Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (11 page)

Good heavens,
this
was Saint. Another one of the Lords of Vice. The knowledge must have shown on Isabel’s face, because she could have sworn both gentlemen’s lips twitched as if they were trying not to laugh.

“Vane, you are correct,” Lord Sainthill said, his blue eyes scrutinizing Isabel’s face. “Almost to a fault. I envy you, my friend.”

Twenty minutes later, Lord Vanewright had suggested that the ladies should disembark from the carriage and enjoy the park as pedestrians. Lady Netherley eagerly agreed, claiming that her bones had rattled long enough to produce a variety of aches and pains.

While the coachman shook out a large wool blanket for the marchioness and Lady Susan to sit upon while they admired their surroundings, Isabel, Delia, Lord Vanewright, and Lord Sainthill ambled ahead discussing London, the weather, and Lord Fiddick’s masquerade ball, which would take place weeks from now.

Isabel wasn’t certain if it was planned or by accident, but somehow the two couples slowly separated as their conversations also went in different directions. Delia was ahead with Lord Sainthill listening intently to her words. It was an intriguing pairing, one that Lady Netherley would not be pleased about.

“You do not have to fret about Saint,” Lord Vanewright said, startling her from her musings. “On occasion, he can be respectful.”

Isabel could not confide to the earl her true concerns. “I was not questioning your friend’s—”

“Of course you were, Miss Thorne,” he countered, even though he did not appear to be insulted that she might be questioning Lord Sainthill’s intentions. “Let me guess. Someone mentioned that Saint and I are sometimes referred to as the Lords of Vice.”

She paused and stared off at the water. The sunlight caused its surface to glitter like diamonds in the distance. “Saint was mentioned, but yours was the only one of the seven names that I recognized. You told me that your friends called you Vane. When Lady Kempe—”

“Lady Kempe.” His jaw tightened in anger. “Meddlesome woman. She apparently thought she needed to scare you off.”

Good grief, their conversation was becoming decidedly awkward. Isabel looked away and delicately cleared her throat. “Not precisely. The countess and Lady Howland are aware that your mother has high hopes of you finding a bride this season.”

The earl bowed his head as if the weight of it was too much to bear. “Lady Howland, too. How the devil did you get cornered by those two harp—er, ladies,” he demanded, indignant that his private business had been openly discussed with her.

“No one waylaid me with gossip,” she assured him. “We were playing whist at Lord and Lady Wodgen’s house, and Lady Kempe happened to mention you and your friends.”

“Christ! Whist at the Wodgens’s.” Lord Vanewright closed his eyes as he struggled with his temper. His right hand folded into a fist. “Of all the nonsensical rubbish … and the Wodgens—just wait until Saint hears about this!”

Isabel touched the earl on the arm, stilling his attempt to march toward Lord Sainthill and Delia. “Please do not tell him. No harm was done—no one else overheard the quiet discussion. Perhaps it was imprudent of Lady Kempe and Lady Howland to speak about you and your friends thusly.”

“Perhaps?”

Isabel winced at his sarcastic tone. “Well, it isn’t as if they revealed what you and your friend Frost did to earn Lord and Lady Wodgen’s contempt. Delia asked Lady Kempe several times…”

Lord Vanewright threw his head back and began laughing.

Her nose wrinkled in bemusement. Perhaps the Lords of Vice had played some kind of prank on the Wodgens. “The countess refused to say. I even asked Lady Netherley about it, and she called it a regrettable incident.”

The earl sobered at the mention of his mother. “You discussed this with my mother?”

“I had no idea that everyone would be so secretive about the discord between the Lords of Vice and Lord and Lady Wodgen,” she said, becoming exasperated that the earl was annoyed at her. “Do you want to tell me what you and Frost did that offended the Wodgens?”

A slow, devilish grin creased his face. Isabel found herself smiling back at him.

“Oh, no, Isabel Thorne, you will have to spend more time with me before I tell that particular tale!”

Chapter Thirteen

No one was more surprised than Vane that the mistrustful Isabel Thorne had a bad habit of intruding on his thoughts at odd moments. Her temperament and stature were far removed from his usual requirements for a female companion. He preferred curvaceous temptresses who were as generous with their smiles as they were their bodies. Most were simple, cheerful wenches who enjoyed his attentions, but understood that a man’s nature was fickle.

Isabel was precisely the type of female he painstakingly avoided. Oh, her looks were pleasing to a gentleman’s eye. Her light brown eyes bespoke intelligence and compassion and her mouth was generous, even if her breasts and hips were less so. Instead of discouraging him, her willowy stature haunted him. More than once he had contemplated the soft, scented flesh that was hidden underneath muslin and whalebone. Had she shared her body with another man? Instinct and her nervous reaction to him told him that she was untouched. Vane avoided virgins at all costs. The thought of breaching Isabel Thorne’s maidenhead should have cooled his ardor.

Regrettably, his cock refused to listen to him. It twitched at the mere thought of undressing Isabel and relieving her of her virginity.

Then there was his mother’s interest in the Thorne sisters. It was an ominous sign. His mother longed for him to marry, and she had ceased to be subtle about it.

Not that Vane could fault the poor woman. After all, her surviving son was a notorious rake. Her ambitions would remain fruitless as his mistresses’ wombs.
Ah, there she is!
Vane smiled to himself as he finally caught sight of the lady he had been searching for over the past hour while wandering about the museum.

Unfortunately for Isabel Thorne, he had inherited a few of his mother’s shortcomings. Lack of subtlety and patience being forefront in his mind as he strode toward her and her sister. He knew the moment she had sensed him. He noted a stiffness in her shoulders as her sister whispered of his unavoidable approach. Adorned in a pale pink gros de Tours wool-and-silk spencer and an embroidered white skirt, she did not turn to acknowledge him until he was before them.

“Good afternoon, Miss Thorne … Miss Delia,” he said genially, tipping his hat and bowing to the sisters. They curtsied. “What an unexpected pleasure to encounter you both. If the past hour has been any indication, you have spared me from an exceedingly dull afternoon.”

The delicate arch of Isabel’s brows lifted in feigned astonishment. “Intellectual pursuits bore you, Lord Vanewright?”

“On the contrary, Miss Thorne,” he said, earning him a puzzled frown. “I enjoy all challenges, be they of an intellectual or a sporting nature. Nonetheless, what is the point of knowledge if it cannot be shared?”

Delia, looking like spring in a rose-pattern print dress and a straw hat and veil, tittered nervously as she glanced at her sister. “Then you have something in common with my sister, my lord. Isabel believes our minds will atrophy without constant stimulation of history and the arts.”

“This is only our second tour of the museum, Delia. Our lives cannot revolve around rides in the park and shopping,” Isabel said in a lecturing tone. “Papa would expect more from his daughters.”

At the mention of their father, Delia’s cheeks turned a rosy pink hue. Vane was curious, but he held his tongue. While teasing Isabel was highly amusing, he did not wish for his encounter with the sister to end too soon.

Vane nodded at the gallery ahead of them. “I assume you were about to tour the Greek antiquities before my approach.”

“Yes,” said Delia.

“No,” replied Isabel. She gave him an apologetic smile. “Forgive me, yes, we were about to tour the gallery, but our friend is indisposed.”

More than mildly curious about their absent friend, Vane tilted his head. “Friend?”

Isabel’s face was clouded with her concern. “Yes, Lady Howland.”

“Lady Howland,” he parroted as he glanced about, half expecting to see his mother or, God help him, Lady Kempe jumping out in front of him. “Is she alone?”

Isabel and Delia had identical looks of bewilderment on their faces.

“Of course not! Perhaps I should explain. All the walking left Lady Howland feeling breathless,” Isabel explained. “We escorted her to one of the small retiring rooms, but there were few places to sit so my sister and I decided to explore the gallery until Her Ladyship can rejoin us.”

“Then you leave me no choice,” he said, relishing Isabel’s guarded expression. “I shall be your escort until your chaperone returns.”

“Lady Howland is not our chaperone!” Delia protested, chafing at the restrictions placed on her freedom. “Isabel is six-and twenty, and a more-than-adequate companion. I told Her Ladyship several times, but she seems to be partially deaf when it suits her.”

Isabel winced at Delia’s unintentional cruelty, and a pang of sympathy rose in Vane’s chest for the lady who seemed to be both mother and sister for her sibling. To Vane, she said, “I had expressed a desire to see the collection Mr. Townley had assembled, and Her Ladyship offered to share her opinion on the artifacts. It is regrettable that her health was not up to the task. Perhaps we should visit the museum another day.”

“Nonsense!” he said, startling both women. “Lady Howland is resting”—he did not bother adding that the lady would have gathered the two young ladies to her ample bosom and fled were she aware the Thornes were in his company—“and you have a charming escort who is willing to discuss sculpture, ancient coins, and weaponry … anything you and your sister desire.”

Delia moved closer to him, confirming that she was on his side. “Say yes, Isabel!”

The lady knew she had been outmaneuvered, but she was too polite to comment on it. Instead, she said, “Wheedling is unbecoming in a lady.”

“So is pouting,” Vane observed, grinning when Isabel hastily bit down on her lower lip. “Though you might be the exception, Miss Thorne.”

*   *   *

The outrageous gentleman had the audacity to wink at her.
Wink.
As Lord Vanewright anticipated, Isabel surrendered gracefully. There was no point in arguing with Delia and the earl. Two peas in a pod, they were. Lady Netherley had chosen her son’s bride wisely.

Isabel scowled at the thought.

“This vase not to your liking?” Lord Vanewright murmured in her ear. She started, unaware that he stood so close to her.

“I … uh.” She blushed, appalled at how unsophisticated she must have appeared to the earl. It was humiliating to admit it, even to herself, but she had not been paying attention to the marbles she had expressed a desire to see. She cleared her throat discreetly and tried to speak once more. “I was worrying about Lady Howland.”

It seemed plausible, even if it was a lie. This unexpected meeting with Lord Vanewright seemed like a boon, and she did not want to squander it. Although she was certain Lady Howland would disapprove of them being escorted in public by one of the notorious Lords of Vice, this was a chance for the earl to spend time with Delia.

“Ah, I see,” he said, trying not to laugh. For reasons unbeknownst to Isabel, she managed to provide him with an endless source of amusement. “And this particular high relief on the vase made you think of Her Ladyship?”

“Well, yes,” she said, sounding uncertain even to her ears. She peered at the marble vase and gasped. Good grief, she had been absently gaping at unclothed Bacchus as he merrily celebrated with his equally naked companions. “No! Definitely not!”

Lord Vanewright’s laughter filled the room, drawing everyone’s attention. “Lying is not your forte, Miss Thorne.”

With her head held high, she walked past him, determined not to dignify his erroneous comment with a rebuttal. Excelling at lying was nothing she wanted to gloat about.

Delia glanced away from a bas-relief of two griffins fighting two female warriors and asked the retreating Isabel, “What did I miss?”

“Nothing important,” she muttered as she walked up to a statue of a female holding a cluster of grapes in one hand and a thyrsus above her right shoulder. A panther rising up on its hind legs was at her feet.

“That is Libera,” Lord Vanewright said, coming up from behind until he stood next to her. “She is called the female Bacchus.”

“At least she has the good sense to keep her clothes on,” Isabel said, coolly looking over her shoulder at Delia. “My sister loves stories. Perhaps you could explain why those female warriors are battling griffins.”

“Attempting to get rid of me, Miss Thorne?” the earl said, circling her as she strolled to another statue.

“No.”

A gentleman would have respectfully yielded to her not-so-subtle hint and excused himself. Isabel had to remind herself that Lord Vanewright was no gentleman.

She concentrated on the statue. It was safer than staring at the handsome earl who might one day be her brother-in-law. The statue was almost five feet in height. It was another female, and blessedly, she was clothed.

“This is Ceres, is it not?” she asked, frowning as she stared at the conical basket in the figure’s left hand. It held leaves and flowers. When her question was met with silence, she added, “My sister is easily bored, and you said that knowledge should be shared.”

“No, you are definitely attempting to rid yourself of my presence.” He did not appear to be surprised by that revelation. “What do you fear, Miss Thorne?” He took a step toward her.

“N-nothing,” she stammered as she watched his eyes narrow. “I just thought you might enjoy my sister’s company.”

His eyes flashed with the heat of unexpected anger. “You do not know me well enough to tell me what I should or should not enjoy.”

He inclined his head, his gaze never leaving hers. “But you will, Isabel Thorne.”

With a final nod, he joined her sister.