobel asked. The designation ofinformantsounded impersonal, almost tactical. Maybe, possibly, she could tolerate being something like aninformant. An informant did not confess their misspent youth to unknown dukes or relive horrible memories. They spoke about harbors and climate and what the locals eat for lunch.
“It is my great hope that you’re an informant,” the duke said. “Will you sit?” He patted the bench beside him.
“I prefer to stand, thank you very much.”
There, she thought. Some good sense prevailed. She would not sit. She would not say more than was strictly necessary. She would not complicate her life more than it already was. She would be a marginally helpful bystander... possibly aninformant, but no more than that.
“Right,” he said. “So...”
He shot her that half smile again, and Isobel felt the shimmers toss about inside her.
He’s just a man, she told herself.
He’s just a very handsome, very confident, very charming man. And this is not my first trip around the moon.
