Читать книгу Once A Rake - Rona Sharon - Страница 11

A silent suffering, and intense;

The rock, the vulture, and the chain,

All that the proud can feel of pain,

The agony they do not show,

The suffocating sense of woe,

Which speaks but in its loneliness.

—Lord Byron: Prometheus

“What the devil?” Ashby raised his eyes from the stack of bank statements and investment reports his man-of-affairs had brought to his inspection and glared at his office door. Chaos had taken over his foyer. In the old days, he would have marched outside and put an end to the crisis, but experience had taught him that the sight of his face would only augment whatever was going on. Gnashing his teeth, he settled for an account. “Phipps!” he growled, startling Mr. Brooks.

The broker smiled timorously, pushed his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose, and reburied his face in his papers. Since his injury, Ashby felt that few people could look him in the eye and ignore the scars on his face. Mr. Brooks was not one of them.

Phipps came in, and Ashby’s jaw fell open. “What’s this?” he asked, gawking at the pretty pink bundle in his butler’s arms. It couldn’t be what he thought it was. During the course of his thirty-five years of life, a number of women tried to saddle him with babies, but his hired runners disproved their claims. This time what stumped him was a crystallizing realization that he would not mind learning the child was his. Only it was impossible. He hadn’t been with a woman in over two years and the little girl Phipps held couldn’t be much older than twelve months.

“This is Miss Danielli,” Phipps announced, smiling with pleasure at the infant clinging to his neck. “She has come to call on you, my lord.” The rosy bundle was busy surveying his office.

Pushing his chair back, Ashby rose to his feet. He approached them. The baby girl’s wispy golden hair was tied atop her head in a pink ribbon that matched her clothing; her wide, curious eyes reminded him of a cloudless sky in Spain; her small pink lips curled up in a smile. Oh, God. Black depression choked him. “Who brought her here?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“The, eh”—Phipps glanced at the broker’s back hunched over the massive desk—“same individual who was here the day before yesterday and the day before that.”

Ashby shut his eyes. So this was what the Greeks called “divine retribution, the vengeful judgment of the gods.” Losing so many of his men, his best friend among them, and his hopes for a future was not enough; he had to walk among the living and keep paying for his sins until the day he died.

Mr. Brooks collected his belongings. “Perhaps I should leave these with you, my lord, to review in your own time, and I shall return to take down further instructions next week.”

“Very well, Brooks. You may go.” His head wasn’t in it anyway. Ordinarily, handling his lucrative assets was a pastime he enjoyed and that also kept the mold from his brain. Isabel’s visits had set him completely off kilter. As during the first six, hellish months of his self-imposed incarceration, he could scarcely sleep or eat. He spent long nights in the cellar, trying to convince himself that seeing her again had had no effect on him whatsoever. But the sad truth was he had never felt more alone than he did now. Even his nightmares were different: Instead of reenacting Waterloo and Sorauren and failing each time anew to rescue either Will or his own person, in his new recurring dream he was standing alone in the smoky-black aftermath of battle, surrounded by miles of corpses, not knowing in which direction lay England.

He had also had a very erotic dream of Isabel, but that was something he really didn’t want to brood over. Suffice it to say he’d experienced a very rude awakening. Just knowing she was here, in his house, and that he was about to see her, stirred the mutinous part of his anatomy to life again. Damn the woman. The woman… Not girl. It was significant, even in his dreams.

“Good day, my lord.” Mr. Brooks nodded stiffly and hastily escaped the office.

Ashby extended his hands and lifted Danielli into his arms. If Isabel trusted his butler with the infant, he safely assumed she wouldn’t mind if he held Danielli a bit. A vanilla-scented cloud descended upon him. The plump bundle was light, delicate, and soft, suffusing his veins with unbidden tenderness. “My God,” he murmured. “My God.” This he would never know—holding his own child in his arms. The sensation was humbling, uplifting. “Where’s Isabel?”

“Downstairs with Mrs. Nelson.” Phipps tickled Danielli with his finger, making her giggle, but she quickly returned her attention to Ashby. She seemed utterly fascinated by him.

Ashby scowled. “With the housekeeper? What the devil happened?”

“Hector jumped on her when she came in through the door and covered her with drool. She went to wash it off. She mentioned something about his being a pup when she found him…”

“She gave him to me.” Disregarding his butler’s curious gaze, Ashby kept his eyes on the bubbly girl. Her blue eyes dancing with mirth, Danielli raised her hands and smacked her palms onto his cheeks. At his shocked expression, a shriek of laughter left her lips. He didn’t scare her.

“I believe she likes you, my lord.”

Amazing. Cradling her against his chest with one arm, Ashby peeled one tiny hand off his cheek and brought it to his nose. The effect nearly dissolved him altogether. He understood how men fell in love with infants at first sight. She looked so much like Isabel, his heart clenched.

Someone scratched the door. “Phipps, are you in there? May I come in?” Isabel called.

Bloody hell. Ashby wasn’t prepared to expose his private hell to her. Nor was he about to dive underneath the desk. “Phipps, take the girl and go to her.”

His butler reached inside his coat and produced the black mask. “I’ll expect a considerable increase in wages, my lord.”

Good old Phipps. “How does a ten percent increase sound?” Grabbing the mask, Ashby returned to his chair and settled Danielli in his lap. Tying the mask on proved tricky as she kept sticking her tiny fingers in the eye-holes. Nevertheless he wasn’t ready to relinquish his treasure yet. “Come in,” he finally called, startled by the sudden acceleration of his heartbeat.

“There you are, my darling.” Isabel sashayed in and didn’t stop until she reached his side. Her muslin morning gown was the color of pale lavender with a high crepe collar and a purple ribbon sewn beneath her full, pert breasts—of which he received an alluring view as she bent over to lift Danielli into her arms. His torture didn’t end with that—she, too, smelled of vanilla.

Ashby went hard. He stood, wishing he were shorter, or that his desk were taller. “Get out, Phipps.” At least he was still alive, he mused morbidly, tipping his head to inhale more of her, of Isabel. Her soft, full lips were attached to Danielli’s rounded ivory cheek. The sight twisted his insides. One thought possessed him: These two beautiful girls could have been his—if only he had played his cards right, if only he had waited until she grew up and spoken to Will, if only he hadn’t been an abject idiot…“I thought I told you to stay away from me,” he rasped softly.

“Did you think you could scare me off so easily?” As her head swerved to meet his gaze, a soft, loose curl brushed his lips, making his mouth water. Her bright smile was his final undoing.

He moved closer, his gaze focused on her cherry lips. Abruptly, she hoisted Danielli to a firmer embrace, shattering his lustful stupor. Christ, he felt like a lapdog being led on a leash.

“I told my charity board about your donation.” She grinned at him. “You should have seen their faces. Five thousand pounds! They were eager to thank you in person. I had to lie through my teeth and claim you were an anonymous donor. Sophie insisted it was the very definition of charity—giving in secret so as not to shame the poor. She said our benefactor was remarkable.”

And there it was—the adoring glow in her beautiful eyes. His chest constricted. His hoarse voice sounded foreign to his own ears. “But you know who it was from.”

“Even so.” She put her hand on his arm. “I have yet to meet the man whose generosity and kindness surpasses yours, Ashby.”

He winced. She really was clueless regarding who he was or what he’d done in his life. His first impulse was to enlighten her, but what would that serve? Disillusionment had poisoned his soul. Why would he do that to her? “I was glad to do it, but…”

“Don’t.” She shook her head, remaining a vision of sweetness and light. “I didn’t come here to plague you further. I respect your decision.”

“You do?” He frowned behind the mask. “Then why did you come?” His curiosity was killing him. A new fear suddenly gnawed at him—what if she stopped coming?

Smiling, Isabel lifted the infant and—to his utter stupefaction—deposited her in his arms. “I told Danielli so much about you, she wanted to meet her uncle’s best friend.”

“U–cle!” Danielli piped and ran her soft, chubby palm along his hair and ear. Her delicate touch did strange things to him—it almost made him feel human again. Extraordinary.

Isabel’s sky blue irises filled with love. “Isn’t she adorable? I’ll have you know she rarely pats anyone outside our family. Congratulations on being accepted to a most prestigious club.”

“The Aubrey pride of golden lions?” A grin tugged at a corner of his mouth. “So…what did you tell her about me?”

“I told her you liked puppies, for one. The rest is between us girls.”

Warmth seeped into his jaded soul as he cuddled the soft angel against him. “She’s so pure, so defenseless.” Gazing at the tiny face beaming at him, a sudden, inexplicable instinct to protect her overwhelmed him. “How is such a perfect little creature to survive in our ugly world?”

“That’s her ammunition—she’s so small and lovable, she makes you want to protect her.”

His throat clogged; he glanced at Isabel. She had the same damnable effect on him. Very gently he caressed Danielli’s silken head. “She’s enchanting. How old is she?”

“Thirteen months.”

He knew he had no right to be jealous, but he couldn’t resist asking, “Who’s her father?”

Isabel frowned. “Interesting question,” she replied, eyeing him strangely.

The thought of Isabel belonging to another man, who made love to her every night and saw her smile every morning, gutted him. “She’s yours, isn’t she? You married.”

She studied his eyes. “She’s Stilgoe’s. He married.”

Heady relief broke over him. As if released from invisible chains, a faint grin attacked his lips. “Congratulations. Your brother is a fortunate man. Whom did he marry?”

“Angela Landry. Will was present at their wedding. Didn’t he tell you? It took place right after Bonaparte’s first abdication. Come to think of it, I believe you were invited.”

“I can’t recall.” He had been invited, but he had chosen not to come. After their forbidden kiss, he had made a point of staying away from Seven Dover Street—at first, because he had to, because he couldn’t trust himself near Isabel anymore, and later, because he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t want her pity; he wanted her adoring glow. He contemplated her morosely. Everything about her—her spirit, her beauty, her gestures, her voice—was incredibly lovely and feminine. No doubt he wasn’t the only man who noticed what a bruising Venus she had become or knew about the hundred thousand pounds to be settled on her when she married, and the wolves were circling her at every rout. Sooner or later she would end up married to one of them, and then what would become of him? The problem was: He felt paralyzed to do anything about it.

“Who was the man who left before I came in?” Isabel inquired. She took out a handful of biscuits wrapped in a napkin from her pocket and offered one to Danielli.

“Mr. Brooks, my man of affairs. Why?”

“You let him see you without a mask.”

“How would you know that?” If she had figured that out, she must have also done a quick calculation and realized he’d been wounded the year before her oldest brother’s wedding.

“You made me wait outside. I imagine you weren’t putting your clothes on.” She flashed that engaging smile of hers that used to turn him beet red. “You didn’t the last time I was here.”

His mouth began falling, and he clenched his jaw against it. He couldn’t believe it. Little Izzy Aubrey was actually flirting with him! His old self would have parried with a sly comment about how easily he could shed his clothes if she cared to join him in some recreational activities in the bedchamber—she was, thank God, an adult now—but his new, damaged self settled for the truth. “Mr. Brooks’s sensibilities do not concern me. Yours do.”

“I think my sensibilities might surprise you,” she asserted quietly.

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” Leaning back against the edge of the desk, he returned his gaze to Danielli, who was tracing his mask with her tiny fingers.

“I promised Angie I’d take Danielli to the park. Why don’t you join us? It would be fun.”

He laughed huskily. “So that’s where you’re supposed to be, in the park.”

She smiled back. “Why is it amusing?”

He caught her gaze, grinning predaciously. “It’s always a good sign when a woman lies to her family to be with me.” Her cheeks went up in flames, which was an even better sign. After her absurd suggestion that he consider her a sister, it felt good to have his old teeth back.

Joining the fun, Danielli stuffed her half-chewed, drool-soaked biscuit into his mouth.

“I told her we’d feed the ducks at the pond,” Isabel explained with a chuckle.

Inescapably he swallowed the soggy thing. “I see. I’m a duck.”

“A very”—twinkling eyes raked him from head to toe—“large one, my lord.”

The muscles across his abdomen tightened. He may have lost his face, but he was not that far gone; his male instincts operated in full, blasted capacity. Isabel still had a tendre for him. The good news was she was a full-grown woman with ripe sexual needs; the bad news was she wanted the man he’d once been. Yet he couldn’t resist saying, “I have a garden with a fishpond.”

“You do?” She bit her lip on a timid smile while Danielli wrinkled her nose, hissing, “Fiss! Fiss!” through tiny white teeth. Isabel’s bright blue eyes sparkled naughtily. “Lead the way.”

“Is the guard necessary?” Ashby spoke in Isabel’s ear, creating goose bumps on her skin.

Standing beside him on the lush bank of his garden fishpond, Isabel watched Danielli and Lucy playing with half a dozen dolls and wondered why he, of all men, had to have such a potent effect on her. It was an old mystery. “The guard?” She frowned. “Oh, my maid. Yes, for two reasons. Lucy dislikes your butler. I thought it prudent to separate them.”

“I assure you the feeling is mutual. However,” his tone sharpened, “I don’t relish making an exhibition of myself for the benefit of strangers. Get rid of her.”

Though she was considered tall, his great height forced Isabel to tip her head back to meet his gaze. He was impeccably groomed: A teal silk waistcoat complemented his eyes; a starched white collar framed his square jaw; his superfine jacket and trousers were gray. With his black mask, vivid green eyes, and too-long, thick dark hair brushed to a shine, he made her think of a wolf disguised as a nobleman. So he didn’t make a habit of wearing a mask, and she sensed he felt awkward doing so, but he was very choosy of his confidants. She longed to remove it, to see his beautiful features again—the ones etched in a secret place in her heart. Whatever he concealed behind it, she didn’t think it would make the slightest difference to her.

“You’re staring,” he muttered, his gaze fixed ahead.

Uh-oh. “Apologies. It’s just that I haven’t seen you for so long, I…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Would you consider removing your mask if I sent Lucy inside the house?”

“No.”

Stifling her disappointment, she reassured herself that that too would come. She had made excellent progress so far. He’d finally invited her to prolong her visit. She was patient as well as resourceful—hadn’t her disarming little niece succeeded in softening his resistance? “If you are concerned about gossip, rest your mind at ease. Lucy never carries tales, and neither do I.”

“You, I trust. Your maid…” He cast a stern look at the compact female settling Danielli on her pink baby-blanket.

Curling her hand around his sleeve, Isabel rose on tiptoe and whispered, “Lucy’s cousin, Mary, lived with her husband in Cheapside, where they ran a tailor shop. Frank took a ball in the war, and Mary was left alone. Two weeks ago, the lease on her shop terminated, and Mary was evicted to the street. She ended up in a workhouse. I brought her to Seven Dover Street and—”

“You ventured into a workhouse? Alone?” He glowered at her.

His tone made her feel like a little girl in short skirts—which she wasn’t any longer. “I’m not a hoyden. I never venture out alone anywhere. I went with Lucy.”

His lips formed a grim line. “To which workhouse did you go?”

“To Bishopsgate. We took the poor girl out of that nasty place and now—”

“Bishopsgate—in Spitalfields?” he growled. “Does Stilgoe know about this?”

“No, he doesn’t,” she hissed, indicating Lucy’s back. “As I was saying, we took Mary out of there, and now she mends our staff’s livery for the time being, but I hope to find her a better position soon. So you see, Lucy would never gossip about me or my friends.”

His gaze softened. “Isabel the lioness, defender of the weak, protector of the unfortunate.” He leaned aside, pulling away the errant curl clinging to her lips. “What’s the second reason?”

Her breath caught. She kept telling herself that all he’d ever felt or would feel for her was fondness, but adhering to her decision to just be fond of him proved to be extremely difficult.

“Lucy minds Danielli, and I…wanted to be free to talk with you, my lord.”

His eyes turned cold. “Was there something in particular you wished to discuss with me? Your charity, perhaps?”

“No, just to chat.” She smiled nervously. She was going to help him feel human again if it killed her—which was a real possibility, considering the risk to her reputation…and to her silly heart. Only this time she was older and wiser. No moonlit kisses, no stupid love confessions. She would offer friendship and expect nothing more than his friendship in return.

“Just to chat?” he repeated, unconvinced. “You have no special requests—some documents for my perusal or some wretched soul I should help you save?”

“No, nothing,” she said in earnest.

“Very well. I’ll mind Danielli. Call off your dragon.”

Isabel watched him saunter to her niece and sit on the grass beside her. Danielli instantly pounced on him. Hector loped over. Ashby introduced him to the girl. They were becoming one big happy family. Fine. If he preferred being alone with her, it would only make her task that much easier. She approached Lucy. Her maid was pretending not to notice their host at all. Blind, deaf, and dumb, Lucy would make a splendid butler. “You may go inside the house now, Lucy. The sun is strong today. You’ll get those terrible headaches again. I’ll look after Danielli.”

Her maid shot her a puzzled look—they were sitting in the mottled shade of a large elm tree—but made herself scarce nonetheless.

Ashby shrugged out of his jacket and laid it out on the grass for Isabel. “Thank you.” She plunked herself down and arranged her skirts over her ankles. She saw Hector sniffing Danielli, who seemed both mesmerized by and afraid of the black retriever. Instinctively Isabel leaned forward, uncertain whether the dog could be trusted with such a young person.

A hand stayed her. “She’s safe. Hector would never hurt her.”

“How can you be sure?” Isabel retorted, annoyed to be held back.

“Because I trained him,” Ashby said. “She isn’t the first toddler he has sniffed. We passed through many villages in Spain.”

Danielli tugged on Hector’s ear. Isabel’s heart stopped, but the dog slumped at Danielli’s feet and let her assault him without so much as a twitch. Isabel let out a sigh. “Be nice to the doggy, pudding.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

His masked face loomed mere inches away. The tiniest tail of a scar on his right cheek escaped the pall of his mask. She curled her hands into fists to keep from tracing it with her finger. “I do trust you, but I am not her mother and therefore must be thrice as vigilant.”

“Because she’s your responsibility…”

“Correct.”

“…along with all the unfortunate strays in the city?” It was a statement, not a question.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“No.” He reached out and looped one of the soft curls floating beside her cheek around his finger. “I still don’t like the idea of you wandering through Spitalfields and its rookeries-infested environs,” he murmured. “Next time, come to me first. I’ll send someone with you.”

“Why not come with me yourself? You’ll find the experience fascinating, I assure you.”

“You think I haven’t seen enough misery in my life? I told you—I’m done with that.”

Who was he fooling? She contemplated his expressive eyes. “Your neighbors are throwing a ball this evening,” she mentioned conversationally.

“I know,” he said dryly. “Believe it or not, I still get my fair share of invitations.”

“You’re a war hero, Ashby. Everyone wants to shake your hand. You should attend. You’ll cause quite a stir. Lady Barrington will be delighted.”

“I’m not Wellington,” he grunted. “I don’t go about with an entourage, hopping from balls to soirees, expecting standing ovations. Nor do I relish shaking the hands of those who couldn’t tear themselves away from their clubs to actually make a difference in the damned war.”

An idea poked at her brain. “Do you dance?”

“What?”

“Do you enjoy dancing?”

“Not recently. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I would very much like to dance with you.” She bit her lip, shocked at her audacity. She couldn’t imagine speaking like this to anyone else, but with Ashby she had nothing to lose. It was just them, and she had already made the worst possible blunder with him.

Humor touched his eyes. “I’m beginning to think you are a hoyden. Does Stilgoe know you call on single gentlemen and ask them to dance?”

And with that he slew her good humor. Why hadn’t she learned her dratted lesson and kept her mouth shut? “I will take that as a ‘no,’ my lord.”

He put a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him. “This is not an affront to you.”

“Of course it isn’t. Don’t be silly.” She deflected his hand with a composed smile.

“I mean it,” he breathed. “My not going into Society has more than one drawback.”

“What is it this time?” she asked, her annoyance with herself overriding her mortification.

“Not being able to dance with you.”

A welter of feelings twisted her insides. If he asked her to dance, she would hum a tune for them to dance to, if necessary. “What is your Christian name?”

He drew back. “My name has expired.”

“Expired?” She saw him picking up a twig from the grass and snapping it in two.

“No one used it in over thirty years. Then yes, it has expired.”

“Thirty years? How is it possible?”

“Thirty-one years, to be exact.” He shrugged dismissively. “I became ‘my lord’ or ‘Lord Ashby’ when I was four, and ‘Ashby’ when I attended Eton. The French had gaudier names for me.” He smirked blackly. “I suppose at some point my Christian name lost its meaning.”

“How awful.”

His gaze shot to hers. “Why?”

“Because…your name is a part of who you are. It defines you.”

“Good God, I sincerely hope not.” He eyed her with interest. “How does your name define you, Isabel Jane?” His soft enunciation of her first and middle name drew her attention to his lips; they had a slight, natural, tempting pout to them that simply begged to be kissed. Of course that was what had gotten her in trouble with him years ago.

“I don’t know how precisely, but it does. Names have meanings.”

“Pity.” His kissable lips twisted sardonically. “Mine is distinctly unflattering.”

To keep her gaze and her thoughts from lingering on his mouth she pulled Danielli into her lap and offered her another biscuit. “Well—” she smiled “—should I try guessing it?”

His tone was brittle. “I just explained—”

“Peter? Paul? Percival?” She sent him a speculative glance. “Pierce? Philip? Peregrine?”

He grinned wryly. “Who told you it begins with a P, minx?”

“You did. You signed your card PNL. Lancaster is your family name, is it not?”

“Uh-hmm. How did your brother and his wife come up with Danielli’s name?”

She stroked Danielli’s fair plume. “Her name is Daniella Wilhelmina Aubrey. We also call her pudding, puppet, precious…”

He ignored her poorly veiled hint. “William Daniel Aubrey. You named her after Will.” He playfully tugged at Danielli’s biscuit, eliciting lilting laughter from the little girl.

Isabel’s heart expanded at the spectacle: the big, bad, rakehell wolf gadding with a toddler. She had an insuppressible desire to gad with him too. “Colonel Ashby, don’t be squeamish,” she cooed sweetly, imitating that awful flirt Sally Jersey while batting her long, curling eyelashes at him. “Tell me your name.”

“Squeamish?” With a pulse-quickening grin, he lunged at her. Laughter filled her throat as she put out a hand to stop him. His chest was steel swathed with fine fabrics. “Take it back.”

“No. Why else would you keep mum about it? Is it a military secret?”

“It ought to have been. I can well imagine the quips I’d have gotten from my men had they known my first name.”

Supposedly keeping him at bay, she kept her hand on his chest and fought the urge to slide it over his silk waistcoat in a slow caress. It was awful how she couldn’t stop touching this man. “Did Will ever ask what your first name was?”

He shook his head. “Some women I knew did.”

The rapt look in his eyes made her heart flip-flop. “And did you tell them?”

“No, I did not tell them.”

Inadvertently she dampened her lips, a gesture that instantly drew his gaze to her mouth. She felt his heart thumping against her hand, and it was all she could do to keep from grasping his waistcoat and pulling him closer for a kiss. Stop it, a stern, inner voice rebuked her. She must not allow her emotions to spiral down that pit again. Nothing good would come of it. The man had said so himself, a moment before admitting to the chief drawback of his isolation.

Bored with the two of them, Danielli scrambled to the grass. She knocked Isabel’s hand off Ashby’s chest, putting more distance between them. “She is the sweetest thing,” he observed, watching her niece try to feed one of her dolls to Hector. “Everything is good in her little world.”

Tentatively, Isabel studied his masked profile, noting the wistful look in his eye. He had lost his parents when he was so young, but instead of finding a wife and making a real home for himself, he shunned the world. “Do you remember your parents?” she asked quietly.

“It’s difficult to know for certain, growing up with so many portraits and stories as I have. I remember my mother’s hands and eyes. She had beautiful blue eyes, full of light.” He looked at her. “Like yours.”

His gaze sent her heart aflutter. One moment he treated her as a child, the next he aroused her deepest emotions. “What happened to them?”

“A horse riding accident. They were dead on the spot.”

“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.” She covered his large hand with hers. She couldn’t begin to imagine what it had been like for him to find himself alone in the world at the tender age of four. Like Danielli, she grew up in a doting, protective family that made her the center of the universe.

“So am I.” He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a soft, searing kiss to her knuckles.

She felt the heat of his lips spreading in her veins. “Which relative took you in?”

“I don’t have any. My mother was an only child. My father was a second son. His family was killed in the Colonies. I’ve been unable to trace anyone else. My title will die with me.”

“That depends entirely on you, Ashby.”

“Not entirely.” He eyed her. “You do know it takes two to produce the required results.”

Despite the gentle breeze ruffling the leaves above their heads, she was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm in her multilayered gown. “Who took care of you?”

“An army of servants, solicitors, and stewards—more care and attention than most children receive in life. I had a perfectly miserable childhood.”

She was glad he hadn’t lost his sense of humor. It showed strength of character, a sign that he had what it took to regain his old self. “Do you think of having a family of your own?”

Sudden, black tension vibrated from him, and belatedly Isabel realized she hit upon a nerve. He lunged forward and caught her niece around her midsection. “Danielli, sweetheart, we don’t swim with the fishies,” he explained. “We just look at them.” He held her upright, pointing at the golden slivers winding in the water.

Isabel all but suffered an apoplexy as it dawned on her what had very nearly happened. She bolted to her knees and pulled Danielli into her arms, her heart hammering. “Thank goodness for your sharp instincts.” She exhaled, chastising herself for her inattentiveness. She felt his hot gaze on her face and fought the impulse to look up. Man, woman, and child. Charming. If Stilgoe saw them like this, she would be married to Ashby faster than she could say, He doesn’t want me. Yet for some inexplicable reason there was no doubt in her mind that Ashby would do the right thing by her. She focused her attention on her niece. “Precious, let’s play with your dolls.”

“Fissies! Fissies!” Danielli protested, fighting Isabel’s hold on her.

Chuckling, Ashby rolled up his sleeves. He lay on his stomach, stretched out on the ground with his head facing the pond, and dipped his hand in the water. “Let’s tickle the gold-fishies.”

Danielli pealed with laughter. Isabel laid her next to Ashby and watched the little girl aping his every move. Something achingly sweet and wistful stirred in her heart. It was not longing. She wasn’t panting after him anymore. It simply heartened her to see Will’s friend playing with their niece—as Will ought to have been doing. She sat back on her heels and laughed as man and babe splashed water to every direction, petrifying the goldfish.

This was the Ashby who had rid Hector of the thorn in his paw, the one she had been hopelessly in love with. Her gaze traveled over his sprawled, large form, from his whipcord arms to his long legs. The fine material of his gray trousers stretched over his hard bottom, showing no signs of the two years he’d been buried in his house. Her brother had grown visibly flaccid since becoming domesticated, despite his regular visits to Gentleman Jackson’s. Then again, Stilgoe didn’t labor on slabs of timber in his cellar for months on end.

“What are you looking at?”

Startled, Isabel met Ashby’s twinkling eyes, blushing profusely. “I was admiring your…”

“My boots, perhaps?” He pushed up to a sitting position. “Or was it the cut of my trous—”

“I was admiring your children skills,” she blurted quickly, wishing she could douse her flaming face in the fishpond. “You seem quite adept at making little girls happy.”

“I’m quite adept at making older girls happy, too,” he drawled in his richly sensual voice.

She froze for a heartbeat. Since her coming-out, she had been flattered and flirted with and even propositioned by enough male members of the ton to recognize his line for what it was—but Ashby? The man had physically shoved her away from him when she had tried to kiss him. Of course, back in those days, she thought acidly, he wasn’t living the life of a lychnobite monk.

She glanced at her niece. Danielli was fast asleep on her pink blanket in the shade, a vision of angelic sweetness.

“You did say you require my special skills, did you not?” Ashby’s voice was no more than a warm whisper of air in her hair.

Her heart began to race. She dared not look at him. “It is irrelevant now.”

“Why?” His breath was warm on her cheek.

Summoning her earlier resolve to be his friend and nothing more, she drew back and faced him. “I wrote the message in the hopes of persuading you to support my charity.”

“I see. But why come to me? Your brother sits in the House of Lords.”

“Yes, well, he is encouraging me to look for representation elsewhere in the hopes it would solve his other problem.”

“What other problem?”

She shifted uneasily. “It is Stilgoe’s—and Mama’s—foremost wish that I should marry.”

He went very still. “Stilgoe wants you to marry me?”

Her gaze locked with his for a sizzling moment. He seemed so serious, almost shocked, she wondered whether she ought to be offended. “I never told him I intended to ask for your help.”

“Ah.” He nodded grimly and with this simple gesture withdrew his magnetic hold on her; the effect was akin to dropping hard on the ground. “Why is it a problem, then?” he asked. When she refused to answer, he smiled perceptively. “There’s the rub. You don’t want to marry.”

Her eyelashes gave an involuntary flutter. “Not at the moment. No.”

“Why not? You must think me ancient, but I still recall that most chits become obsessed with the topic the instant they are launched into Society.”

“I don’t think of you as ancient.”

“That’s reassuring, but you still haven’t answered my question,” he said softly, undeterred.

She squirmed inwardly. She hated that question, mostly because she had trouble answering it herself. “I lost a brother two years ago. Marriage wasn’t my primary concern.”

“And now?”

She evaded his gaze. “That depends.”

“On what?”

For goodness sake. “You’re like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?”

“That is one of the skills that made me a competent field commander and kept me alive.” His charming, self-assured smile numbed her brain—definitely his superior talent, she thought. “You love children. Don’t you want to become a mother, Isabel?”

She gritted her teeth. “You ought to ask yourself the very same question, Ashby. You are the one in need of an heir and a spare, and yet you are decidedly against marriage.”

“You are wrong about me,” he said quietly. “I was engaged once.”

Her world shook. “You were? What happened? You didn’t marry—?”

“It’s a long story, and we were discussing you. I wager there are a good number of eager young bucks dancing attendance on you.”

“Hordes. What of it?” she countered, straight-faced.

He leaned closer, his voice low, husky, and full of temptation. “Don’t you want a man who adores you, Isabel? A man who’ll introduce you to the physical aspects of love? Surely you are curious about such things.”

Drat. She felt so awkward discussing this with him, mostly because the only man she had ever come close to experiencing such things with was him. “I suppose I am. Slightly.”

“Slightly?” A ghost of a smile danced on his lips as his eyes darkened. “I recall a girl who was more than slightly curious.”

She sucked in a breath. “How dare you throw that in my face?” She blanched, wishing she had drowned herself in the pond. “I should go.” She started collecting Danielli’s dolls.

“Wait.” His hand closed on her arm. “Don’t be angry. We never had a chance to discuss it, but I think it’s time we did, don’t you?”

“There is nothing to discuss.” She couldn’t look at him; she felt so mortified.

“I disagree. You were very sweet that night, and I was—”

“There’s no point in rehashing the past.” She tried to jerk free of his grip, but he wouldn’t allow it. Damn the man. Tears stung her eyes. If he apologized for spurning her, she would turn into a watering pot. “I came as a friend,” she retorted, “and I’d very much like to leave as one.”

“A friend.”

“Yes, a friend. For years you were a part of our family, then you stopped coming. When Will died, and you still didn’t come to call, I…worried about you. You imprison yourself in this grand house, alone. You never go out in Society. You tell me your life is over—”

“Then you decided to rescue me.” He stared at her as though he considered throttling her. “Listen here, Miss Charity,” he clipped tersely. “I’m not one of your poor unfortunates. Nor am I your responsibility. I don’t need your help—or your frigging pity! I never lamented not having a sister, and now I know why. So I strongly suggest you whisk your lovely bottom out of here and stay the hell away from me!”

As he pushed to his feet, panic possessed her. She fisted his shirtsleeve, staying him on the ground. “I didn’t come here out of pity! I came because…” Lord, this was so difficult.

“Because you needed my help with your charity.”

“There’s that, but…” Her voice shook. “You also remind me of Will, whom I miss dearly.”

“We mustn’t forget that.” He began to rise again.

She tightened her grasp on his sleeve. “Everything I said to you is true, but the reason I—” She was that wide-eyed little girl again—the one he’d scorned years ago. Her heart thundered in her ears. In a small voice, she said, “I came because…I missed you, Ashby. I missed you every day for the past seven years. I had to see you. I…” Tears streamed down her cheeks; the pain in her heart was unbearable. If he banished her forever, she didn’t know what she would do.

His eyes glittered as brilliant and hard as emeralds. “You shouldn’t have come to me at all.” There was fury in his voice, yet something else that sounded like desperation. He wrapped a hand around her nape. “Damn you,” he whispered, drawing her closer. “You make me remember things I vowed to forget.” He angled his head and covered her mouth with his.

Lightning seared her spine. His lips were faintly familiar, achingly soft. They molded hers, savoring the initial contact of their mouths. Knowing what was to come next, she parted her lips against his and sighed with pleasure as he tasted her with a gentle stroke of his tongue.

Sweet heaven. This was as far as they had gotten seven years ago, before he had torn his mouth away. This time, however, she refused to let him retreat. She locked her arms around his muscled waist and returned his kiss with years-old longing.

“Ashby…” She sighed, tipping her head back and rising to his kiss as if her life depended on it. Her lips clung to his, seeking, needing, beckoning, helpless to resist the mystifying craving he liberally exuded. She licked his tongue and shuddered at the delicious frissions that raked her. His kiss was heavenly, better than heavenly—it was utterly sublime. And dazedly, she wondered how she could be so fortunate as to have found her way into his arms—as a woman.

“This was well overdue,” he murmured, not allowing more than a sigh between their slow, sultry mouths.

“What was?” she asked, blissfully lightheaded, her eyelashes as heavy as bricks.

“This. Us.” He made love to her mouth with the patience and skill of a master seducer, flooding her with a wealth of feelings and sensations. “The night we kissed,” he went on in his low, mesmeric voice, feeding on her mouth as if it were a cup of Lydian elixir, “you unleashed the devil in me. Who’d have thought that a wispy innocent should kiss like Aphrodite herself? You made me ache to kiss you like this, not as one kisses a child, but as a man kisses a woman.” He deepened their kiss, tangling their tongues in a hot, sensual, nerve-thrumming duel.

Never in all her girlish dreams of him did she imagine his kiss would be like this—all the passions and yearnings in the world distilled into the soft motion of his lips, into the thorough explorations of his tongue. “You pushed me away then,” she admonished softly.

That night, she hadn’t been thinking; she hadn’t known the first thing about kissing a man. He was the one who had surprised her with her first brief lesson in what kissing should be like between a man and a woman when his tongue swept along the seam of her lips and licked inside her mouth. His assault had been shocking, electrifying, and all too fleeting. An instant later he had repelled her, as though he himself had felt repelled. If his sole concern had been her young age, he should have made that clear, instead of leaving her feeling awkward and…unappealing.

“What was I supposed to do? Ruin my best friend’s little sister? God knows I wanted to.” He put his lips to her ear and whispered, “You’ve no idea what a confounded mess you made of my life when your sweet mouth opened to mine…”

His warm breath in her ear had a narcotic effect on her. “Really?”

“Really.” He dipped his tongue in her ear, turning her brain to mush. Shivers swept over the back of her neck and snaked to her belly. “You were so young, Isabel,” he murmured, as he dragged his mouth along the side of her neck, inhaling her with scalding kisses. “My reaction to you was…reprehensible. I felt nothing but disgust for myself afterward. If I upset or offended you, I apologize. I botched the whole thing like a cloddish schoolboy.”

Her smile was unquenchable. “Thank goodness age is not a permanent condition.”

He held her head and scrutinized her face closely, his eyes smoldering. “Thank goodness.”

He recaptured her mouth and gently lowered her to the grass. Caught in a trance of passion, she felt his brawny torso coming down atop her, crushing her soft breasts. Her hands roamed his broad back in wide circles, embracing him close to her heart. It was an exhilarating sensation—lying beneath him, kissing him, embracing him, inhaling him—and felt as natural as breathing.

Their kiss went on and on, growing rougher and more demanding. He kissed her insatiably, soaking up her very essence and infusing her with molten heat in return. She wanted to absorb half of him into her and leave half of herself with him, so that he would feel linked to her as she felt toward him. No wonder she refused every man who showed an interest in her. Not one of them was Ashby. He had ensorcelled her girlish heart with a spell so powerful no other man could ever break. Everything became crystal clear to her at that moment: She wanted Ashby. She adored him, craved him, loved him, had never stopped loving him, no matter how hard she fought it or lied to herself about it, and she had every intention of keeping him forever.

“This mouth,” he whispered, as his hand sailed up her throat in a slow caress. “I could kiss this luscious mouth…these cherry lips forever…”

“Then you’ll have to keep me, too, as we are attached,” she returned breathlessly.

She sensed his slow smile against her lips. “What a shame…” His large hand came to rest on her thigh. Slowly it cruised up to her waist, over her ribs, lingered a while beneath her breast, and swept down the way it came. “If we go on like this much longer, you will have to stay with me forever,” he murmured, his voice was thick with need, his breathing growing harsher and heavier.

Yet he didn’t stop. His mouth moved possessively, leisurely over hers. As did his body. Shifting his weight to his arms, he moved atop her and lodged himself between her thighs in a shockingly thrilling, intimate position. Through the thin layers of her muslin gown she felt every inch of him hardening against her boneless body. His bulky frame radiated such heat she felt she was going up in flames. She lost herself in their long-drawn-out kisses. With each foray of his tongue her belly tightened, her body tingled, her response matured and intensified. The memory of his half-nude body sleek with sweat, laboring over timber, haunted her as some natural opiate. Of their own volition her fingers pulled his cambric shirttails out of his trousers and splayed over his bare back. His skin was warm velvet, stretched taut over finely tuned sinew. She fingered the two dimples at the base of his back and sailed higher along the muscled ridges flanking his spine.

A groan reverberated in his throat. He ground his taut body over hers, drawing a soft moan from her lips. Her feeble sense of propriety gave way to the dormant wanton awakening inside of her, wanting to eat him alive—and he seemed perfectly willing to let her do it…

A little voice began sobbing. “Danielli!” Isabel nudged Ashby aside and scrambled to her feet. With great tenderness she scooped the drowsy infant into her arms, murmuring soothing sounds, and encouraged Danielli to put her head on her shoulder and continue napping. “I should go,” Isabel whispered. “She’ll wake up any minute now and want her mother.”

Already on his feet, Ashby nodded grimly while tucking his shirttails into his trousers. He escorted them to the foyer in silence, but she was physically aware of his covert glances. Strange how neither one of them knew what to say when not too long ago they had conversed freely.

Phipps opened the front door. Two footmen carried Danielli’s perambulator down the front steps.

Ashby gripped her fingers, staying her inside. “Isabel…” His emerald eyes were on fire. A battle seemed to be raging behind those eyes. She sustained his gaze expectantly, her longing for him written across her face. “Thank you for a lovely visit,” he relented gruffly.

Her heart sank. He didn’t ask to see her again. “Thank you.” Dash it all. She couldn’t stand there all day moon-eyed with the door open. She smiled and tugged her hand. “Goodbye.”

His fingers opened stiffly, letting go of hers one by one. “Goodbye.”

As the front door closed behind her, Lucy pushed the perambulator in the direction of Seven Dover Street. Isabel hummed inside. If his farewell handshake was an indication of the way he felt toward her, then she would see him again. Soon.