Emma Jensen - Entwined (19 page)

She found herself wondering if turbans were forbidden to the peoples who had invented them. After all, if Bonnie Prince Charlie's uprising had caused such terror of bits of plaid that wearing them had constituted treason for nearly forty years, there was no telling what fear of silk head wraps might bring about.

As she was scanning the crowd for the duchess, the crowd was scanning her. Most of the gazes aimed her way were frankly curious, but more than one bore the distinct stamp of disapproval. And she wasn't even wearing her MacLeod tartan.

"Pompous toads," Isobel muttered.

She jumped as a voice very near her ear replied, "A kind assessment, I would say."

Isobel spun about, the tart retort dying on her lips. The man standing there was as unlike the rest of the pale, preening crowd as she was. And a good deal more disconcerting. The right side of his forehead was bisected by the puckered crescent of a massive scar. Curving from hairline to eyelid, it had the rather frightening effect of holding the lid at half-mast while drawing the brow upward in a fixed arc.

The slightly diabolic smile did not help in the least. This man was not quite as tall as Nathan, but he was imposing. His broad shoulders and torso were more than a bit intimidating. All the more so as he seemed intent on leaning onto her breasts.

Isobel took an instinctive step backward. "Have we met, sir?" Shared assessment of the assembled revelers aside—and Isobel was not at all happy to have been overheard even if he agreed with her—she could not help but feel this was not a man she particularly wanted to know. There was something altogether too forward in the vividly blue eyes.

"I would say we are meeting now," he announced.

Irish, Isobel mused, hearing the almost exaggerated cadence of his speech. Having taken to broadening her own brogue that evening, she could nearly appreciate another intruder in the fold. Almost.

Not bothering to step away, he swept into an elegant bow. Unruly auburn hair brushed Isobel's arm, and she stepped back again. "Trevor Robard at your service, Lady Oriel."

So he knew who she was. That was no great surprise, really. Judging from the softly rippling wave of whispers that preceded her, everyone at the ball knew who she was.

"Mr. Robard." She darted a quick glance over her shoulder. Several other men had joined Nathan and his father. Not that she would have been able to catch his eye in any case, but a rescue now would have been most welcome.

"Worried your husband wouldn't approve of your conversing with me, my lady?"

Isobel's chin went up a notch. It was one matter to be skittish in this man's presence, another entirely for him to see it. "My husband is an intelligent man. Are
you
worried he would not approve?"

Robard's flashing smile was far more attractive than his smirk, but it quickly turned cold. "Not at all. Oriel and I have been acquainted since our days together at school. 'Tis no secret that he doesn't care for me much. Are you after testing his patience, then?"

"You are presuming I know who you are, sir. Other than your name, which has rung no bells, I know nothing of you save that you've a bit of wit and, quite likely, a dearth of manners. Now, if you will excuse me..."

His hand shot out to lightly encircle her wrist. "Skittish, are you? I'd never have thought it of Oriel. He's always tried to marry dash in the past.

Never had much success, plodding old bugger, but damned if he didn't make the effort."

This very personal and offensive comment caused Isobel to snap, "You presume to know much of my husband, yet clearly do not know him at all. I find this conversation distasteful, sir."

"And I find you somehow irresistible, my dear. I see the beginnings of a marvelous friendship at work here."

Isobel wanted nothing more than to smack him soundly on his grinning mouth. Instead, she opted for prudence. Deciding her mother-in-law could stay precisely where she was, she jerked her arm from the man's grasp, gathered up her skirts, and hurried back to Nathan's side.

She could feel Robard's speculative gaze on her back with every step she took.

Nathan glanced down, eyebrows lifting slightly, when she all but attached herself to his side. "I was wondering if we had lost you to Lady Winslow as well."

"Nay, I did not... Your mother... I..."

"Isobel? Has something happened?"

She struggled to put her encounter with Robard into words. It was not as simple as it should have been. And she was further stalled by the appearance of yet one more towering turban.

"Oriel!" the lady bellowed. "How very vexing of you"—she rapped Nathan's arm with her fan—"to surprise us with a new bride this way. Why, we are all just aflutter with the news."

"I, er..." It was obvious to Isobel that Nathan did not recognize this person.

Isobel lifted her chin as she stepped forward. An evening spent at the Abergeles' side had been invaluable, just as Nathan had predicted. She had been introduced to this woman and had no problem whatsoever remembering her name.

"How kind of you to have taken such an interest, Lady Mewell. Your felicitations are most appreciated."

Lady Mewell, who had clearly meant to be anything but kind and congratulatory, huffed a bit. "I am certain they are, Lady Oriel." Then, all but freezing Isobel from the circle, she had another go at Nathan with her fan. "You must come to supper, Oriel. You will no longer be able to play the gallant to my darling Julia, poor boy, but I daresay you will be ever so pleased to be once again in her lovely presence."

"Please give my regards to Miss Mewell, my lady. Lady Oriel and I would be delighted to attend one of your famous supper parties." Nathan nearly choked on his words. If he remembered correctly, Miss Julia Mewell's lovely presence had, since her last debut two years earlier, involved yards of transparent fabric that had a way of insinuating itself into a man's lap and a decidedly copious amount of rosewater. It was amazing how such an innocuous substance as rosewater could affect a man like a pike between the eyes when applied with an overly liberal hand.

If he could find anything kind to say about his former fiancee, Cecily Bronnar, it was that she had mistrusted her very dear friend Julia to the extent that she had always placed herself between the girl and Nathan.

At his side, Isobel was standing tense and silent—too silent. Nathan aimed a last nod in Lady Mewell's direction and turned his wife away from the group. "Something has distressed you."

"Aye." It was she who drew him a few feet away now. "I made an...

unfortunate acquaintance."

It was on the tip of Nathan's tongue to say she had made a great many unfortunate acquaintances that night. Instead, he waited for her to continue.

" 'Twas a man who said he knows you well. A Mr. Robard. He was a bit... forward."

The name did not register immediately. Then Nathan found his head snapping around as if he could possibly locate the man in the crush.

"Where is he?" he demanded harshly.

"Well, I... 'Twas not so very awful, my lord." Her hand tightened on his sleeve. "I would not want you distressing yourself on account of it. He was merely somewhat—"

"Forward. Yes, I am certain he was." Nathan cursed softly. "Do you see him, Isobel?"

She was silent as she scanned the room. "I don't. He might have left."

"Yes, I imagine he did." Although he was ready to shout in frustration, Nathan tried to be gentle as he tucked her arm through his. "We shall follow his example."

"What of your plans for the night?"

"They've been completed. You did very well, my dear."

"Thank you." She resisted as he tried to guide her away. "Your parents—"

"Wave to my father, Isobel," he commanded tersely, "and then direct us toward the door."

It took a bit more doing than that to leave the affair. The duke insisted on cuffing both his son and daughter-in-law a few more times, and the duchess, having arrived as she always did just when Nathan wanted to be away from her, insisted on holding him there by his free hand.

"Nathan, you are not leaving!"

"We are, madam. It has been a long day for both Isobel and myself."

"Oh, Nathan." His mother sighed, and her hand gripped his tightly for a moment. "Well, if you must. But you will come for supper tomorrow night.

Please."

He opened his mouth to decline, but Isobel, curse her, was quicker. "We would be delighted, Your Grace," she announced firmly. "Wouldn't we, my lord?"

The light jab to his side was somewhat less than subtle. "Delighted," he agreed between clenched teeth. "Until then, Mother. Father."

He hustled Isobel away before she could commit them to a week in Abergele House.

"Really, Nathan, there is no need for us to depart. Your parents would like so much to have more time with you. There's so much they want to say."

"Oh, I'm certain there is." He settled her firmly in front of him and pushed her in what he hoped was the direction of the stairs.

"Nathan."

"Enough, Isobel, please. My parents will have ample time to quiz me about my disappointing behavior."

She sighed but fell silent as they made their way out of the house. The night air was unseasonably chilly, and he felt her shiver at his side. Without thinking, he wrapped an arm about her and held her close. She fit so perfectly.

He did not particularly want to think of how very right she felt tacked against him, wanted even less to contemplate having her warm and willing beneath him. So, clearing a voice gone annoyingly husky, he demanded,

"What did Robard say to you?"

With rising fury, he listened to her recount the meeting. "Stupid bastard, trying to seduce my wife!"

"Well, I hardly think seduction was his true intent, my lord."

"Oh? And why do you say that?"

He heard her soft snort. "Really, Nathan. I am not the sort of woman whom men try to seduce."

She was so terribly wrong, Nathan thought. He forgot his anger as he mused how very much he would like to seduce her. He suppressed a sigh.

"Should he approach you again, you will let me know immediately."

"I tried."

"Yes, I know." A carriage rolled toward them. "Is this ours?"

"Aye." Isobel guided him forward. "Do you really believe he would try anything truly unseemly?"

Another man might have been angered by the wistful tone in his wife's voice. Nathan knew better. Isobel really did not believe a man could desire her so. She would never stray; he was completely confident on that matter.

But she needed to know her own allure.

He could only hope he would have the opportunity to educate her.

"My dear, he is a reprobate of the worst kind. He will try
anything
unseemly."

"I am sure you are mistaken. He was merely—"

"Yes, yes. Somewhat forward. Do not fear. I will deal with the matter."

He hoped she would not pry further. Splendid creature that she was, she did not. Instead, she was silent as he helped her into the carriage, then grasped his hand to assist him. Nathan, however, pulled back.

Something held him still. He strained his ears for the sound that had seized his attention. He could not hear anything above laughter, conversation, and rattling carriage wheels that signaled the departure from a ball.

Reluctantly he climbed in beside Isobel. But even as the vehicle rolled away, he could not shake the feeling that, for the second time this evening, he was being watched.

The first had been upon leaving Gerard's office. He had felt eyes upon his back. The sensation had sent a chill of foreboding— and memory—

rippling down his spine.

He was still pondering the matter sometime later as he bade Isobel good night and retired to his chamber. There was very little chance he had imagined both occasions. Experience had honed his instincts and taught him to trust them. Someone had been watching him closely. A curious gaze directed at the reclusive Marquess of Oriel, or something more ominous?

As he removed his clothes and slipped into a dressing gown, he wondered if he ought to mention the matter to Isobel. He abandoned the notion quickly. He did not want to answer the questions that would, quite rightly, follow. Nor did he want to frighten his wife unnecessarily. Should he sense any real danger, he could have her back in Hertfordshire within hours.

He paced the room, driven by restlessness and vague disquiet. He found himself first at the brandy decanter, glass in hand, then within arm's reach of the connecting door. He could hear the faint sounds of the fire being stoked. Isobel would be in her nightgown, making final preparations for bed.

The urge was too strong. He had to be with her again, if only for a moment. Even as he tapped lightly at the door, he was searching for a good excuse. Another compliment for her handling of the night? More questions about her unpleasant encounter with Trevor Robard? Comments on the upcoming Paget family circus? Yes, that would do nicely. He pushed the door open and entered Isobel's chamber.

Perhaps had she not just stoked the fire, he would not have seen. But leaping flames and a brace of candles were more than enough. Isobel stood near the hearth, and, for the briefest moment, Nathan could not tell where the flames ended and she began. Then, in that scant second before she scrambled for her dressing gown, his heart nearly stopped beating in his chest.

Tumbled copper hair and pale satin skin were, fleetingly, as clear to him as if he had his vision back. Perhaps it was only that his imagination was far more powerful than his failed eyes, but he had received a glorious gift.

The vision was gone already to wavering colors and hazy curves, but Nathan had seen it. He had seen his wife in all her fiery glory. He had seen the gentle sway of her breasts, the curve of lush hips, the flash of sun-fire curls at the juncture of her soft thighs. For the second time, he found himself offering thanks heavenward for those beautiful images he could still perceive.

CHAPTER 12

Isobel struggled to get her arm into the sleeve of her dressing gown, only to discover that she was shoving her right hand into the left sleeve.