The Earl's Mistress (39 page)

Isabella could only stare at him and marvel that she had ever thought him shallow. Marveled he could think himself
selfish
in any way at all. He would shoot Everett dead in a dark alley, she suddenly understood, were that, God forbid, what had to be done.

It might even be the reason he was cleaning his pistols. It was at once a chilling and a comforting thought. “Anthony, you are a blessing to me,” she said, slowly returning her gaze to his.

“A strange choice of words, love.”

“But true.” She smiled. “By the way, you asked me something this morning,” she quietly continued. “Something important. You asked if Diana changed anything between us.”

“I did.” After a moment’s hesitation, he went on. “Well, Isabella? Does it?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t know, exactly, what there is between us, Anthony, or what will become of it. But I know my feelings will not change. Not ever. And I just . . . I just needed to tell you that. In case it was not obvious.”

“Thank you,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft.

Then he pulled her into his embrace and kissed her in that deep, soul-encompassing way of his. She loved his touch. Loved the way he banded her against him with arms like iron. The way his fingers speared into her hair to still her to his kiss.

As if she needed stilling.

As if she needed any encouragement whatever.

She was, in fact, kissing him back just as carnally, thrusting her tongue over his teeth to stroke and twine with his. She felt him shudder, then he sat down, pulling her into his lap.

Still kissing him, Isabella straddled him on her knees.

“My love,” he said, kissing his way down her throat. He paused to pull free the little tie at her throat, his tongue playing over the V of her collarbone.

She pulled away, bracketing his face between her hands. “I was so afraid,” she whispered, brushing her lips over his forehead, “that you would not come to me tonight.”

He kissed her again more deeply, his hand fisting in the hem of her nightgown. He gave it a hard jerk, ripping a stitch. Isabella’s fingers went to the buttons of his trousers, working furiously.

After pushing a little madly at the layers of his clothing, her breath already rough and a little too fast, Isabella rose up onto her knees. Her need for him was like an instant flame when it flared to life, yet it burned tonight slow and steady.

“Anthony,” she softly pleaded.

He entered her gently at first, and then all the way on his second stroke, suppressing his triumphant grunt against the turn of her neck.

They loved one another at a leisurely pace, neither speaking, but instead merely looking deep into one another’s eyes, the back of the chair faintly creaking with their rhythm. Isabella stroked his face, dragged her fingers through the thick tangle of his curls, then bent her head to brush her lips round the shell of his ear.

She loved him; loved the way he smelled. The way he felt inside her. The way he measured his every stroke, judging her need and her pleasure.

She loved him.

And when they came together quietly, with no more fanfare than a joyous, bone-deep shudder, Isabella buried her face against the bristle of his neck and told him so.

THEY MADE FOR
quite an entourage the following morning, preparing to return to London more or less as they had come, this time with Hepplewood strapping a pair of large, bulging saddlebags onto his beast of a horse, and the boys shoving their now stubble-haired dog into their mother’s carriage.

This time, Hepplewood had procured a wagon for the baggage, and his elegant traveling coach stood in the carriageway near Anne’s, its black paint and gold crest gleaming, the doors thrown open to reveal the velvet banquettes. The crowning glory, however, was the massive dollhouse carried up from Mr. Yardley’s shop in the breaking dawn, strapped carefully atop it.

Yardley tied the last rope, truing the bundle up tight. “There, Miss Georgina!” he said, clambering down via the coachman’s box. “That’ll hold her ’til you get home to London.”

In the carriage drive, Isabella bent to whisper in Georgie’s ear. “You must thank Mr. Yardley for his hard work,” she said, “and Lord Hepplewood for his great kindness.”

Eyes still wide with awe, the child shook Mr. Yardley’s large paw when he extended it down to her. “Thank you, sir,” she whispered. “It’s wonderful.”

“Ho, what’s this?” said Hepplewood, turning from the saddlebags and Colossus. “I won’t be content, Georgie, with a mere handshake for my part in that fine piece of architecture.”

He had already knelt down, one knee bent to the ground. Georgina rushed to throw her arms about his neck. “It is the
best thing ever on earth
!” she whispered shyly. “And just like Lissie’s!
Thank
you, sir.”

It was, perhaps, the most words the child had ever spoken to an adult outside her family. Lissie was hanging out of the carriage, looking on with impatience but not, thank heaven, any apparent jealousy.

“Hurry, Georgie,” she scolded. “Climb up with me and Pickles. I’ve brought checkers.”

Hepplewood let the child go, looking up into Isabella’s face with some intense yet inscrutable emotion in his eyes. Then slowly he rose and adjusted the hat Georgie had knocked askew.

“Make ready, Marsh,” he said to the elderly coachman, who climbed slowly onto the box. “I don’t mean us to stop until we see the outskirts of London, God willing.”

“Yes, m’lord,” said the coachman cheerfully.

On the other side of the drive, Anne was helping Nanny Seawell situate the twins inside the other carriage. Isabella moved to go up the steps, but suddenly Hepplewood caught her arm and drew her toward the back of the carriage, beyond the line of sight.

“Isabella,” he rasped, his hands tight on her upper arms, “tell me you don’t regret this. Coming here. Any of this. Tell me you meant what you said last night.”

She slowly nodded. “I meant it all.”

He kissed her then, swift and hard, releasing her just as swiftly.

“Nothing has changed, Isabella,” he said, his voice quiet but grim. “Nothing has changed for me, either. It never will. No matter what happens after today, you are still mine. Do you understand me?”

Her heart wrenching in her chest, Isabella managed to nod again.

Then he strode back around to the still-open door, pausing just long enough to hand her up inside. The carriage jerked into motion, harnesses jingling, and set off at a slow roll.

Isabella looked back to see Hepplewood mounting up, throwing his long, booted leg smoothly across the saddle and setting off behind them.

“Bella,” said Georgina, “look at Lissie’s tiny checkers!”

Isabella turned around to admire the little rosewood box that opened to reveal a baize game board. Checkers the size of a farthing appeared to have been carved of ebony and ivory, their undersides roughened to stick to the baize.

“How very clever,” she said.

“Those might turn a pretty profit,” mused Jemima, bending over the board. “And well-read children are often well traveled, too. What do you think, Bella?”

“I think you have a good eye,” said Isabella, giving the girl a swift smile.

Soon books and magazines were drawn out, and the children settled happily into travel. It was hardly an arduous journey; the weather was fine and the roads essentially empty. Traveling with children as they were, Hepplewood’s wish to travel straight to Town was not granted, but their brief stop at a coaching inn took less than a quarter hour.

Caroline and Jemima read the entire way, pausing sometimes to exchange books and share passages, while the younger girls played with the checkers, or rolled Pickles back and forth on the carriage floor.

Isabella merely stared through the glass at the villages spinning past and tried to focus on the week ahead and her return to normal life—assuming life could ever be normal again. Still, Jemima’s remark had returned her mind to the urgency of earning a living. Business was good but not brisk, according to Mrs. Barbour. There were bills to pay and orders to receive and shelve.

On Thursday, the crate of mathematical blocks she had ordered while at Greenwood was due. They would show to good effect, she thought, in the shop’s bow window.

But she could not long focus on any of these important matters, for her traitorous mind kept returning to Hepplewood. She felt far more comforted by his hard, passionate kiss in the carriage drive than was wise.

Still, there was a great deal he was not telling her. His unease was about something more than Everett’s perfidy. The feeling was growing in intensity as London neared.

Money,
Anne had said. But Georgina had none; Isabella was quite, quite sure. And had Jemima landed some strange windfall, the greedy Sir Charlton would have long ago snatched her away.

What else could be going on? She wracked her brain, and slowly a cold fear began to grip her.

Whatever his motivation, could Everett have initiated his case in Chancery? Could her leaving London have pushed him over the edge rather than allow his temper time to cool? And could Hepplewood have learnt of such a thing when she herself knew nothing?

Of course he could. He was a powerful man; a peer of the realm. There was little he could not discover, most likely, if he put his mind to it.

Could that be the business Mr. Jervis was seeing to? It seemed highly unlikely.

Oh, her head was beginning to pound! She felt ashamed of herself. She was doing just what Hepplewood had told her never to do—taking the counsel of her fears. Whatever Everett was up to, Hepplewood would ferret it out and help her get through it. Perhaps she should ask him to loan her one of those massive, freshly polished carriage pistols and simply shoot Everett.

Isabella forced herself to relax and settle back against the banquette, watching the girls play until they tired of their game. Then she opened a book of fairy tales and read aloud until Georgie curled up against her on the seat and drifted off to sleep. Lissie followed suit, tucking against Georgie like a drowsy puppy.

With Jemima and Caroline engaged in their own books, Isabella simply sat threading her fingers over and over through Georgie’s curly, baby-fine hair. Though Anne hadn’t meant anything unkind by her words, it had stung a little to hear her call Jemma and Georgie burdens.

They were not burdens. Indeed, they had never been anything less than a pure joy to Isabella—and it would be a cold day in hell before she would let them go to a man like Everett, for whatever reason.

“You are nibbling your thumbnail again,” Jemima whispered across the carriage.

“I am, Jemma, aren’t I?” Isabella twisted her hands together in her lap. “A bad habit.”

Jemima’s too-old eyes appraised her. “Is everything all right, Bella?”

“Yes, fine, sweet. I just—”

She was jolted from her explanation when Marsh abruptly stopped the carriage. Looking out, she saw they were entering the heavier traffic of London. The girls, stirred by the sudden lack of motion, began to rouse. As Marsh picked up the pace again, Isabella set about tidying Georgina and Lissie’s hair as Jemima began to pack up their belongings.

In Brompton Road, they made their turn without Anne’s carriage, for it had split off somewhere north of Hyde Park, taking the baggage cart along with it, since it had been decided Isabella’s trunk would be brought down last.

By noon, they were drawing up before the bookshop. Isabella saw that the little
Closed
sign hung in the window. Mrs. Barbour had likely gone up for a cup of tea or to put something in the oven.

The girls said their somewhat tearful good-byes and climbed out, Hepplewood handing the two of them down like the grandest of ladies. As Jemima thanked him very prettily for his hospitality, Isabella pawed through her reticule for the key.

“Ah!” She extracted it triumphantly.

“Isabella?” Hepplewood’s voice came musingly from the pavement. “Have you a key to the garden gate, by chance?”

She leaned out to see him looking up at the dollhouse a little fretfully.

“Not with me,” she said.

“Well, it’ll not go through, my lord,” said Marsh from atop the carriage. “I can measure with a rope, but I’m telling you, it’s too big for that door.”

“But it will go in through Mrs. Aldridge’s garden,” said Hepplewood confidently. “Isabella, we had better take it round. Otherwise we’re going to lose Georgie’s chimney.”

“Jemma,” said Isabella, handing out the key, “take Georgina upstairs and ask Barby to come down and let us in through the back, won’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said her sister.

Hepplewood shut the carriage door, and as soon as Jemima had unlocked the door to the bookshop, the carriage set off around the block. Isabella settled back into her seat with Lissie and Caroline, who looked suddenly bereft.

“I want to go back to Greenwood with Georgie,” said Lissie a little petulantly. “London
stinks
.”

“It does smell, doesn’t it?” Isabella smiled a little dotingly at the girl. “You are a lucky young lady, Lissie, to have Greenwood as one of your homes.”

The coach lurched right as they made the corner. Once the coachman had wedged the massive vehicle into the alleyway, it was a simple matter for the men to unfasten Yardley’s elaborate ropes.

The garden gate was still shut. Isabella tried it and found it locked.

The dollhouse was cumbersome, Hepplewood assured her, but not heavy. They lifted it gingerly down, with Isabella watching the underside.

“
Umph,
” grunted Hepplewood, hefting it upright. “Try the door again, my dear.”

“Still locked.” This time she knocked hard on the door. “Mrs. Barbour?
Mrs. Barbour
!”

There was no answer. Caroline and Lissie were hanging out the coach window now. Isabella looked at Hepplewood, who, to his credit, did not look remotely impatient.

She banged again, this time with the heel of her hand. Nothing.

“Set it down in the alley,” she said. “I had better go round. Jemma misunderstood me.”

“We’re fine,” said Hepplewood.