Read His Wicked Embrace Online
Authors: Adrienne Basso
His Wicked Embrace (22 page)
Isabella's throat tightened with emotion. “Thank you,” she whispered.
The earl left the bed, returning with a damp cloth. He efficiently wiped Isabella's thighs, then resumed his place beside her. Isabella immediately moved closer and Damien gathered her into his arms. Lying against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, she gradually fell asleep.
Damien woke first and watched the sleeping Isabella with troubled eyes. A single candle burned low by the bedside, the flickering flame illuminating her delicate features. Her brows were knit together, and occasionally she murmured small, incoherent sounds. His chest tightened when he saw a small tear slip down the outer corner of her closed eye, wetting the hair at her temples. Damien raised his hand and wiped the glistening drop with his fingertip.
“All will be well, Isabella. You mustn't cry, my dear. All will be well.”
The words appeared to soothe her. She stirred, then quieted, her eyes never opening, her features visibly relaxing. If only he could so easily prevent their lives from unraveling, Damien thought grimly.
Poole's calmly uttered words had shaken Isabella, yet Damien admitted he was partly to blame for her distress. The contradictions she felt were directly related to the adversarial relationship he had with Poole. Damien sympathized with Isabella's awkward position, and seeing her in pain brought forth a need in him to comfort her, to somehow lessen the burden this mass of contradictions caused her.
There was only one possible course of action left to take. He would find the information she needed to ease her pain. He would discover who her true father was.
Without fully considering the ramifications of his intended actions, Damien carefully slipped from the bed. Isabella's torment would not ease until she learned the truth about her parentage. And Damien was determined to somehow uncover that truth. If Poole's suspicions were proved correct, and he was her half brother, Damien would be faced with the unpleasant task of forming a tolerant relationship with Poole. It was a bitter, unappealing notion, but for Isabella's sake Damien was willing to try. He owed her that much.
Damien made a final adjustment to the bedcovers before quitting the room. He strode silently across the hall into his bedchamber, noting that it was still dark outside. He lit several candles, then began removing clean clothes from his armoire and placing them on the bed.
The bedchamber door opened. Damien whirled around and beheld Jenkins in the doorway, a branch of lit candles in the valet's hand.
“Rearranging your wardrobe at this hour of the morning, my lord?” the valet asked, looking about the room in frank curiosity.
The earl turned his back on the servant and resumed his activities. “I am packing. I need to leave at first light.”
“Packing?” Jenkins repeated. “You are planning a journey? Where?”
“To York. I am going to pay a call on Isabella's grandfather, the Earl of Barton.”
Jenkins gave the earl a shrewd look. “I assume this will not be a social call.”
“Hardly.”
“Are you going to ask for her hand in marriage?”
Damien turned so quickly, he banged his shin against the bed frame. “Damn!” Bending at the waist, he vigorously rubbed the bruised leg, his gray eyes pinned on his valet. “I need no one's permission to marry Isabella, least of all that of a self-important earl who lacks the good sense to appreciate what a truly remarkable person she is.”
“Then why are you going?”
Damien pierced his valet with an exasperated stare. “You know everything that goes on in this house, Jenkins. Usually before I do. I can scarcely believe you missed the drama that unfolded in the salon last evening after dinner.”
Jenkins grinned sheepishly. “Lord Poole certainly turned Miss Browning's world upside down with his revelations,” Jenkins said. “Do you believe she is related to Poole?”
“I am trying not to think about the matter too closely.” The earl threw three linen handkerchiefs onto the bed. “What I truly desire is to smash my fist into Poole's smug face,” Damien said as the anger flared within him. “Unfortunately, that will solve nothing.”
Jenkins reached across the bed and began neatly folding the earl's clothes. “You do realize, Damien, that you could end up losing her. Poole can offer her a far more comfortable life. A place in high society, elegant clothes and jewels, evenings spent at balls and parties and the theater. Given her meager existence working as a governess these past few years, Poole's rich, pampered lifestyle could easily turn Miss Browning's head.”
“She is not like other women. It will take far more than a few baubles to impress Isabella.” The earl gave Jenkins a long, searching look. “She brings out emotions and feelings in me I never knew existed. Her pain affects me, Jenkins, and I am compelled to do whatever I can to help ease it.”
“Are you in love with this woman, Damien?”
The earl lowered his gaze, shocked to feel his ears warming with embarrassment. “I don't know.”
Jenkins stared at Damien's bent head with knowing eyes and concerned features. “Poole will try to turn her against you while you are gone.”
“I suspect he'll try,” Damien said with a philosophical shrug of his shoulders. “However, I am not a complete fool. You will be here, and in my absence I expect you to keep things under control. And make certain you pay particularly close attention to our unexpected houseguest.”
The valet's back stiffened with pride. “I shall do my best.”
“Excellent.” Damien nodded his approval. “I will write a note for Isabella, explaining only that I have left The Grange on urgent business. I prefer that she not know where I am going. The last thing I want is to raise false hopes.”
Damien removed a sheet of paper from his small writing desk and quickly dashed off the letter while Jenkins packed the satchel of clothing. Handing the note to Jenkins, the earl added, “Be sure to deliver it to Isabella when she is alone.”
“Of course.”
The two men left the room, heading for the stables after Damien vetoed Jenkins's suggestion of a hearty breakfast before beginning his journey. His course set, Damien was anxious to begin his trip and would not waste time waiting for an uninspiring meal from Mrs. Amberly.
Jenkins insisted on saddling the earl's horse, and Damien paced the stables impatiently. Dawn was slowly breaking, and a faint mist covered the grass, permeating the air with a clean, sweet smell.
Jenkins led the earl's large stallion out to the stableyard. Damien swung up on his horse and gripped the reins tightly.
“Is there anything else you want done while you're away, Damien?”
The earl thought for a moment. “Poole has said nothing about the mortgages he holds against The Grange, but I feel certain he will begin pressing me for the funds very soon.”
“Shall I make some discreet inquires about the value of the artwork hanging in the long gallery?” Jenkins asked.
Damien looked broodingly off into the distance. “As much as it angers me to think of selling off Ian's inheritance a piece at a time, it might be the only way to save the estate.”
“Of course I could always find Lady Anne's treasure,” Jenkins said with a faint trace of humor in his voice. “Even if the treasure is only half of its reputed worth there will be more than enough funds to pay off Lord Poole.”
“Why not?” The earl gave his valet a grim smile. “Then after you have discovered the treasure, you may as well round up a few unicorns. I daresay Catherine and Ian will be enchanted with the notion of keeping a pair of them in our stables.”
“I'll see what I can do,” Jenkins replied with good grace.
The earl shook his head. How like Jenkins to try to ease these difficulties with a spot of humor. Yet the valet's unwavering loyalty gave Damien a feeling of strength. It made the impossibilities of the situation seem slightly less daunting knowing he wasn't facing them entirely alone.
A shaft of bright sunshine hit Damien's sleeve, warning him that the hour grew late. Giving Jenkins a salute of farewell, the earl dug his heels into the horse's flanks and tore off down the drive at a clipping pace, trying hard not to think overmuch on the problems he was leaving behind and what truths he might discover at the end of this impulsive journey.
Chapter Eighteen
“He is gone? The earl has left The Grange?” Isabella stared at Jenkins in disbelief.
“A most urgent matter called him away early this morning,” Jenkins said, glancing nervously at the floor. “He left this note for you.”
“I see.” Isabella studied the sealed envelope the valet hastily thrust into her hands. A cold dread swept through her, and she struggled against voicing her fears. She thought last night they had shared a moment that went far beyond pure physical pleasure, yet something must have gone terribly wrong to cause Damien to flee without even speaking to her.
With shaking hands, Isabella broke the seal and quickly read the note.
Urgent business calls me away, my dear. I shall return as quickly as possible. Watch over Catherine and Ian for me. Have faith. Damien.
“Bad news?”
“No,” Isabella answered, tensing warily at the sound of Lord Poole's voice. Determined not to be caught wallowing in self-pity, she turned her head toward him as he entered the dining room and smiled brightly. Crushing the note in her hand, she slipped it unobtrusively into the pocket of her gown. “Will you join me for breakfast, Lord Poole?”
“I would be delighted.” Lord Poole glanced about the empty room with obvious interest. “No doubt Saunders is already outside mucking about the estate. I shall enjoy having you to myself this morning.”
Isabella's smile disappeared. “The earl has been called away on business.”
“Wonderful. I hope he will be gone a long time.” Lord Poole removed the bread rack from the sideboard and placed it on the dining room table. He retrieved the butter dish and jam pot, set them cozily on the table, and then held out a chair expectantly. “Sit down, Miss Browning. I will ring for coffee. Or would you prefer chocolate?”
“Coffee will be fine.”
A stone-faced Mrs. Amberly answered Lord Poole's summons, and Isabella watched in amazement as he charmed the housekeeper with a few softly spoken words and a dimpled grin. Leaving the room with a broad smile, Mrs. Amberly returned quickly with a steaming pot of coffee and a large dish of coddled eggs that actually looked appetizing.
Isabella selected a piece of bread, declining the offer of eggs. She sipped her coffee quietly and studied Lord Poole openly as he ate his breakfast. He seemed a man accustomed to being in the company of women, and he possessed an effective manner for dealing with them. She assumed he was unmarried since Damien had never mentioned a Lady Poole. Isabella strongly suspected Lord Poole was a favorite with the unattached ladies of the
ton
due to his pleasant face and polished manner, not to mention his wealth and title.
ton
due to his pleasant face and polished manner, not to mention his wealth and title.
“You are rather quiet this morning, Miss Browning. I trust you slept well?”
“Fine,” Isabella said. Swirling the dregs of her coffee in her porcelain cup, Isabella suddenly felt nervous and uncertain. “Actually, that is a lie, Lord Poole. I did not sleep well last night. And we both know why.”
Lord Poole's expression was unruffled. He forked in a final bite of egg, then carefully placed his cutlery on his dish. “I upset you last evening with my outburst. I deeply regret any discomfort I inadvertently caused you.”
“You showed little interest in my feelings last night. I was given the impression your words were meant for Damien, not for me, my lord,” Isabella said. She glanced at him suspiciously, but his placid expression revealed nothing. “I wonder even now if you spoke the truth about your family.”
“Of course I told you the truth.” Lord Poole pressed Isabella's forearm urgently. “I would never lie about something this important.”
“Then I suppose I must consider the possibilities.” A nervous fluttering began in Isabella's stomach. “My mother died when I was eight years old, and I discovered the day I left my home that the man who married my mother was not my natural father. Perhaps we
are
related.”
are
related.”
“I feel certain you are my sister,” Lord Poole responded quickly.
“I find this difficult to accept, without proof of paternity. My resemblance to Emmeline coupled with my name could be a unique coincidence, Lord Poole.”
“Please, call me Thomas. And I shall feel honored if you will allow me to address you as Isabella.” He smiled broadly at her slight nod of acceptance, and Isabella felt the tension ease from his grip. “I require no additional verification of your identity, but naturally I shall pursue the matter if you wish. My father passed on ten years ago; my mother preceded him by a year. There was no reference to a child in any of his papers. Had I known of your existence, I would have moved heaven and earth to find you.”
“Thank you.” Isabella took a deep breath and released it slowly, realizing that the anger she had felt toward him last night was fading. It was difficult to remain aloof from him when he demonstrated such concern.
Lord Poole's glance shifted to his empty coffee cup. “I would like to know more about you, Isabella. What was your mother like? Your childhood? And how did you ever end up here, working for the earl?”
It was a strange and unusual sensation for Isabella to be the focus of such intense interest. She had rarely spoken about herself or her life with anyone. No one had ever cared enough to ask. Except Damien.
To her annoyance, Isabella's first inclination was to invent a cozy, carefree childhood and a gay, frivolous adolescence. Shaking off the impulse, she slowly refilled Lord Poole's coffee cup and her own before speaking.
“I've led a rather quiet life, Thomas. I have no doubt you will find it dull and uninspired.”
Lord Poole made no reply. And because he didn't press her, or ply her with cloying sympathy and insincere soothing words, Isabella gradually revealed the circumstances of her youth.
She spoke of her mother's death and her childhood fears. She told him of her grandfather's indifference, her great aunt's cruelty, her longing for a warm and loving family. She related tales from her life as a governess and revealed the bizarre events that had brought her to Whatley Grange.
Isabella nearly spoke of her love for Damien, yet managed to hold back at the last moment. She knew Lord Poole would be displeased, and she did not want to jeopardize the fragile bond she was forging with him.
“Life has treated you unfairly, Isabella.”
“There are many poor souls in this world that have suffered far more than I have,” Isabella said, disliking the edge of pity she heard in Lord Poole's voice.
“Yes. But those unfortunate creatures are not my sister,” he replied very quietly. “I know I cannot change the past, but I will do everything in my power to guarantee that your future holds the fulfillment of all your dreams.”
Isabella's violet eyes widened. “That is a bold promise, sir,” she said breathlessly.
Lord Poole laughed. “You will soon learn I follow through on all my promises.” He stood up. “Come along,” he said, extending an arm to her. “I know just where we shall start.”
Isabella rose to her feet. “Where are we going?” she asked as they entered the foyer, her mind whirling.
“To the village. To buy you a new frock,” Lord Poole said.
“Oh, no.” Isabella pulled up short. “I have far too many things to do today. And I must look after Catherine and Ian.”
“They may accompany us.”
Isabella shook her head vehemently. “No.” She offered no further explanation. As much as she would dearly love a fashionable new gown, Isabella felt decidedly uncomfortable at the suggestion. It was far too intimate a gesture. Besides, Damien would be furious.
Lord Poole accepted her refusal, but Isabella could tell by his hardened expression that he was not pleased. To his credit, he did not press the matter and escorted her up the main staircase, his voice and manner extremely polite.
They rounded the second story landing, but instead of proceding up to the third floor, Lord Poole pulled Isabella down a dark hallway. She had never previously ventured into this part of the house, but Lord Poole appeared confident of his destination. Eventually he stopped in the middle of the hall and stood silently before a closed door. Isabella could feel the trembling of his arm through his thick cloth jacket.
“Is something wrong, Thomas?”
“This was Emmeline's room,” he whispered reverently.
He reached up, and with the tip of his finger gently caressed the intricate wood carving in the center of the door. Isabella placed a hand on his shoulder, offering silent comfort, but Lord Poole ignored her and continued staring at the door, his expression morose.
“The children are waiting,” Isabella finally said.
The sound of her quiet voice appeared to awaken him from his catatonic state and Lord Poole jerked forward suddenly, thrusting open the door.
With a startled cry of surprise, Isabella followed him inside. The room was huge and cold and held a faint, though not unpleasant odor. Lord Poole took slow, even steps as he walked to the center of the room, his demeanor pious and somber.
“Everything appears to be as it was,” he whispered softly.
Strolling about the room with a glazed expression, he touched each piece of furniture, dipping his fingertips into the layers of dust as if it were holy water. Stopping in front of the large mahogany armoire, Lord Poole yanked hard on the delicate knob. Isabella gasped when the door opened, and she caught a glimpse of frothing colors. The wardrobe was literally stuffed with women's clothing. Lord Poole pulled out a silver ball gown, his hands trembling visibly. Several other dresses fell out of the wardrobe onto the dusty carpet.
Drawn toward the amazing sight, Isabella ventured closer. She had never seen so many beautiful dresses. There were low-necked gowns of silk and satin with puffed sleeves and decorated hems, muslin dresses embroidered with small flowers and frilly flounces, and walking dresses of stiff cotton in vibrant patterns trimmed with buttons, lace, and bows. The colors were as varied as the styles and materials, shades of blue, silver, gold, green, red, and yellow.
Lord Poole continued riffling through the garments and several more dresses fell to the rug. He disregarded them.
“I don't recognize these gowns,” he said in dismay. His movements grew frenzied as he searched among the clothing. “I cannot recall seeing Emmeline dressed in any of these garments.”
Isabella watched in confusion while Lord Poole picked up the silver ball gown, held it close to his nose, and inhaled deeply. His eyes were sorrowful when he solemnly proclaimed, “Emmeline never wore this dress. I do not smell the sweet floral perfume she favored.”
He quickly retrieved another gown from the pile on the floor and repeated the process.
“I don't believe she ever wore any of these dresses,” he said, after sniffing several more.
“They are all so beautiful,” Isabella said, fingering the smooth satin of a jade green ball gown. “And very costly.”
“Naturally. Emmeline always had the best, the most expensive of everything. It was no less than she deserved.”
“The earl was very generous,” Isabella said dryly.
“I paid for these dresses!” Lord Poole's voice was harsh. “That pitiful excuse for a monthly allowance that Saunders gave Emmeline wouldn't have kept her in new gloves. I handled all of Emmeline's personal finances. All the tradesmen sent their bills directly to me for payment. It was I who cared enough to make certain that Emmeline was given everything she desired, not her husband.”
Isabella nodded her head silently, unsure how to respond. Turning away from the grief and passion in Lord Poole's eyes, she began retrieving the dresses from the floor and carefully returned them to the wardrobe.
Eventually Lord Poole joined her. He lifted a white muslin dress embroidered with small blue-and-red flowers and held it toward Isabella.
“Try it on,” he urged.
“I couldn't!”
“Please, Isabella. For my sake. Try on the dress.”
Isabella glanced at the lovely frock with misgivings. She had never worn such a delicate, fashionable garment. The high-waisted gown had long sleeves with ornamental ruches at the wrists and a blue velvet band that crossed beneath the breasts. Isabella thought the simple, elegant style was romantic without being too fussy. Lord Poole pressed the gown into her reluctant arms.
Isabella felt her resolve falter as she clutched the dress. She was being silly. What harm would it do to merely try the dress on? It seemed such a little thing to make him happy.
“I'll be back in a few moments.”
Once in her own room, Isabella changed quickly, the front fastenings in the bodice of the gown enabling her to dress unassisted. After closing the tiny pearl buttons at her wrists, Isabella anxiously turned to view herself in the cheval mirror. The high neckline enhanced the slender column of her neck and the soft white muslin brought out the natural pink tones of her high cheekbones. Eyes sparkling with delight, Isabella modestly admitted the dress looked good on her. Smiling, she left to show Lord Poole.
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