Sunrise with a Notorious Lord (4 page)

The unspoken suggestion of cowardice stirred her sister into defending her actions. “I was not running for the door. I was merely—”

Isabel strove for patience. “Not now, Delia. It is apparent to this
gentleman,
” she said, fluttering her hand in his general direction, “that any attempt in retrieving his property, whether it was intentional or by chance, was unwarranted.”

More amused than insulted by her disrespectful tone, he said, “I have been remiss in formalities. Christopher Avery Courtland, Earl of Vanewright. At your service, Lady—”

If he thought to impress her with his title and then vanquish her anger with flattery, the earl was mistaken. Chillingly polite, she said, “Miss Isabel Thorne. This is my sister, Delia.” Feeling silly that she was conversing with a complete stranger while she sat on the floor of a dressmaker’s shop, Isabel braced her hand on the floor so she could climb to her feet. “Now that you have your precious snuffbox, Lord Vanewright, my sister and I will be on our way.”

Delia made a soft sound of disappointment. “But what of the dress, and the other—”

“Leave it for another day,” Isabel said through clenched teeth. “I have suffered enough excitement for—” She gasped and reached for her ankle.

The amusement fled from the earl’s handsome face. “You’re hurt. You should have said something immediately instead of flirting with me.”

Lord Vanewright was so serious in his delivery, Isabel thought he was serious. “F-flirting? I did no such thing!” she stammered, bowing her head so no one could see how mortified she was. “Good grief, I threw your snuffbox at your head!”

The earl crouched down at her feet. “You have better aim than most women.” When her gaze snapped up to his in surprise, he winked at her. “Now let’s see to your ankle.”

Isabel slapped his hand away. “Mind your own ankle.” She gave her sister a beseeching look. “Delia, find someone to hail a hackney coach so we can depart for home.”

“Miss Thorne, I must respectfully overrule your order.” Before she could argue, he silenced her with a gesture and gave her a smile that was designed to charm her. “A hackney coach? That will not do for the lady to whom I am indebted.” He pointed to the clerk who had been helping them earlier. “Would you be so kind as to bring me a length of cloth to bind Miss Thorne’s ankle. A little padding will make her journey home more comfortable.”

“Aye, milord.”

Isabel grimaced more from humiliation than pain. There were too many patrons crowding around her, and the air was stifling. She was also very aware of the impropriety of having Lord Vanewright kneeling at her feet. “Will you cease fondling my ankle? You are only making it hurt.”

“Fondling, eh?” He shook his head and struggled not to smile. Although it had not been her intention, she had managed to amuse him again. “Usually when I—”

The earl suddenly cleared his throat and studied her ankle with keen interest. Clearly his words were as improper as his actions. When the clerk returned with the cloth he had asked for, Lord Vanewright did not bother hiding his relief.

Ignoring her protests, the earl unlaced and removed her shoe. His head bowed over his task, Isabel took advantage of his distracted pose and studied the man touching her as intimately as her personal maid.

At first glance, she had dubbed him handsome, and a closer scrutiny had not altered her opinion. Broad, muscular shoulders and arms filled out his frock coat. She inhaled sharply as his fingers found a tender spot. Straightaway, his blue-green gaze locked on to hers.

“How badly does it hurt?”

“You merely startled me,” she said, uncomfortable that she was the center of attention.

The earl gave her an exasperated look and braced his forearm on his thigh. “I am tempted to call you a liar, but I will concede you may be suffering from something far worse.”

Isabel tilted her head to the side. “And what is that?”

“Excellent manners.” He shuddered in an exaggerated manner, and several of the nearby ladies tittered.

Even Isabel could not prevent herself from smiling. “I presume you, on the other hand, are not troubled with such an affliction.”

“Only if it is unavoidable,” he quipped, his expression sobering when his attention returned to her bruised ankle.

“And what of your wife? What does she say about your atrocious manners?”

Isabel found herself the focus of those incredible blue-green eyes again.

“Wife? Oh, I haven’t one. No intelligent lady will have me.” The incorrigible earl winked at Delia, and she rewarded him with a brilliant smile. “I confess, I am a great disappointment to my mother.”

“As well you should be,” Isabel replied, lightly scolding the earl for his prideful boast. “You do not appear to be the least repentant for your misdeeds.”

He finished binding her ankle and appeared pleased with his efforts. “And why should I be? I would not have been introduced to you and your lovely sister were I a respectable gentleman.”

As if determined to torment her, the earl tickled the bottom of her foot, causing a ridiculous bark of laughter to erupt from her throat.

Mortified, she exclaimed, “Stop that!” Isabel sent her sister an appealing look. “Help me stand and we can get on our way.”

“Allow me.” Despite his pugilist build, Lord Vanewright possessed agility and grace unexpected for his stature. He climbed to his feet and extended his hand. “I will see you and your sister home.”

“Lord Vanewright—”

“No trouble at all,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her to her feet. When Isabel winced at the sharp twinge in her ankle, the earl swept her up into his arms.

“See here, Lord Vanewright!” Isabel was so distressed by her predicament, her entire body shook with outrage.

“Light as a feather,” he assured her and their audience as he carried her toward the door.

Isabel seethed since Delia was not being helpful at all. “Now who is the liar?” she muttered under her breath.

*   *   *

Vane thought nothing short of a swift uppercut to the delightfully haughty chin would get Miss Thorne into his coach. First he tried charm, and when that failed he resorted to bullying. He had never encountered a lady so reluctant to remain in his company. If not for Miss Delia’s cheery albeit mercenary interest, he might have thought something was lacking in his morning ablutions.

“It is very gallant of you to see my sister and me home,” Delia said with a natural exuberance that Vane found disarming.

“Yes, very gallant,” Isabel echoed drily as she stared out the window.

Enjoying himself, Vane smiled indulgently at the two ladies seated across from him. For a gentleman who was swearing off female companions this season, he had stumbled upon two enticing replacements for Miss Corsar, though he had learned from past experiences that seducing sisters never ended well for him.

“Will you be remaining in London?”

“Delia,” Isabel scolded, sparing her sister a censuring look. “Lord Vanewright’s affairs are none of our concern.” The second she uttered the word
affairs,
however, it was apparent poor Isabel regretted it. Her cheeks bloomed like a summer rose garden. “Do not feel obliged to answer my sister’s questions, my lord. She does not mean to be impertinent.”

If he had been kinder, he might have taken pity on the lady’s discomfort and assured her that he was not offended by Delia’s curiosity. Despite his upbringing, however, he was no gentleman where ladies were concerned. Some viewed him and his fellow Lords of Vice as notorious scoundrels. Besides, he was having too much fun poking holes into fair Isabel’s composure.

“Was she being impertinent?” He looked askance at Delia, which caused the woman to collapse in a fit of giggles at his feigned innocence. Yes, he truly liked the younger woman. He also had no doubt that her older sister was a veritable lioness when it came to protecting the delectable Delia from improper gentlemen.

Isabel did not rise to his subtle baiting. Instead she grimaced and edged closer to the window. Vane scowled as his gaze dropped to her swollen ankle, respectably covered by her skirt. He had forgotten about her discomfort. The workmanship and design of his coach might have been superior to an old hackney coach, but it could not prevent her from being jostled about.

“Your ankle is paining you.”

“I am fine.”

Vane straightened from his slouched position and leaned forward. “I thought we had established that you are a dreadful liar, Isabel.”

The lady did not disappoint him. Primed with renewed outrage, she leaned forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. “I did not give you leave to use my Christian name, Lord Vanewright.”

He could almost hear her molars grind together when he replied with a cocky grin, “My coach, my rules.” Taking advantage of her speechlessness, Vane reached down and gently gasped her just above her injured ankle.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, attempting to wiggle free.

“Quit squirming,” he said sternly. “You will only hurt yourself.”

Completely undone by his high-handedness, Isabel fell back against the leather cushion. “Good heavens, is there no end to your torment?” she wailed as dramatically as an actress.

Vane chuckled.

Unfortunately for Miss Thorne, he was just getting started.

Chapter Six

“Merciful heavens, what happened to you?”

Isabel smiled wanly at their housekeeper as Lord Vanewright carried her over the threshold and into the small front hall. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Allen. It appears you were correct when you warned us that shopping on Bond Street was fraught with peril and unsavory characters.”

Delia focused on what mattered most to her. “Oh, Mrs. Allen, you should have seen the lovely evening dress we found! I vow I shall perish if it is sold before we have the opportunity to return to the shop.” She gave her sister a side glance, disgusted that Isabel had ruined the afternoon by tangling with a pickpocket.

Isabel sighed. There was no point in reminding Delia that they could not really afford the expensive dress. Such details mattered little to her sister. Isabel started when the earl murmured in her ear, “Shall I carry you to your bedchamber?”

A wordless exclamation was uttered by the housekeeper. Surprised by the brazen suggestion, Isabel turned her face toward Lord Vanewright’s, resulting in her nose brushing against his chin. “No you shall not! The drawing room will suffice, my lord.”

Trailing after the trio, the housekeeper said, “Miss Thorne, forgive my impudence, but who is this gentleman? And why is he carrying you about town as if he has the right to put his hands on you.”

“Not a word from you,” she warned him sternly. With her arms wrapped about his shoulders, she could feel his body quaking with laughter. “Mrs. Allen, allow me to present Lord Vanewright. My lord, this is our housekeeper, Mrs. Allen. She is looking after us during our brief stay in London.”

“Mrs. Allen, would you mind opening the door to the drawing room? Miss Thorne had a terrible fright with a pickpocket and I want to see her settled comfortably before the surgeon arrives.”

“The surgeon?” Isabel echoed, struggling in the earl’s arms to be released.

Mrs. Allen stepped around the couple and opened the door. “A pickpocket? In a dressmaker’s shop you say? Is no place safe, I ask you?”

“Isabel stumbled into the thief and rescued Lord Vanewright’s snuffbox,” Delia explained as she retrieved a pillow from a chair and placed it on the sofa.

Isabel marveled that the earl was not winded by his efforts. He carried her to the sofa with an ease that suggested he appreciated the outdoors and had a casual familiarity with manual labor. She was almost disappointed when he lowered her onto the sofa.

“When did you have time to summon a surgeon?” she demanded, annoyed by the unexpected expense.

“I ordered my coachman to fetch him.” His look was inscrutable as it rested on her grim features. “Are you in pain?”

“As I have told you over and over again, I am fine,” she said through clenched teeth. “Ow! Stop that.” She slapped his hand away when he deliberately probed her wrapped ankle to prove that she was lying to him—again.

“Uh-huh,” he said, his tone suspiciously flat. He glanced at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Allen, would you be so kind as to fetch a shallow basin of warm water for Miss Thorne’s ankle and a pot of tea to settle her nerves.”

Eyes blazing, Isabel glared at the presumptuous man. “See here, Lord Vanewright. You have no right to bully me or my staff!” Before she said something that she would come to regret, Isabel cleared her throat. “Yes, Mrs. Allen, I believe a cup of strong tea would benefit us all.”

Rudeness was clearly not the way to get rid of the man. From the sparkling glint in his eyes, the earl was having too much fun baiting her.

“Nothing else to say, Miss Thorne?” he asked, sitting down in the chair to her left even though no one had invited the arrogant man to remain.

“Not at this time,” Isabel said haughtily. “I am saving my strength for the surgeon.”

*   *   *

Isabel Thorne crossed her arms over her breasts and huffed. “Lord Vanewright is wasting good coin on a frivolous matter.”

“Then it is mine to waste,” Vane smoothly replied.

Miss Thorne was not very appreciative of his attempts to help her. As he glanced down at the worn sofa, which was likely older than the lady sitting upon it, he wondered if it was pride that pricked her temper—or him.

He rather hoped it was him.

“Mr. Stern, when you are finished torturing me, you may deliver your bill to me,” Miss Thorne said tightly, grimacing at the pain of the surgeon’s examination.

Vane’s fingers curled around the back of the sofa. “Mr. Stern will do no such thing. After all, I owe you a debt, Miss Thorne, and I address all of my obligations.”

His calm declaration was met with stony silence.

Excellent. He had won this minor skirmish with the lady.

He peered over the stubborn woman’s shoulder as the surgeon examined her bare ankle. Even to his untrained eye, her ankle appeared to be slightly discolored, the flesh puffy. Miss Thorne, however, did have lovely toes. Slender and straight. He could imagine himself nibbling on those sweet tender digits. He doubted the straitlaced lady had ever permitted a gent to suckle her toes or measure the arch of her dainty foot with the tip of his tongue.