Ten Ways to Be Adored When Landing a Lord by Sara MacLean (6)

The last time Nick had been kept waiting by a female, he had ended up in a Turkish prison. He doubted he was in for a similar fate in Yorkshire, but nevertheless, he would prefer not to be kept waiting.

Outside.

For a madwoman.

No matter how lovely.

The groom had disappeared, along with the horses, and Nick and Rock had been left, summarily, on the doorstep of the manor house for far longer than was acceptable. Not that Nick had any lingering expectations of propriety at Townsend Park. Apparently, while the earl had been causing any number of scandals in London, his family had been left to rusticate in the country. Quite possibly in the care of wolves.

Ultimately, the pair had thrown manners to the wind and seated themselves on the wide stone steps, waiting for someone to come and fetch them.

And, as Nick fumed, Rock became more and more entertained.

“I retract my earlier statements on Yorkshire,” the Turk said, leaning casually against the stone balustrade, twirling a piece of grass in his hand. “It has taken a turn for the better, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps you would like to live here, then? In a parish full of oddities? ”

Rock laughed at Nick’s surly tone. “Unfortunately, Yorkshire seems to have robbed you of your good humor.”

“Yes, well, sitting outside for half an age waiting for a woman who has, quite likely, dreamed up her fantastic collection of antiquities, does not help. I’ve a mind to leave.”

“Five pounds says it’s real.”

Nick leveled his friend with a cool blue gaze. “Make it ten.”

“Ten pounds says we stay to catalogue it.”

As if on cue, the door opened, to reveal a mildly flushed Lady Isabel in a gray muslin day dress. Her hair had been returned to perfect smoothness and she was the portrait of calm and utter ladylikeness.

Nick looked up at her, instantly appreciating her long, willowy frame. She was tall and lithe and stunning.

It no longer seemed to matter that he had been sitting on these wretched steps for half the day.

He rose, Rock beside him, as she spoke. “My lords,” she said with a welcoming smile as a young footman in full livery opened the door wide. “Please forgive me for keeping you waiting.”

She was utterly poised, her tone and demeanor so even that one would never guess that they had just conducted an entire conversation with her roofbound.

She stepped aside, making room for their entrance.

Once inside, Nick registered the quietness of the house—the foyer was dimly lit, the front of the manor having been shaded from the late afternoon sun.

There was no sign of the boy who had been at the door earlier—he had been replaced, it seemed, by the woman who stood at the foot of a wide stone staircase, also dressed in mourning attire. Nick paused briefly, considering her. She was blond and willowy, with a serene smile and downcast eyes—entirely different from Lady Isabel.

Was it possible she was another Townsend sibling?

Noting Nick’s attention, Isabel stepped back and said, “Lara, may I present Lord Nicholas St. John and Mr. Durukhan? Lord Nicholas, Mr. Durukhan, my cousin, Miss Lara Caldwell.”

“Miss Caldwell.” Nick bowed low before Rock stepped forward.

Lara’s eyes went wide at the Turk’s sheer size, even as he offered her a warm smile and reached for her hand to greet her, “Miss Caldwell, it is a pleasure to meet you.” The Turk’s eyes lingered on Lara’s face as Nick turned back to Isabel.

“Where is the boy?”

“My lord?”

“The boy. Who answered my earlier knock.”

“You mean James … my brother … the earl … Lord Reddich, I suppose I should start calling him.” He watched as color flooded her cheeks. “He is … with his governess. I do apologize, again, for our somewhat … unorthodox … treatment. You see, the house was not expecting guests—we so rarely have them—and you startled James …”

Rock turned at her flustered explanation, meeting Nick’s eyes. The woman was not comfortable with them in the house, that much was clear.

“ … and several of the servants have the afternoon free,” she hurried to finish.

“While you learn the fundamentals of roof repair.”

“Precisely.” She smiled shyly, and he was struck once again by the change that came over her. She was beautiful.

When he returned her smile, hers was gone in a flash, as quickly as it had come. “Shall I show you the collection, my lord? I should hate to keep you here for too long—particularly when you must be planning to leave Yorkshire at any moment.”

Her words were a clear foray for information—one to which Nick was unwilling to respond. “Not at all. In fact, Rock was just pointing out how very engaging the area is—we may well stay awhile. So we have plenty of time this afternoon.”

“Oh,” she said, and he did not miss the disappointment in her tone.

She wanted him gone.

Why?

He was becoming intrigued.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nick noticed a nearby door slightly ajar and guarded by two liveried footmen, one tall and thin, one short and squat. He considered the sliver of space between the door and its seat, running his gaze along it. Sure enough, there, four feet from the ground, a little face peered out at him, wide-eyed. It was the boy from earlier.

He couldn’t help himself. He winked at the child and was rewarded with a gasp that sliced through the quiet, open space before he was gone, yanked from the door in a cry of young outrage.

Isabel did not flinch as the door slammed shut, instead spinning on her heel to lead them toward the stairs. “Please follow me. I am happy to show you the marbles.”

They climbed the wide stone stairs to the next floor in silence, Nick taking in the quiet dignity of the house that had not seen new decor in more than a decade. Lights were kept to a minimum, the darkened halls were bereft of servants, and all but a handful of doors were closed, indicating that the rooms behind them were rarely in use.

As she led them down a long, narrow corridor, Nick asked, “Lady Isabel, why you were repairing the roof? ”

She was ahead of him, and her head turned slightly as she registered the question. After a long pause, she said, “It leaks.”

The woman would try the patience of a saint. Truly.

He waited for her to elaborate. When she did not, he said, “I imagine that is the most likely reason for a roof to be in need of repair.”

He ignored the sound that came from Rock, a cross between laughter and strangulation.

As they reached a far corner of the house, Nick registered a familiar, not-unpleasant odor—a musty smell that he had long associated with the very best of discoveries. When she opened a door near the end of the hallway and indicated that they should enter, the wash of golden sunlight that spilled through the doorway surprised him.

Isabel stepped back, allowing him access to the large room, a perfectly symmetrical space, with tall ceilings and a wall of high windows that looked out onto the vast manor lands. The windows did nothing to hide the late afternoon sun that shone directly into the large, open space filled with dozens of statues, each a different size and shape, covered in dusty muslin sheets.

Excitement coursed through Nick as he took in the contents of the room, his hands itching to remove the shrouds—to view the treasures they hid. He stopped several feet inside, turning back to Isabel. “You were not exaggerating.”

A small smile played at her lips, and, when she spoke, he could hear the pride in her voice. “There is another room, identical to this one, across the hall. You will no doubt wish to see that, as well.”

Nick’s surprise was clear. “Perhaps Miss Caldwell could open that room for Rock while you tell me more about the statues? ”

After a moment’s hesitation, Isabel nodded her assent to her cousin, and the two exited the room, leaving the door wide. She uncovered a nearby statue, and Nick watched, tracking her movements as she pulled the fabric aside, revealing a tall marble nude.

He approached the piece, considering it for a long moment before running one hand down the curve of the statue’s arm. When he spoke, there was reverence in his voice. “She is stunning.”

Isabel tilted her head to one side, assessing the marble. “She is, isn’t she?”

Her reverent words shook him from his inspection. He turned to her, noting the way she looked at the statue—with something akin to longing. “More importantly, she is real.”

She looked up sharply, “You doubted as much?”

“It is not every day that I stumble across a woman who professes to have a collection of marbles such as this.” He lifted one corner of a nearby cloth, “May I?” When she nodded her assent, he tugged on the fabric, revealing another statue, this one a warrior, spear in hand, on the hunt. He shook his head slowly. “It is not every lifetime that I stumble across a woman who is actually in possession of such a collection.”

She smiled as she unveiled a cherub. “I am happy that our meeting has resulted in such excitement for you.”

He paused in uncovering another statue, capturing her gaze. “Even without such a collection, Lady Isabel, I think it would be difficult to forget such a meeting.”

Her blush sent a wave of pleasure through him. “I suppose I should admit defeat, my lord. You did, indeed, save my life. I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

He ran his hand over a marble bust of Dionysius, perfectly wrought, his fingers tracing the intricate lines of the grape leaves that encircled the head of the statue. “Allowing me access to such a collection is an excellent start at repaying that debt.” He looked to her again. “It is a tragedy that it is hidden away.”

She paused, and when she spoke, her voice held a tension that he did not like. “That will soon be remedied, thanks to you,” Isabel said with a small, sad smile. “Once you have identified them, the marbles must be sold.”

His eyes widened. “You cannot sell them.”

She busied herself with unveiling a large statue in particularly excellent condition. “I can, my lord. As you can see, it does me little good here, collecting dust. It must be sold.”

“It means more to you than its monetary value.” He could see it in her pride, in her obvious passion for the collection.

Her shoulders squared at his words. When she turned back, he noted that her eyes were shiny with tears. She took a deep breath. “I assure you, Lord Nicholas, I would not sell if—” He sensed a world in the silence. “If I felt that they were well shown here.” She traced the line of the statue’s foot. “How long do you think it will take?”

If he had thought the task she asked of him would take any less than a week, he would have lied to her to give her more time—to consider her actions. But falsehoods were unnecessary.

“Some of the marbles will be easier to identify than others,” he said carefully, making a show at looking around the room. “Two weeks at the minimum. Perhaps longer.”

“Two weeks!” Her eyes went wide with despair.

“I see you would prefer to be rid of me sooner.”

Her gaze flew to his, and she seemed to relax slightly at his smile. “It is not that … only the time. I had hoped to have the stones sold in less than two weeks.”

“Impossible. Even the best antiquarian could not meet that goal.”

“I do apologize, my lord. I was under the impression that you were the best antiquarian.”

The bold words startled him, and he grinned, surprised and delighted by her teasing, so unexpected from a woman who appeared to have an untold weight upon her shoulders.

He was coming to see, however, that there was much about Lady Isabel that was unexpected.

“And it will take at least a month for you to get a reasonable price for it.”

“I don’t have a month.”

“More likely, six weeks.”

“I definitely do not have six weeks.” Isabel sounded desolate.

The situation was growing more and more curious.

The collection would have been enough to sway him—but now, as he watched worry flood her gaze, he knew that it was not simply the collection that was keeping him in Yorkshire.

He wanted to know all her secrets.

And she had given him the perfect way to uncover them.

They were very close now, and Nick purposely took another step toward her, crowding her nearer to the statue. Her eyes widened, and he found that he enjoyed surprising her. “Two weeks,” he said, his voice low. “And when I am done, I shall help you to sell the marbles.”

“Thank you.” Her relief was palpable. “I am only sorry that I have no way of repaying you the favor.”

“I’m sure we could come up with some form of payment for my services.”

The words were low and meant to be teasing, but Isabel was instantly guarded. “Could we? ”

Someone had hurt her.

The thought set him on edge, the muscles of his back stiffening as he wondered who. And how.

He turned away, attempting a playful note. “May I propose a game? ”

“A game? ”

“For each statue I identify, you shall tell me something of Townsend Park. And your life here.”

There was silence as she considered his offer—a silence that stretched out long enough for him to believe that she might not answer at all. He heard her take a deep breath, and looked back at her, meeting her eyes. He considered their dark, mahogany depths, so private and uncertain. So many secrets hidden there—so much that he wanted to discover. The legacy of the bulan—he could not leave a mystery unsolved.

What would it take to unlock those secrets? To see her with her guard down?

An image flashed, quick and intense—Isabel, her head thrown back in passion, open and unguarded, her long, lithe body spread across his bed, waiting for him. The force of the vision pushed him back, away from her, to a safer distance.

He indicated a nearby bust. “That is Medusa.”

She gave a short burst of laughter. “Of course it is. Even I could have identified her. You can’t really expect me to share my secrets for that.”

“I never said they had to be secrets,” he teased, “but if you are offering information of such value, the bust is Medusa, in black marble, likely from Livadeia. More importantly, it is Medusa after she was decapitated by Perseus, but before her head was seated at the center of Athena’s shield.”

“How do you know that?”

He indicated that she should move closer to the statue. Pointing to a small indentation where the head of one asp was consuming the tail of another, he said, “Look carefully. What do you see? ”

She leaned closer, peering into the shadowy nook. “A feather!”

“Not just any feather. A feather from the wings of Pegasus. Who was spawned from the blood that spilled from Perseus’s blade.”

She turned wide eyes on him, and he resisted the urge to preen. “I’ve looked at this statue dozens of times and never seen it. You are the best.”

He bowed exaggeratedly. “As such, you owe me payment, my lady.”

Isabel nibbled carefully on her lower lip. “All right. I shall tell you about the collection.” “An excellent beginning.”

She paused a long moment, and Nick thought she might change her mind. When she finally spoke, the words came from far away as she looked from statue to statue, lost in her thoughts. “My father won them from a French smuggler in a game of chance.”

Years of practice kept him from replying—and she filled the silence with more of her thoughts. “In the early days of the war. He had always been an inveterate gambler. He wagered on everything, money, servants, houses …” She paused for a moment, lost in thought, then caught herself, and continued. “We would go weeks without seeing him, and then one day, he would arrive on the doorstep, a basketful of puppies in hand, or a new curricle in the drive. He gave these to my mother as a gift three days after I turned seven.”

There was more to the story. He was certain of it.

“And she gave them to you,” he prompted.

She nodded, stiffly, her lips pressed into a thin line. “She did. They are mine.”

There was something in that word, mine, that called to Nick. Here was a woman who cared deeply for that which was hers.

“You do not want to sell them,” he said. That much was obvious.

His words pulled her back from wherever she had been. Silence stretched between them, and he thought she might not reply. When she did, there was little emotion in her tone.

“No.”

“Then … why? ”

She gave a small, humorless laugh. “Sometimes, my lord, we must do things we do not want to do.”

She breathed deeply and he noted the pull of her bodice across her breasts. Feeling guilty for the awareness that pulsed through him at the movement, he looked away, his gaze landing on a nearby statue, towering above them. Recognition flared, and he gave a short, hoarse laugh.

“What is so amusing? ”

“That statue. Do you know who she is? ”

Isabel turned, considering the nude, one hand at her breast as though she could hide her embarrassment at the statue’s state of undress. Taking in the curve of the marble spine, the serene pleasure on the statue’s face, the garland of roses that wound up one leg, Isabel shook her head. “No.”

“She is Voluptas. The daughter of Cupid and Psyche.”

“How do you know that? She looks like every other female statue here.”

He gave her a frank look. “I know because I am the best.”

She smiled, and he felt a supreme satisfaction in her amusement. When she was not wary of him, she was exquisite.

The air between them became heavy, the room suddenly warmer, the musty air thick with the clean scent of her—a mix of orange blossom and something fresh and welcome that he could not place.

He noted the flush of her skin, the hollow at the base of her neck where the column of her throat met her shoulder, and he was struck with want—quick and intense—more than he had felt in a long while.

He watched as the moment hit her, as well—his nearness catching her breath. Their gazes collided, and he was keenly aware of their position, so close, pressed between two statues, on the brink of touching. They were alone, with none but the marbles to see them.

Desire moved him forward.

He reached for her, one hand nearly brushing her cheek before he realized the mistake that touching her would be. He took in her wide brown eyes, rich and liquid with emotion, a heady mix of curiosity and excitement and fear that brightened her whole face, turning her into an innocent siren—flesh and blood, surrounded by her marble sisters.

Isabel closed her eyes against his nearness, and he considered her lovely face—high, strong cheekbones, lush mouth, brow clear of worry. Her beauty was generous when it had time to be.

She released the breath she had been holding in a rattling, unsteady sound, and her lips parted, marking the moment with an elegant pink sigh.

There wasn’t a man on earth who could resist that sigh.

He leaned in, even as he knew it was wrong.

Nothing good could come of kissing this innocent country miss.

His lips were a hairsbreadth from hers when the sound came from outside the room.

He snapped back, straightening, and cursed briefly under his breath. He took a long step back, immediately wishing he had not gone anywhere near this woman, who seemed to have an inexplicable negative effect on his good sense.

Her eyes flew open, a mix of emotions in their depths, and for a moment, he wanted nothing but to pull her into his arms and damn everyone else.

And then Miss Caldwell and Rock returned and Nick was too busy moving to place a safe distance between him and Isabel, who pressed herself into the statue of Voluptas so firmly that Nick worried, fleetingly, if she might push the thing off its pedestal.

That certainly would distract from their activities.

“What did you find?” Nick asked, hoping to cover the energy that remained between them.

Rock looked from Nick to Isabel, then back again. One dark brow rose. Nick matched it, daring the Turk to draw attention to the situation inside the room.

After a pause, Rock spoke. “I’ve not seen anything like it outside of Greece.” He went on to describe the scope of the marbles in the second room, and Nick watched from the corner of his eye as Lara crossed to her cousin. Isabel smiled a too-bright smile, one that betrayed everything.

She had wanted him.

He shook himself from the thought. He should be grateful for the interruption that prevented the immense mistake that kiss would have been. This girl was everything he did not seek out in his women. She was innocent and alone and precisely the kind of female he avoided—the kind who would want more from him than he was able to give. He’d wager she’d barely ever been satisfactorily kissed, out here in the countryside with no one but the stable boys to toy with.

He did not deny that he would very much like to show Isabel how satisfying kissing could be.

“You owe me ten pounds.”

Rock’s words pulled Nick back to the present.

The collection was real. Its owner, a mystery.

They were staying.

Ignoring his friend’s smirk, Nick slid his gaze back to Isabel, who was watching them, curiosity in her eyes. When she noticed his attention, she blushed, patting her hair nervously.

“Lady Isabel,” he said, enjoying the sound of her name on his tongue. “If it suits you, we will begin our work on the collection tomorrow morning.”

He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, followed immediately by the recognition that she had taken them too far down this particular path to turn him away.

She patted her hair in a movement that he was quickly coming to recognize as nerves. “By all means. Tomorrow would be … fine.” She edged around them, heading for the door. “And … Lara will see you out today … I am … I must …” She paused, and Nick waited, a half smile on his face, for her to finish. “I must go.”

And she was gone, the skirts of her drab gray dress the last thing he saw as she fled the room.