Waiting in the hall, she watched him stumble down from the carriage and squint at the house. He took his time meandering inside.
Tapping her foot, she fumed silently. She’d hoped to be done pandering to titled men, being at their beck and call. Her requirements for Bessie Dove-Lyon should have included no titled lords, or at least no need for obsequity. Although, what did she know of marriage? Perhaps occasional obsequity was required to keep the peace. She’d have to really like her husband to manage that. Although, she wouldn’t mind some directed her way.
Opening her mouth to summon Clodpate, she hesitated. She did not recall his name. Did he know hers? Bessie had not introduced them, as their reactions had made it obvious they’d met before.
“Shall I continue to call you Clodpate, or would you prefer your name?”
His gaze sharpened a fraction, even through the last of his drunken state. “Shall I continue to call you Wench, or would you prefer your name?”
She managed not to smile. He had forgotten hers as well. ’Twas less embarrassing at least. “I hate Mrs. Rossi. It makes me feel ancient and far too much like a governess. Isabella will do for now. You’ll have to earn the right to call me Belle as my friends do.”
“Fair.” He bowed. “Luke Lynwood at your service. Known as South or Lyon to friends, heir to—”
“I don’t care. Lord Lynwood, please follow me, and I will show you to your room.” She gestured and turned to start up the stairs along one side of the entry hall.
As they climbed, she debated whether she should put him in the front room, farthest from her, or the middle room that backed on hers. After having men come and go any time they pleased, she valued her privacy. But if he’d been drinking like this for months, he had a long painful road ahead of him. Also,given her promise to Bessie Dove-Lyon, she should keep him close.
Opening the door to the bedroom next to hers, she stepped aside to let him pass.
His red-rimmed eyes, a shade browner than his hair, rose from where they’d followed the sway of her hips to meet hers. Pacing forward, he stopped before her, his gaze roaming her face and lingering on her lips.
Clenching her jaw to avoid flicking her tongue over the part of her he scrutinized, she waited. Any courtesan worth her salt knew how to handle an overzealous lord who hadn’t earned her time, and particularly a drunk lover. But lud, the boy was handsome, even with his eyes and nose puffed from excess.
He made his play, thinking her passive, leaning in.
Stomping her boot on his, she placed both hands on his chest and shoved him back to land against the doorframe.
“Wha—?”
“Go to bed. There will be no touching or kissing without permission.” She’d borrowed that from Charlotte’s introduction to her young man, but her friend wouldn’t mind. Heck, she’d probably giggle over it, as the men were friends. Come to think of it, she needed to work out how to tell Charlotte about this whole mess. She hadn’t yet confided her plan to marry, much less how she was going about it.
That was a problem for another day. Right now, she needed to get this drunken buffoon into bed. Alone.
He drifted past her, as though she had all night to wait on him.
When he neared the bed, she commanded, “Sit.”
He obeyed without thinking, then looked surprised.
“Remove your boots.”
He smirked. “I’m happy to remove whatever you’d like, Isabella.”
After he struggled for a moment, she stomped forward to help. By the time she was done, he had lain back on the bed and was half-asleep. Leaving him there, she placed the boots in the corner by the wardrobe.
Halfway to the door, she changed her mind. While he was in no shape to run off at the moment, she didn’t know what he might think was a good idea when he awoke. Taking his boots with her, she left to purge the house of the few spirits she kept on hand, mourning the loss of sherry, her favorite after-dinner pastime when alone.
Chapter Six
Luke woke facedown and as usual, took stock. Pillows, linens, bed. Check. But the linens smelled different than his, and the light hammering against his eyelids was from a different direction than his bedroom window.
Blinking his eyes open, he slammed them shut again. What cretin hadn’t closed the curtains? Or had someone opened them before he was awake?
He frowned. The more important question was where he was. He tried to bring his last memory of the night to mind. He shifted, and a spot near his knee twinged in pain. The fall from the tightrope crystallized. Then the meeting. Then... Isabella.
Had he managed to kiss her? He remembered trying, but his head had been pounding, and all he’d wanted to do was sleep—well, after a kiss.
He needed tea, toast, and a stiff drink to talk through why he was there. He hoped she’d have a clearer idea than he did.
