Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord by Sara MacLean (10)

Lesson Number Three

Do not be afraid to share little gems of yourself to entice your lord.

When he inquires after your inner thoughts, be sure to share small and compelling parts of your mind—nothing too intellectual … we would not like him to think you a bluestocking! But small, interesting tidbits of your wonder: your favorite color; your preference for embroidery over oils; the name of your childhood pony.

Master the art of remaining forthcoming, yet not overpowering.

Pearls and Pelisses
June 1823

She froze at the words, uncertain of how she should respond. “My … my what?” “Your secrets, Lady Isabel,” he repeated, his voice low and coaxing. “If my instincts are correct, they are considerable in number.”

“What an absurd idea,” she said. “Why, my life is truly an open book.”

He watched her from under heavy lids for a long moment—long enough to give her the real sense that he knew something she did not want him to know. Was it possible that Rock had betrayed her confidence? The confidence of a houseful of women in need?

It didn’t seem very gentlemanly, but who was to say the enormous man was a gentleman? Indeed, his companion had not acted in accordance with any particular code of chivalric conduct earlier that afternoon.

Isabel shook her head. She would not think of the events of the afternoon. Not when she was here in her cozy library.

With a cad.

One of Nick’s eyebrows rose and he leaned back in his chair—stretching out as if he owned the place—the arrogant man, crossing one leg over the other. Isabel made a show of moving her skirts out of the way of his boots. He watched, a smirk playing over his lips. His boots were nowhere near her skirts and they both knew it.

Still. He could have been more courteous.

“Forgive me, my lady, if I say I do not believe you.”

Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?” she said, her tone as haughty as that of any queen. “Are you calling me a liar? ”

“I am accusing you of withholding the truth.”

“Well! Of all the—” It did not matter that he was right. That she was hiding several rather immense secrets from him. A gentleman did not question the veracity of a lady’s words. “Need I remind you that, as a guest here at Townsend Park, you owe me a modicum of respect?”

“Need I remind you, my lady, that as my hostess, you owe me a modicum of generosity? ”

Isabel leaned forward, no longer cozy. “What are you saying?”

“Only that you would do well to tell me the truth about your situation. I’m bound to discover it soon enough.” “I—” She stopped. To which situation was he referring?

“I know you’re in financial straits, Isabel.”

“Lady Isabel.” He did not correct himself. “And I fail to see why this is at all a matter of concern to you, Lord Nicholas.”

“St. John. Or Nick. Very few people call me Lord Nicholas.” She did not correct herself. “And it is a very serious matter to me, Isabel. After all, you brought me here to value your collection of marbles.”

“I—” She had to tread carefully. “I released you from that request.”

“Yes, but it seems that nature has other plans for us.” He paused. “How much do you need?”

Really. The man was impossible. Gentlemen did not simply plop themselves down across from ladies and ask about finances. The conversation was more than crass.

She could not imagine why any woman would want to land this lord, after all. She certainly did not want to.

That made everything easier.

“Lord Nicholas—”

“For every time you call me Lord Nicholas, I shall bring up an additional inappropriate question.”

“There aren’t many more inappropriate than this one.”

“On the contrary, Isabel, there are far less appropriate topics that I would be happy to discuss with you.”

For example?

He seemed to read her thoughts; his piercing blue gaze glittered with an unnerving knowledge, and in that moment Isabel wanted for nothing more than a list of all those dark topics. She felt her cheeks grow warm at the thought. To cover the blush, she took a pull of brandy, the fiery liquid burning her throat. She coughed once, then twice, desperate to keep the action delicate and not draw attention to her discomfort. When he did not look away, her blush flared higher.

She must not allow him the upper hand.

“Two can play at that game, my lord. For every inappropriate question you ask, I assure you I shall be able to find one myself.”

“Yes … but will you be able to ask it? ”

It was a test. They both knew it.

“Where did you—” She stopped.

There was a long pause while he waited for her to finish the question. She looked down at the glass in her hands, keenly aware of the feel of the heavy crystal, the amber liquid swirling along its walls. She could not finish the question.

“Where did I—?”

Isabel shook her head, not looking up. There was a droplet on the very top edge of the glass and, in her nervousness, Isabel touched her finger to the spot, watching the liquid disappear into her skin, wishing she could do the same—to disappear from this room, from this conversation that was so very beyond her experience.

His voice was low and liquid. “I am disappointed in you. I had hoped you would be a formidable opponent. And it seems you shan’t be a foe at all.”

Her gaze snapped up at the words, softly teasing. She watched the hint of a dimple in his cheek flash and decided then and there to put an end to his teasing.

“Where did you get your scar? ”

The words were barely out when she desperately wanted to take them back. What was she thinking?

He grinned wide and took a sip of brandy. “Good girl. I knew you could do it. You know, no woman has ever asked me that question before.”

She was instantly eager to dismiss the question. “I’m sure they barely notice—”

He raised a lone eyebrow, and the movement stayed her words. “Do not ruin my newfound view of you, Isabel. I acquired the mark in Turkey.”

She shook her head once, as if to clear it. “I—I didn’t mean—”

“Of course you did.” He held up his glass in a toast. “Now that we’ve settled that, how much do you need? “ Isabel’s thoughts were racing with additional questions.

He had opened the door…

“I’m not sure. More than we make off the estate. When?”

He did not pretend to misunderstand. He dangled his glass haphazardly from one hand, the liquid inside casually forgotten for the moment. “Nine years ago. Are you saying the estate cannot take care of itself?”

Isabel drank again. She leaned back, pressing herself into the soft chair. “Some months, it can—when we have the livestock, the crops to be self-sustaining. But there is nothing left. Nothing for school for James. No new clothes …”

“You would like new clothes?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I’m talking about new clothes for James … for—” She stopped. For the girls. She met his eyes. “Did it hurt?”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Worse than a four-inch-long gash on your cheek?”

He shook his head slowly. “It’s my turn. For the record, I would like you to have new clothes. I’d like to see you in bright, bold colors. I think they would suit you—certainly better than the colors of mourning. I’d like to see you in red. A deep, welcome rose.” Whether from the brandy or his thoughtful tone, Isabel felt warmer all of a sudden. She waited for him to speak, wondering what he might say next, eager for him to continue the conversation even as she feared the topics he might broach. “Why haven’t you married?”

The question was not at all what she had expected. “I …” She paused, uncertain. “What does that have to do with anything?”

One side of his mouth twitched in a crooked, knowing smile. “Ah. I see we have found a topic of interest.”

“I assure you, my lord, I am not at all interested in it.”

“No … but I am.” He stood, moving across the room to refill his glass. She tracked his movements, wide-eyed, and when he returned with the bottle and offered her more of the brandy, she did not refuse. “Marriage is the answer to your problems, Isabel. Why not marry? ”

She hadn’t thought there was a topic she wanted to discuss less than the estate’s finances. It seemed she had been wrong. “It’s never been an option. How did it happen? ”

He sat again, facing her once more. “Wrong place at the wrong time. I do not believe that marriage has never been an option. Try again.”

“The only men who have ever expressed an interest were friends of my father. If you knew my father, you would not consider marriage to any of his acquaintances an option, either.” She drank again, the liquor smoother—more pleasant—this time. “I do not believe that you were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Try again.”

A smile flashed as he recognized his own words. “A palpable hit, my lady.” He leaned back in his chair. “I shall tell you, but then you shall have to be honest with me. Are you certain you are up to the challenge? ”

No. But, in that moment, there was nothing she would not promise to hear his story. “Of course.”

He raised one eyebrow, but spoke, nonetheless. “By a stroke of immensely atrocious luck and a fair bit of bad judgment, I landed myself in a Turkish prison while in the Orient.” She sucked in a short breath as he continued, “I was there for twenty-two days before Rock found me and brought me to safety. The fact that I walked away with a single visible scar is rather impressive, I think.”

How horrid. How lucky he had been that Rock had found him. What if he had not been saved? What if he had gone a month? A year? What other, more sinister scars might there have been? Might there be?

He leaned forward then, reaching one arm out toward her. She started when his long fingertips brushed the space between her brows, smoothing the furrow there that she had not noticed. “I can see your imagination running away with you.”

She shook her head at the words, pulling back from his warm touch. “Nonsense. I am only happy that you were able to escape your captors. How horrible that must have been. How lucky you were to have Rock.”

“Do not romanticize it, Isabel,” he said. “I assure you, I deserved the scar.” The words fell like stone between them. What did that mean? How could this man, this lord, this … antiquarian … have done something worthy of such a wound? Isabel’s mouth opened, but Nick continued before she could ask any of the questions racing through her head. “It’s your turn.”

She blinked once, twice. What had he wanted to know?

“Marriage.”

She must tread carefully here. “I … I never wanted to marry.”

He waited. When she did not say anything more, he prompted, “But?”

She shook her head. “You are right—marriage would solve any number of my problems … but I imagine it would cause a fair number of new ones, frankly.”

He gave a little laugh, and when she looked at him curiously, he said, “I beg your pardon. It is only that I have never met a woman who feels so about marriage.”

She immediately understood that he was thinking of Pearls and Pelisses. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”

“You have no desire for wedded bliss?”

“If wedded bliss were an honest option, perhaps I would …” Isabel gave a little snort at the words, looking into her glass for a long moment before drinking the last of her brandy. The truth was coming easier now. “But wedded bliss never seemed viable for me.”

“No?”

She looked up, meeting his curious gaze. “Not in the least. You did not know my father? ”

“I did not.”

“How lucky for you.” For a moment, she thought he would say something in response to her acid words. When he remained silent, she continued, “He did not spend much time here—my mother was very much in love with him for some reason … although I could never see why. He was handsome enough, I suppose, and certainly the heart of any party. He was a carnival of a man. But when we needed him, he was never here.”

There was more to say—much more—but Isabel stopped herself. Lord Nicholas St. John, however easy to talk to, however compelling a companion, was a danger to her—to all of them—and she needed to keep him at arm’s length. “Suffice to say, the idea of a marriage like theirs has never sat well.”

He nodded once, slowly, as though he understood. “Not all marriages go the way of theirs.”

“Perhaps,” Isabel allowed quietly before looking back into her empty glass. “I suppose you have a warm, loving, wonderful family. You’re probably the product of a love match.”

Nick gave a little laugh at the words, and the sound drew Isabel’s curious attention. “You could not be farther from the truth.” He did not elaborate, instead changing the topic. “And so you are selling the collection.”

The pain of it flared. When she spoke, she could not keep the regret from her voice. “Yes.”

“But you do not want to.”

There was no point in lying. “No.”

“Then why do it? Surely there was a guardian named in your father’s will who is able to help? ”

“Our guardian, if one might call him that, has not been found. As usual, my father has left it to me to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads.” She paused, then flashed a smile. “Literally.”

He smiled at her joke, and in that moment of shared amusement, something changed in his eyes, the warm summer blue shifting with awareness, and Isabel knew precisely where his thoughts had strayed—to the roof, the rain, and their earlier encounter. Her cheeks warmed, and she fought the urge to press her fingertips to her face and chase away the color there.

“Perhaps you know him? ”

“Your guardian? ”

She nodded. “Oliver, Lord Densmore.”

Nick’s brows shot up. “Densmore is your guardian?”

She did not like the sound of that.

“You do know him, then?”

“I do.”

“And what is he like? ”

“He is …” She watched Nick intently as he searched for the appropriate adjective. “Well, he certainly is entertaining.”

“Entertaining.” Isabel tested the word on her tongue, deciding that she did not care for it.

“Yes. How was it that you described your father? A carnival of a man? ”

Isabel nodded.

“Like follows like. But he is not a man I would choose to protect my family.”

Of course he wasn’t.

Isabel had known the truth, but a small part of her had hoped that in this, his last act, her father might have been a father to her. And if not to her, at least to James.

Instead, at Nick’s words, an immense pressure built in Isabel’s chest. All of a sudden, she could not breathe, so unsettled was she at the thought of yet another man, irresponsible and nevertheless so powerful, holding sway over her … over James … over the girls. She could feel the panic rising, pure and unfettered.

She had to get the girls out. Now. Before they were trapped.

Before they were found.

Before everything she had so carefully built was torn down by a man just like her father.

She tried for a deep breath—but the air wouldn’t come.

“Isabel.”

The sound of her name came from far away as she closed her eyes and willed herself to breathe. Nick was next to her then, his strong hand on her back, running along the bones of her corset. “These things are torture devices,” he muttered as he lifted her chin with one finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Look at me. Breathe.”

She shook her head, “I am …” She paused, trying again. “I am fine.”

“You are not fine. Breathe.”

The firm calm of his voice settled her, and she did as she was told. She took several deep, shaking breaths under the guidance of his liquid gaze and the warm stroke of his hand at her back.

When she had returned to normal, Isabel squeezed back against one arm of the chair, desperate to get away from his unsettling touch. He released her, but did not move from his position, crouched low, at the side of her seat. She looked away from him, guilty, embarrassed by her actions. Her gaze fell on the door at the far end of the room, and she considered the myriad reasons she could fabricate to flee.

“You aren’t leaving this room.”

She could leave if she wanted. It was her room, for heaven’s sake. He needn’t be such a lion about it. She gripped the edge of her chair, her knuckles turning white. “There is no need for you to be concerned.”

His eyes flashed as he shifted his weight to one knee and took both her hands in his. “You are weighed down with secrets, Isabel. At some point, you are going to have to share them.”

She looked at the man across from her—this man who seemed to be good. And strong. And rich. And she realized that he was, indeed, her best hope.

If only she didn’t feel so guilty about it.

“Why not start with your father?” She pulled back, physically resisting the idea of opening up about the man who had started her down this path. He squeezed her hands then. “Why not speak what you cannot stop thinking?”

Isabel caught her breath at the words, so soft, so coaxing.

What if she told him?

What if she let some of her secrets go?

They hovered there, on the brink of something more powerful than either of them, and Isabel felt the silence as if it were a physical weight. Neither of them had worn gloves that evening; the casual nature of the manor house had not required it.

He rubbed her hands between his carefully, tracing his broad, wonderfully roughened fingertips down each of her fingers in turn. She watched the movement, wondering at his calloused skin—how had one of London’s most coveted lords developed the hands of a workman? She was so distracted by the feel of his warm bare hands on hers that she nearly gave in to his request.

Nearly.

But somewhere, deep within her, she knew that if she opened up to this man, it would be the most dangerous thing she ever did.

He made her want to believe that she could share her burdens.

When the truth was that she was alone.

And she always would be.

In the beginning, she had thought that was best. Because every woman she’d known who had chosen to share her life had regretted it. She learned from her mother, from the women of Minerva House. Sharing life with a man would ultimately lead to being half a woman. And she never wanted to feel that way.

No matter how much his warm hands and encouraging words tempted her.

She swallowed, willing her voice to come out strong and firm. “There is nothing to say. You know his reputation as well as I. Better, I would imagine. We did not know him. He did not care to know us.” She lifted one shoulder in a small shrug and tugged at her hands, eager to be free of his grasp.

Nick did not respond, releasing one of her hands, but keeping the other in his firm grip, turning it over and baring her palm to his gaze. With his thumbs, he began to rub slow circles across her hand. The sensation was instantly overwhelming.

When he spoke, it was in a whisper. “You do not have to tell me … but believe me when I tell you that you cannot allow him to turn you against life. Do not let him rob you of its pleasure.”

Her eyes flew to his, but he was not looking at her. Instead, he was watching his ministrations, the press and stroke of his thumbs that sent the most marvelous waves of pleasure through her. She sighed and fell back against the cushion of her chair, knowing she should stop him, but unable to muster the energy to do so. Whatever he was doing to her hand … it was lovely. Far lovelier than anything she’d experienced in a very long time.

Except maybe his kiss.

That had been rather lovely, as well.

She really should remove her hand from his.

But something that he was doing to her—the way his fingers seemed to find the most sensitive spots on her hand … she’d never noticed the pleasure one’s fingers could experience.

Her gaze slid from where she watched the play of his hands up to his neck, where the corded muscle slipped beneath his shirt collar in lovely, sun-kissed lines. She had never noticed anyone’s neck before, and, as she followed the length of his throat up to his jaw, she wondered why.

Necks were quite magnificent, actually.

He shifted the pressure on her hands, rubbing the base of her thumb with the strong pads of his fingers, and she turned liquid at the touch, sinking further into her chair. Nick continued his ministrations, pressing and stroking in the most marvelous way, sending waves of pleasure through her. She sighed, knowing she should stop him, but unable to muster the energy to do so.

Instead, she raised her eyes to his face, taking in the sharp angle of his jaw where it met the lines of his throat, his strong chin and firm, soft lips. She did not linger on that mouth … or the unsettling memories it wrought; instead, she turned her attention to the slight, nearly imperceptible bend in his nose.

It had been broken at some point. Perhaps at the same time he was scarred?

Who was this man, at once gentleman antiquarian, mysterious prison escapee, and infuriating kisser?

How did he seem to understand her so well?

And, more importantly, why did she want so very much to know him?

She braved a look at his eyes then, and was relieved to discover that he was focused on her hands rather than her face. She watched his intent gaze. The brilliant blue that she had noticed from the start—that every woman in London had noticed at one point or another if the silly magazine was to be believed—they were not simply blue. They were a stunning combination of grays and cornflowers and sapphires … framed with lush, sooty lashes any courtesan would envy.

He was beautiful.

The thought broke through, and Isabel sat up straight, yanking her hand from between his and pushing aside the immediate sense of loss that came over her as she did so. She swallowed once, collecting herself. “You are too familiar, Lord Nicholas.” She managed not to cringe at the shaking of her voice, and was quite proud of her restraint.

Without missing a beat, Nick set his hands to his thighs, not moving aside from the slight lifting of the corner of his mouth in a small, wry smile. “I heard your sigh, Isabel—your body did not find me at all overly familiar.”

Her eyes widened at the words. “Of all the arrogant … ungentlemanly … things to say!”

He gave a small, almost unnoticeable shrug. “I did warn you of what would happen if you called me Lord Nicholas again.”

Isabel opened her mouth to retort, but found she had nothing to say. She closed her mouth. How frustrating. In novels, the heroine always had something witty to say.

She was no heroine.

She shook her head to clear it of the thought, then stood, squaring her shoulders and pushing past him, taking pleasure in the sound of her skirts brushing against his shoulder where he crouched.

When she was far enough away from him, she turned back.

To find him standing altogether too close.

She froze, immediately nervous as he lifted one hand to her cheek, running his fingertips over the skin there, sending a tremor through her. She was surrounded by the scent of him, a heady combination of brandy and sandalwood and something wonderful that she could not place. She resisted the temptation to close her eyes and breathe him in—to lean into the light touch and encourage him to take the moment further.

What if he did? What then?

Would he kiss her again?

Did she want him to?

She remained utterly still, transfixed by the softness of his touch.

Yes. She wanted him to kiss her.

Her gaze flickered to his, and she willed him to move closer—to repeat his actions from the afternoon.

He could read her thoughts; she knew he could. She could see the flicker of masculine satisfaction in his gaze as he registered her desire … but she didn’t care. As long as he kissed her.

He was so close; it was maddening. She couldn’t bear the waiting—the intense anticipation of a caress that might not come—and she closed her eyes finally, unable to maintain the contact with his intense, knowing blue gaze. Without the benefit of sight, Isabel felt herself begin to sway toward his heat. She knew it was brazen, but there was something about this man that made her forget herself … her past. Everything that she had ever promised she would not become.

“Isabel …” He whispered her name and she resisted the urge to open her eyes for fear of breaking this warm, intimate spell that had been woven around them. Instead, she reveled in the sound of her name on his deep voice as her hands rose of their own volition, just barely touching the coarse fabric of his topcoat—itching to explore the wide expanse of his chest.

He had spoken of life’s pleasures. She wanted him to show them to her.

The light touch seemed to spur him forward, and Isabel sighed as he settled his lips to hers … and she was overcome with a mix of pleasure and relief.

The kiss was softer, less urgent than the one they had shared that afternoon, an exploration of a caress. His hands slid into the hair at the nape of her neck as his lips passed over hers in a feather-light touch once, twice … intoxicating her with sensation. Isabel sighed, her lips parting, and he rewarded her by deepening the kiss, aligning his mouth to hers, and sliding his tongue along her full bottom lip, leaving a path of fire in its wake.

Isabel spread her fingers wide, passing her hands over his broad shoulders and pressing herself against his chest, willing him closer. He understood, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her closer, into the cradle of his arms, and stroking his tongue against hers before breaking off the kiss to trail his lips across her cheek to her ear where he whispered her name—more sensation than sound—and took the soft lobe between his teeth, worrying the skin there until a shiver of intense pleasure sent her arms around his neck.

She could feel his satisfied smile against her skin as he pressed his lips to the soft spot behind her ear, where her pulse beat in a mad, unbearable rhythm. He rained soft, irresistible kisses down the side of her neck, pausing to scrape his teeth against her skin until she whimpered her pleasure and struggled to remain standing.

He lifted her in his arms then and, without removing his mouth from her neck, returned himself to the large winged chair by the fireplace, and settled her on his lap. He lifted his head, capturing her gaze as if to confirm her willingness to continue. She sighed her approval as he tilted her chin up and returned his mouth to the soft skin where her neck met her shoulder, licking softly, the roughness of his tongue making her wild.

She gasped, and the sound brought his attention back to her mouth. He took her lips again, stroking his tongue past her lips as one hand slid up her side to the edge of her breast. Once there, his hand stilled, and the lack of movement proved to be Isabel’s undoing. Her breast felt infinitely heavier than it ever had, full and wanting in a way that made her desperate for his touch. She wanted his hand on her in a way she had never dreamed of prior to this moment—to this man.

She squirmed then, willing him to move, to touch her, and he lifted his mouth from hers, opening his brilliant blue eyes and capturing her gaze.

“What is it, beauty?” His thumb moved, just barely, but enough for her to know that he knew precisely what she wanted. He was teasing her.

“I—” She couldn’t say it.

The heel of his hand—that wicked hand, so close to where she wanted it—pressed against her and he set his lips to her ear. “So beautiful … so passionate … my very own Voluptas.” The words, more breath than sound, sent an explosion of heat through her. “Show me.”

The demand unleashed something inside her. She slid her hand down his arm to where his hand lay. She pulled back, meeting his gaze with more courage than she’d ever known she had, and moved his hand to capture her breast. When the heavy weight settled in his grasp, they both watched as he stroked his fingers across her breast, running the edge of his thumb over the place where her nipple pebbled beneath the fabric. She gasped at the sensation and their gazes collided.

“Tell me how it feels.”

She blushed. “I—I cannot.”

He repeated the caress and she sucked in another breath. “You can.”

She shook her head. “I have never—it is too much. Too good.”

He rewarded her with another long kiss as he slid one finger under the edge of her gown, running the back of it against her heated, straining skin. She cried out then, breaking the kiss, and he set his forehead against hers, a ghost of a smile playing across his swollen lips.

“It shall only get better.” The words were filled with heated promise.

He lifted her again, surprising her with the movement as he rose, then returned her to the chair with the utmost of ease. He leaned over her, bracing himself on the arms of the chair, and stole her lips once again, until she was left unable to move.

He pulled back then, and she opened her eyes to find an intense desire in his—quickly replaced with something she could only describe as determination. Confused by the change, she could only watch as he whispered, “I don’t know what you are hiding from, Isabel, but I will know soon enough. And if it is in my power to change it, I shall.”

Her mouth fell open at the words—so unexpected.

He pulled away from her then, and, even as she longed for more of his touch, he left the room, his movements as confident as his words had been.