Secrets of a Proper Countess (18 page)

“This is not an affair,” she said.

He gave her a slow, wicked grin that frayed the raveling edges of her willpower. “Then what is it?” he asked.

What indeed? “It's a mistake. It was never supposed to happen,” she murmured, wondering which of them she was trying to convince.

He didn't look like he believed her. She didn't believe a word of it herself. He was the best thing—and the worst—that had ever happened to her. “I didn't know—that is, I didn't think it would—” She stopped before she said too much, spoke a truth that would not let her go back to a world without him.

“You like what I do to you, Isobel. You like how I make you feel.”

She moaned her denial, adding the lie to her sins, sure she would burst into flames in punishment at any moment, or worse, that Honoria would open the door and find her here, with him.

“Please, Blackwood, you've got to go.” She closed her eyes so she wouldn't see him leave. Instead, he came around the bed, and she sighed when he pushed his hands through her hair.

“You have beautiful hair. I had no idea it was red. All
those weeks, trying to imagine what you looked like without a mask, a hat, a wig. I didn't guess you were a redhead.”

She couldn't pull away from the simple, sensual caress. “I suppose you thought I was blond. Most of your amours seem to be blond.”

She felt her face heat and wondered if she'd given away the sad fact that she'd watched him from the shadows for months before Evelyn's masquerade.

He merely lowered his mouth to hers. “Not anymore,” he whispered against her lips. She opened her mouth as if it was a natural thing between the two of them, let his tongue find hers, held onto his broad shoulders and stood on her toes, pressing the length of her body against his.

A muffled thump in the hallway made her jump. Terrified, she pushed him into the dark corner behind her and stood in front of him, staring at the door.

She braced for the door to come crashing in.

“Hide!” she hissed, and did her best to press him into the shadows.

I
sobel had no idea what the ungodly noise in the hall might be, but surely it meant discovery and disaster.

Blackwood was in her bedroom, and there was no way to explain him away.

She waited for the door to crash open, for Honoria's screams of outrage. Charles would come running, and probably Jane too, and her shame would be complete. She flinched as another thump echoed through the house.

She felt Blackwood's hands on her shoulders, moving her aside. “Thank you for your kind offer of protection, sweetheart, but I'm quite capable of defending myself.” He stepped in front of her, pulled a pistol from the small of his back and cocked it.

“What are you going to do with that?” she demanded in a shrill whisper. “Please, it's only Honoria, arriving home from a party. Perhaps she's downstairs looking for something to eat to help her sleep.” Another crash shook the room. She stared at the door, but it remained closed.

“Something to eat?” he muttered. “Sounds more like she's hunting big game in the hallway.”

“It doesn't matter! You've got to leave! Go down the back stairs, out through the kitchen,” she instructed as she hurried toward the door, but he caught her arm.

“Isobel, wait—”

She shook him off. “If you aren't leaving, at least hide!”
She looked around, searching the intimate space of her bedroom for somewhere big enough to conceal a man his size.

He stepped past her and locked the door. Now why hadn't she thought of that?

He crossed to the window and pulled back the drapes a fraction, and she followed. A coach stood in front of the house, with a familiar portly silhouette on the curb next to it.

“It's Charles!” She drew back, afraid he would look up, see her in the window, or worse, see Blackwood there. She blew out the candle, leaving them in darkness.

Blackwood opened the curtains fully and stood watching whatever it was that Charles was doing. What
was
he doing?

Isobel held her breath as two men came down the front steps with a crate and carried it to the coach.

“Is Charles going out of town?” Blackwood asked. He sounded calm, barely even curious, but his avid gaze never left the coach.

Charles was directing the loading of the vehicle. The men weren't Maitland servants. They had rough, lean faces. “I don't know. He sometimes goes to Waterfield Abbey.”

“Does he usually depart in the middle of the night?”

She shrugged, uneasy. “It's in Kent, a long journey.” It was the only explanation she could think of, but it sounded false even to her. She saw the glint of coins in the lamplight as Charles paid the men. They melted into the dark.

Blackwood turned to her as Charles climbed into the coach. “I have to leave, Isobel, but this discussion isn't over. If it's too distracting in your bedchamber, then I'll call on you tomorrow. We can have this conversation in your drawing room.”

“That's impossible! You can't call on me here!” He raised an eyebrow and waited. “Honoria wouldn't like it.”

“This isn't about Honoria, Isobel. It's about what you and I want, and I for one still want an explanation.”

She retreated into the shadows and pulled the flannel robe around her body. “There isn't one, don't you see? It was just a moment's pleasure. There isn't anything else to say, Blackwood. Forget it ever happened. It cannot happen again.”

“And what am I supposed to do when I meet you in my sister's salon?”

She felt the sting of tears but forced herself to meet his eyes. “You must show as much disdain for me as you did before you knew.”

His mouth tightened, and she sensed he was not satisfied with that. Still, he turned away at the sound of the coachman's order.

He opened the window wide and stuck a leg over the sill.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

He cupped her chin and kissed her quickly. Her lips instinctively curved to his, a perfect fit. He pulled away too soon. “I still say this isn't over, Isobel. I need—” He stopped and shook his head. “But this isn't the time.” He climbed out her window and disappeared silently into the dark.

Isobel watched Charles's coach pull away from the curb, clumsy under the heavy load. Blackwood emerged from the shadows, on horseback, and followed. At the corner of the street, he turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. Then the darkness swallowed him and he was gone.

C
harles joined Isobel at the breakfast table without so much as a grunt of good morning. He was still wearing his evening clothes, and he ordered Finch to bring a decanter of brandy. He filled his teacup to the rim, twice, and left his food untouched.

Isobel's own breakfast tasted like ashes in his silent, moody company.

Wherever Charles had gone last night, with Blackwood in hot pursuit, she had not expected to see her brother-in-law this morning. She'd hoped to have a quiet breakfast and time to compose herself, but Charles's presence made the tension almost unbearable. Her heart skipped a beat.

Blackwood knew.

Those words had echoed in her mind since he appeared in her bedroom, then disappeared again almost as mysteriously.
He knew.

He left by climbing out the window, and she'd been too distracted by his presence to find that immediately surprising. It wasn't until she was getting dressed this morning, after a sleepless night, her fingers shaking as she buttoned her prim gown, that she wondered exactly how the Marquess of Blackwood had gotten into the house, and her bedroom, at all.

He'd climbed down the side of the house like a squirrel and followed Charles as he went about his unsavory business.

By the time she finished dressing her hair—the hair he'd said was beautiful—she was beginning to suspect that the Marquess of Blackwood was something other than a gentleman. Or a rake.

Isobel's stomach lurched as the door to the breakfast room opened and Honoria entered. Jane Kirk was with her. She carried the morning post along with a notepad and pencil, ready to write her mistress's instructions for the day.

“Charles, look what's arrived!” Honoria trilled, waving an invitation in Charles's face. He silently refilled his teacup and sent his mother a look of irritation. Isobel glanced at Jane, who was looking over her dress to ensure it met Honoria's strict standards of dullness. Isobel was certain it did, but underneath, her heart pounded a rapid tattoo.

There was a man in my room last night,
she was tempted to crow to the gimlet-eyed companion,
and not just any man—

The Marquess of Blackwood.

She lifted her toast to her lips but set it down again, untasted. He would not be there again, and she felt the loss keenly.

“Charles!” Honoria chided her son. “This is an invitation to Lady Augusta Porter-Penwarren's musicale evening! I knew Lady Miranda favored you. Obviously, she simply wishes to be pursued more forcefully.”

Charles snatched the engraved card out of Honoria's hand and squinted at the elegant script. He tossed it back on the table with a sneer. “This invitation is addressed to Isobel, Mother. It does not mention me at all, or Miranda Archer's longing to have me pursue her forcefully or any other way.” He glared at Isobel. “In fact, I would think that since it mentions
only
Isobel, it is a clear and pointed indication of the lady's desire that I cease my attentions to her.”

Isobel sipped her tea, striving to be invisible. It was uncharacteristically astute of Charles to notice such a subtle
snub. Honoria would now blame her for Miranda's lack of interest.

She hoped Honoria would refuse the invitation. Blackwood was certain to be there, and she could not bear to be in the same room with him now that he knew the truth. Every glance, every gesture, would be sweet, dangerous torment.

“What did you say to Lady Marianne last night?” Honoria demanded, fixing suspicious eyes on her.

Isobel swallowed. “Why, I told her that Charles was handsome, clever, and rich, just as you told me to,” she lied.

“And what did she say to that?”

She had sent her sister racing around the theatre to avoid him, exactly as Charles suspected. He was watching her now, his bleary gaze daring her to lie again.

“She said that Miranda had a number of suitors, Charles among them of course, but she had not decided on any of them as yet,” Isobel said carefully.

“And the Duke of Welford's girl? Did you discuss her?”

“There's a rumor that she's to marry the Marquess of Blackwood,” Jane Kirk murmured, and Isobel's heart lurched painfully. Even Jane Kirk had heard the news, then. Had Blackwood already proposed? Isobel felt a fizzle of indignation that he should come to her in the night, with his promise to another woman still warm on his lips. Honoria gasped in horror at Jane's tidbit of gossip, obviously as shocked as Isobel.

Jane waved to the footman to pour out a cup of tea for her stricken mistress, but Honoria pointed to the brandy decanter at Charles's elbow. The footman poured a small glassful, and Honoria gulped it.

“Blackwood is going to marry a duke's daughter?” Honoria cried. “He seems to have the devil's own luck, that man.”

“He
is
the devil,” Jane interjected, and Isobel shot a quick glance at her. Jane's mouth was set in hard lines of scorn.

“Charles, now you
must
convince Lady Miranda to marry you!” Honoria insisted. She picked up the invitation from the table and waved it again. “We will both accompany Isobel. Lady Augusta can hardly object. Isobel is in deepest mourning, after all.”

Isobel's heart sank. Not only would she have to face Blackwood, but she would have to do it under Honoria's watchful gaze.

“I'm not going,” Charles said peevishly. “I don't want to.”

“But Charles!” The warble of dismay in Honoria's voice quickly hardened to iron. “I must insist. You must marry and set up your nursery as quickly as possible. If anything were to happen to the boy, you would be earl, and an earl needs an heir. You must safeguard the Ashdown title.”

The teacup slipped from Isobel's nerveless fingers, but she ignored the clatter. She looked at Honoria's ruthless face as she talked about the death of her only grandson.

“What could happen to Robin?” she croaked as terror squeezed her breakfast back up her throat.

Jane, Charles, and Honoria turned to look at her, their eyes cold, as if they were discussing a stranger instead of
her son
. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to sit still, not to scream and race for the nursery.

“What could happen to Robin?” she asked again, unable to think or say anything else.

“Children die all the time, Countess,” Jane said. “Most wives breed more than one son.” She smirked at Isobel, as if pointing out her failure to do so.

Honoria folded her arms over her vast bosom, her eyes returning to her own son. “Charles, you will attend—”

But Charles shot to his feet, tipping over his teacup as he rose. The brandy flowed across the white linen like blood.

“I said no, Mother. It seems plain enough that I'd need the title
first
in order to marry bloody Miranda Archer. Go
to the damned musical evening yourself, if you think it will do any good. I see no point in making a fool of myself any further.” He glared at Isobel, as though it were her fault, and she braced herself to bear the brunt of his rage, but he turned on his heel and left the room.

Honoria watched the door for a moment, as if she expected him to come back. Even Jane looked surprised.

Honoria sniffed at last. “Jane, write a note of acceptance to Lady Porter-Penwarren at once. Tell her I will accompany Isobel.”

Jane scratched the reminder on her list. “Anything else, your ladyship?”

But Honoria had already turned to her. “Isobel, I am disappointed in your efforts on Charles's behalf. When do you expect to have an opportunity to speak to Lady Miranda or her sister again?”

Isobel clenched her hands in her lap, trying to still the trembling, her heart still caught in her throat for her son's sake.

“I have no outing scheduled with Countess Westlake today,” she managed. Honoria narrowed her eyes, and her lip curled dangerously.

The unspoken threat was clear in her mother-in-law's eyes. There was only one way for Charles to be earl. This time, Isobel knew, she would not lose something so trifling as an outing in the country with her son. This time they meant to take Robin from her forever.

She wondered if Charles was capable of killing his own nephew to get what he wanted. Panic rose, and she forced it down.

“What do you suggest we do about this?” Honoria demanded.

Isobel's brain raced. “Perhaps you might consider sending Lady Miranda a bouquet of flowers from Charles,” she sug
gested, surprised at how calm she sounded. The posies would end up on a dung heap, but Honoria need not know that. The gesture would buy her precious time.

“An excellent idea. Jane, see to it,” Honoria said.

Isobel listened to the scratch of the pencil on the paper, panic rising, threatening to drown her.

She needed help, and she knew who she had to ask.