Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (15 page)

Chapter Eighteen

It was long past midnight, and yet Isabel had been too restless to retire for the night. On the drive home from Lady Kerfoot’s, Delia had proclaimed herself half in love with two of her new admirers. All four gentlemen had vowed to call on the Thorne sisters, much to her sister’s elation. In high spirits, she invited Isabel to claim any of her castoffs.

Isabel shut the book she had been reading and rubbed her weary eyes. She should have never brought Delia to London. Everything about their stay was fraught with risk: Delia’s flirtations, Lady Netherley’s demands, her common sense whenever Vane was near, and the unforeseen disasters lurking just beyond her careful planning. This evening, Isabel had overheard Lord Botly and his wife as they discussed their recent visit to the theater with their hostess.

Isabel doubted the man who denied their very existence would welcome his granddaughters with open arms.

Without any time to explain, Isabel had grabbed her sister by the hand; they lingered in the garden until the Botlys had departed. They had averted one disaster, but how long would their luck hold? Sitting alone in the study, Isabel had read her book and sipped the medicinal cordial Mrs. Allen kept hidden in the kitchen. She’d prayed it would calm her frayed nerves.

Vane was correct. She was not cut out for subterfuge.

A muffled shriek escaped her lips as something struck the window with a
crack.
Isabel tossed the book aside and dashed for the door. Fear had spurred her to action, but she had no specific plan except to run upstairs. Her bare feet skidded to an abrupt halt when she heard the noise a second time. A third. Frowning, she realized someone was throwing something at the window.

Isabel had the good sense to retrieve the iron poker from the hearth before she approached the window. She flinched and jumped back a step as another small object, most likely a pebble, struck the glass pane. Warily, she drew back the curtain.

Vane stood below the window.

Relief flooded her limbs. Still clutching the iron poker, she unlatched the window and opened it. “Are you drunk? You gave me such a fright! I have a good mind to bash your skull in with this poker.”

His handsome face crinkled into an irresistible grin. “You will have to let me into the house if you want to dent my skull.”

“I am doing no such thing, Lord Vanewright,” Isabel said primly. “Go home before the watch sees you and mistakes you for a housebreaker.”

“Take pity on me, Isabel,” Vane entreated, his arms extended. “A few minutes so I may bid you a proper good night, and then I will take my leave.”

Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at the empty street. “Where is your coach?”

“I told my coachman to drive onward and then circle back.” Hatless, he staggered back a step to keep his balance. “I did not want to cast suspicions on this house. I wouldn’t do that to you and your sister.”

Isabel hesitated. “The hour is late.”

“And yet, here we are, Isabel. You and I,” he pointed out unnecessarily. “Let me in. A few minutes. What harm can I do?”

Her forehead wrinkled as she frowned at him with undisguised suspicion in her gaze. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes,” he conceded, “and you would be, too, after the day I’ve had.”

Isabel bit her lower lip and cast a guilty glance in the direction of the study where she had abandoned a glass of cordial on the table. She was in no position to judge.

“Delia is asleep, and I am not properly dressed for visitors.”

Vane chuckled. It was low, sensual, and full of unspoken promise. Her stomach fluttered as warmth pooled in her limbs.

“Since I have no intention of being proper, your state of dress hardly matters, does it?”

*   *   *

Madness had brought him to the Thornes’ residence. Madness and a considerable amount of brandy. When he had ordered his coachman to drive down Isabel’s street, he had told himself that he had no intention of stopping. Then he had noticed the oil lamp burning invitingly through the window of the study. Isabel had not retired for the evening.

A sudden need to see her seized him by the throat. It prompted him to pound on the small trap door and to order his coachman to halt. He hastily disembarked from the coach before he could think of a single reason why he should not summon her to the window.

As he had approached the town house, the small sliver of conscience he possessed almost hoped Isabel would have the good sense to turn him away. If she let him into her home, he was afraid he would not be able to keep his promise and leave.

“I
will
use this poker if you misbehave,” she said fiercely.

“I consider myself warned, Miss Thorne.”

Isabel nodded. “Very well. Come to the door and I will let you into the front hall—but no farther. You may bid me good night and then take your leave.”

“Upon my word,” he said humbly, praying he was telling the truth.

A minute later, the front door opened. Isabel must have brought the oil lamp from the study and placed it on the small round table in the front hall to illuminate the interior.

“It is fortunate you did not wake the entire household,” Isabel said in lieu of a greeting as she stepped aside so he could enter the hall. She promptly shut the door.

“I will count my blessings later.” Vane reached up to remove his hat, and then remembered that he had left it in the coach. “Forgive the late hour. I was on my way home and saw the light in the study.”

“The drive home took you down our street?” she said, sounding unconvinced.

“This evening it did.”

Perhaps it was impolite to scrutinize a lady in her current state of undress, yet Vane could not resist. She was captivating. Despite her protestations, Isabel’s attire covered her from her neck to her feet. She wore a simple white muslin dress—or perhaps it was her chemise. It was difficult to tell without untying the white pelisse robe decorated with plumetis embroidery. Even her arms were covered. Several layers of muslin, embroidery, and lace were denying him from even the slightest glimpse of the tempting flesh underneath. Fortunately, his experience with the female form was quite extensive, and no amount of muslin was likely to quell his curiosity or imagination.

“So you’ve come to bid me good night,” she said crisply as she touched her hair in a nervous gesture.

Isabel had forgotten to don her lace cap. She had braided her hair into a single plait. The heavy length fell over her right shoulder and over the soft curve of her breast. She had not braided her hair to entice, but the casual styling would have only been seen by her family, or a lover.

Without thinking, Vane reached out and caught the plaited length of hair with his bare hand. Isabel gasped at his brazenness, but she did not pull away.

“I have often wondered and I was correct. It does feel like silk,” he murmured, entranced by the texture and weight.

She gently tugged her braid from his loose grasp. “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

The courteous question was meant to put distance between them. It was on the tip of his tongue to warn her that it was too late. After all, she was the one who had decided to open the door and invite him in.

“Well enough, I suppose.” He shrugged. “And you?”

“Pleasant.” Isabel crinkled her nose in a delightful manner and laughed. “Though it sorely tested my appreciation for the musical arts.”

So she had attended the recital. If Vane had not been so furious after his encounter with his father, he might have sat beside her and discovered what she had found so amusing about the evening.

“I had a nasty argument with my father this afternoon,” he admitted, surprised that he wanted to tell her about it.

Isabel appeared to be equally taken aback. Her wary expression faded as concern weakened her resolve to keep her distance from him. “It is difficult to remain cross with the ones we love.”

“You have a generous heart, Isabel,” he said, dragging his hand through his uncombed hair. “Unfortunately, I am not so forgiving.”

She sighed, accepting that she could not dissuade him from his rigid stance. “A generous heart. Your mother paid me a similar compliment.”

Suspicion roiled in his gut, mixing with the brandy. “When did you speak to my mother?”

“At Lady Kerfoot’s house. I encountered her at the recital.”

“Did she mention me or my father?”

“Are you are referring to the argument that you had with your father?” She shook her head. “No, Vane, there would be no reason to discuss something so personal. Your mother loves you.”

“My mother loves getting her way,” he said bitterly. As did his father.

“Now you are being petulant and unjust.” Isabel walked over to the door. “Perhaps we should say good night before you decide to provoke a fight with me.”

Vane backed her against the door before she could guess his intentions. “Too late,” he said, pinning her wrists over her head. “I have been fighting you since I saw you sitting on your pretty backside on the dirty floor of the dressmaker’s shop.”

She glared up at him. “Fighting? I retrieved your precious snuffbox, you disagreeable and ungrateful man!”

He leaned against her, holding her in place with his body. At once, he noticed that Isabel Thorne was not wearing stays. Instead of stiff whalebone, her soft breasts and belly molded against his body.

“I have also been fighting myself,” he admitted. “I am so weary, Isabel.”

There was a slight tremor in her voice when she spoke. “You just need to sleep off the brandy.”

Vane only wished it were so simple. “We both know it is more complicated than that, Isabel.”

Her face blanched as a desperate look crept into her gaze. “You promised to go home straightaway.”

With his fingers still gripping her wrists, Vane lowered her muslin-clad arms to her sides. He took a deep breath and savored the feel of her body against his. Isabel would not escape him until he was ready to let her go. “And so I shall, my lovely Isabel. All I require is a kiss, and then I shall take my leave.”

*   *   *

Isabel’s heart was pounding. She silently wondered if Vane could feel it. Despite their clothing, she felt every unyielding contour of his body as he pressed her against the door.

Even so, she was not afraid. She would never have opened the door if she had truly feared for her safety. “Do I need to remind you, Lord Vanewright, that I belong to another?”

“Ah, yes, you are referring to the mysterious gentleman who has
almost
committed himself to you, are you not?” His brandy-laced breath filled her nostrils.

“He exists,” Isabel said tersely.
After a fashion.
“And I do not believe he would be pleased if I were kissing other gentlemen during his absence.”

Vane grinned down at her. With his left forearm braced above her head, he used his other hand to caress her plaited hair. “Has your beloved gent seen you with your hair down, Isabel? Felt your body against his without your whalebone cage? Has he seen incredibly expressive brown eyes glow with desire in the middle of the night?”

“Of course not! It would be unseemly to allow him such intimacies—” Her eyes rounded in dismay: She had unwittingly allowed him to trap her with her own words.

“And yet, I have the pleasure of experiencing them all,” he said, his eyebrows coming together as he studied the soft uneven tail of her long braid. “Personally, I would not give a gentleman who can resist your wiles too much of my esteem. No offense, but the man sounds like an arse.”

Isabel silently agreed. Mr. Ruddel was an arse. Fortunately, he was not
her
arse. Nonetheless, there was no reason to point out the fact that she had no intention of marrying the man. She had already revealed too much of her feelings to Vane.

“Your opinion is duly noted, my lord.”

He tickled her cheek with the end of her braid. She made a soft choking sound in her throat. If she were not so vexed with him, it might have been misconstrued as laughter. “Quit that at once!” she snapped, turning her face upward to avoid the itchy hairs.

Vane’s mouth slanted over hers.

Belatedly Isabel realized he had once again used trickery to get what he wanted from her.

The kiss he had demanded. The kiss she had unintentionally promised.

A gentle farewell as he made his way home in the darkness.

Although it was difficult since her movements were hindered, Isabel closed her eyes and willed her body to relax. Reacting to the subtle changes, Vane shifted his stance and allowed her a little freedom before his hips pressed enticingly against hers. In tandem, his lips brushed hers, silently encouraging her to give him access.

Of late, she seemed to be taking all sorts of risks. Reckless undertakings usually were met with disastrous results. Even knowing this, her lips parted and she took a small part of him inside of her. Isabel moaned as Vane stroked her tongue with his, a clever, tantalizing dance meant to imitate the mating of male and female flesh.

Isabel was aware of the rigid rod pressing against her lower belly, of her own body’s response. There was an almost painful tightening between her legs and an answering wetness that might have shamed her if Vane knew of it.

His right hand covered her left breast as Isabel opened her mouth, craving more than the teasing sweeps and flutters from his clever tongue. She suckled the nimble flesh and his fingers dug into the fabric of her pelisse robe.

Neither one of them uttered a word. He had demanded a kiss, and those were the unspoken rules. If they ended the kiss, he would have to stop touching her. She would have to let him go.

Isabel started when his callused hand found her bare breast. When had he slipped his fingers through the slit of her robe and under her chemise? Her nipple contracted as his fingers found her areola. Her breath caught in her lungs as his fingers glided over the tiny bumps that circled the aching flesh.

Vane muttered an unintelligible oath against her lips as he reached between them and adjusted his swollen manhood. She bit his lower lip for slight separation and he returned the mild reprimand. Isabel moaned with pleasure when he pushed her against the door again. This time she felt the broad head of his manhood press into her. Even through the layers of fabric, she trembled as the blunted flesh found her womanly core.