She’d been only half listening, but her ears went red at the mention of the name “Jason.”
She knew of only one Jason.
Of course she did not think of him as “Jason.” Her many misguided speculations and remembrances styled him simply as “Northumberland,” but she knew his given name. She knew most things about him, considering the wasted hours she spent poring over all available accounts.
Isobel blinked at the notes, seeing only a blur. She bit down on the end of her pen. Finally, she looked up, trying to school her face into passive curiosity.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“Mynephewurged me to seek you out. My own son would force me to holiday in Scotland every summer and be done with it. Such a tyrant, my son. The world is so very small to him, and he’s so protective. But mynephewrespects my adventurer’s spirit—ah, but here he is. Jason, darling!”
Isobel watched in disbelief as the dowager beamed at an unseen figure behind her, beckoning him with the happy twirl of a bracelet-tinkling wrist. The dowager’sfootman straightened to attention and the drowsing lady’s maid scrambled to her feet.
Not him,Isobel chanted in her head.Not him. Not him.
It is not Jason Beckett, the Duke of Northumberland.
It is Jason Anybody Else, someone I’ve never met or kissed with wild abandon.
“Hello, my lady,” rumbled a friendly male voice from behind her—an achingly familiarvoice. Unmistakable. The voice she heard in her dreams.
Isobel slowly closed her eyes. She counted the racing beats of her heart. She drew a shaky breath.
When I open my eyes, she thought,this will not be—
“Oh, but Miss Tinker is everything you promised,” sang the dowager. “Ah, just look at her, so very deep in thought. Planning my journey already.”
Isobel was given no choice but to open her eyes. “Forgive me, my lady,” she said, locking eyes with the dowager.
She would not look at him. She would not look at him.
Shewould not look.
“I was trying to recall—”
“How do you do, Miss Tinker?” said Nephew Jason, now a large, looming blur in Isobel’s periphery. He was solid and opaque and unmoving. She could feel the warmth of his body. She could smell him.
With very great effort, Isobel tore her eyes from the dowager’s and glanced up at him. “How do you do?” she rasped, a reflex.
It was him, of course, and her reaction to the sight of him was like the crack of a rifle, loud and reverberating. A shattering of the calm. His beautiful face was relaxed and curious and a little amused. His masculine body towered above the dainty tea service. Isobel felt shot—nottaking the bullet, but propelled from the barrel of the gun.
Him.
“I trust you’re taking good care of my aunt,” he said. “You’ll not find a traveler more eager to see the world, I daresay. This journey has been many years in the making.”
“So true,” bemoaned the dowager, reaching again for Isobel’s watercolor illustrations. “You know me too well, darling, and that is why you are my favorite nephew.”
“Indeed,” Jason agreed. He was staring at Isobel’s face. Isobel knew she should look away—she should attend the dowager, she should take a sip of tea, she should look anywhere else—but she gaped up at the duke as if she’d never before seen a human male.
He went on, not looking away. “Would you mind, my lady, if I spoke to Miss Tinker alone for just a moment? You’ll remember I said her office sometimes arranges travel for my work.”
“Such dangerous derring-do,” tsked the dowager, waving them away. “Of course my son will have no qualms about a holiday planned by the same office that looks after your important missions, darling...”
“Leave the earl to me,” assured the duke lightly, stepping behind Isobel’s chair and pulling it from the table. Isobel was given no choice but to rise. “I’ll make certain that you get your Roman holiday.” He gestured to the staff.
To Isobel he said, “Can I impose on you to join me outside, Miss Tinker? There is something of grave importance I should like to discuss.”
Chapter Seven
