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It had taken a great deal of investigating, not to mention associating with persons Basil preferred not to know, before he had discovered Captain Macomber. Recently arrived from India, and an old friend of Captain Williams (now better known as Viscount Deverell), the lonely widower had been pleased to make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Celestine. And Celestine, of course, required payment for entertaining the Captain. For after all, she had not only discovered his mission but-unlooked-for prize—had relieved the retired seaman of the precious scrap of paper.
...to learn the truth after all these years—or at least, some part of the truth. I do not know what words he used to convince Maria, but if they were at all like those he wrote to me, the man must have had the very Devil at his ear, prompting him.
And yet you must think it was my own damned fault, do you not? That I made no effort, when opportunity finally came, to see Maria myself—or to enquire more closely into the circumstances of their marriage and the birth of the child. But I thought to spare her trouble. And in truth, my pride was hurt that she had not waited longer before remarrying.
I know this is sorry repayment for all you have done for me these many years—yet I pray you understand the circumstances which prevented my revealing myself even to you, my closest friend. And I hope you will find it in your great and generous heart to forgive me.
Though he would not admit it, the heartache of Deverell's letter moved him. Mired as he was in his debts and machinations, Basil wished, for a moment, that he had accepted Edward's offer. But no. Just to keep out of prison would take up the whole of the annuity. With nothing over to live on, there would be further debts. No, it wouldn't do. And after all he'd done and risked, he was not about to leave to Edward the promised pleasures of that delicious mouth, that slim and sensuous body...and that low, intoxicating laughter.
Chapter Sixteen
Mama certainly was energetic today, Isabella thought, as she sat with her book in the now-restored small parlour. Maria had begun by convincing Aunt Charlotte to visit with Lady Bertram.
"She begs for word of Isabella," Maria had sighed, "and will not be content with my note." In response to Lady Belcomb's protests that the countess could come see for herself, Maria provided seven or eight contradictory reasons why she could not, finally adding that she believed one of those Stirewells—or all of them—were expected, and Lady Bertram could not stir from home. This last silenced Charlotte, who immediately called for her daughter, found fault with her dress, made her change twice, and at length left the house, dragging the confused Veronica behind her.
Alicia was dispatched with her maid on a shopping expedition, and several dozen servants were provided with suitable occupations to keep them at some distance from the room in which Isabella sat reading. Mrs. Latham then had a confidential interview with the butler, who had very little trouble memorising the names of those whose visits would not be too fatiguing for her daughter.
And so, when Lord Hartleigh called, he found only Isabella and her mother at home. He had no sooner entered the room and presented Isabella with a bouquet (which she promptly dropped, in her agitation) than the indefatigable Maria suddenly recalled an urgent matter for the kitchen, and was gone before her daughter had time to object.
But Mama's treachery was forgotten in an instant, for the earl immediately lowered himself onto the sofa next to his darling, took her hand, and pressed it to his lips. This proving insufficient expression of his feelings, he took her in his arms and kissed her until she was dizzy.
Now he knew it wasn't right, and she knew it wasn't right, but several blissful minutes passed before either of them was remotely inclined to act upon what they knew. As it was, Isabella was the first to act, but she made such a poor attempt at indignation that Lord Hartleigh immediately forgot the abject apology he owed her and told her instead that he'd been frightened half to death on her account, that his life was not worth living without her, that he needed her, wanted her, and other such romantical nonsense, which he then summarised by telling her that he loved her. And when those intelligent blue eyes looked back so adoringly into his, he silently bade the proprieties—and his cousin—to the Devil, and kissed her again.
Now this was all so very pleasant that it quickly began to grow indecent, for Lord Hartleigh was not quite content to plant tender kisses on Isabella's lips. He remembered a trail he had blazed a few nights ago, and let his lips travel upon it once again—from the ticklish spot behind her ear down along her neck to her shoulders to the not-insurmountable barrier of her bodice. And Isabella, to her shame, had tangled his lordship's hair into disorderly curls and had even disarranged the perfect folds of his cravat; not, as one would expect, in the struggle to protect her virtue, but rather to bring it into immediate danger.
However, as his lordship's gentle hands began exploring new territories, the danger finally penetrated Isabella's brain, and in the midst of a startlingly warm and enthusiastic response, she suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be engaged to someone else altogether.
"Oh, no. Stop," she gasped. "Please stop."
Now it is very true that Lord Hartleigh had "unusually high notions of duty" and a powerful sense of honour and right. But at the moment, having already sent Propriety to the Devil, he was exceedingly loath to recall it. He was, moreover, extremely reluctant to leave off his highly satisfactory explorations of Isabella's person. For though he did truly esteem and admire Miss Latham, and had great respect for her intellect, he was driven, at the moment, by naked lust. Every taste and touch was so delicious that he thought only of having more, and had completely forgotten everything else.
But now, for some unaccountable reason, she was telling him to stop. He pretended not to hear, and when her pleas grew more urgent, he tried to stop them with kisses. But she now refused to cooperate and was pushing him away.
"Please stop," she hissed. "Mama will be back any minute."
Mama? Heated and breathless, he drew back and looked at her. Her silky hair had come loose from its pins, and one strand tickled the corner of her mouth. Lovingly, he brushed it aside, letting his fingers linger on her soft cheek, which grew bright pink under his gaze.
"I quite forgot your mother," he said softly. "I thought—I wished—we were just...we two."
Feeling herself melting again, Isabella moved a few inches away from him, and strove—rather ineffectually, for her hands were trembling—to restore herself to rights.
"For some reason," she muttered, trying to gather together some shreds of dignity, "I seem to forget myself in your company, My Lord. However, I hope you will remember that I've recently had a concussion, and cannot be held completely accountable for my actions."
Despite his frustration—for Lord Hartleigh did truly feel like a starving man who'd been invited to inhale the fragrance of a great feast and then forbidden to partake of it—despite this agony, his lips twitched with suppressed laughter as he gravely replied, "I'm fully aware of that, Miss Latham, and can only offer you my abject apologies for taking advantage of your...your weakened condition."
"Yes," she agreed, rather absently. Then, noting that he was as dishevelled as herself, she added, "Perhaps you should repair your cravat, sir."
Solemnly, he assured her that this was impossible. "A cravat," he whispered wickedly, "is very much like a reputation, Miss Latham. Once damaged, it cannot be repaired." Ignoring her gasp, he went on: "Except perhaps by some other, higher power. My valet can easily replace the neckcloth, you see. But your reputation is a matter for the parson. You will have to marry me as soon as possible." He reached for her, but she quickly got up from the sofa and crossed to the other side of the room.
"I can't," she said.
"You've made some foolish promise to Basil—or, rather, he's tricked you into a foolish promise. Come, Isabella, you can't seriously believe you're obliged to him in any way—"
"I am. I gave my word."
"If you discover that a man has cheated at cards, you do not proce
ed to pay him the money he's cheated from you." Impatient, he rose and strode across the room. Grasping her shoulders, he said softly, "Look at me and tell me you don't care for me. Tell me that you love him instead and want to be his wife. Tell me that and I'll go away and never trouble you again."
She hesitated, then met his eyes and smiled. "You know I can tell you no such thing."
"Good," he replied, then added with a wicked smile that made her heart flutter, "Then I propose we continue where we left off some moments ago, so that your mother will find us in a suitably compromising position. I don't plan to allow you the opportunity to change your mind later—when I've gone, and your infernal conscience tweaks you." So saying, he lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the sofa. He was just commencing yet another loving assault on her person when there was a rustling at the door.
"Now isn't that a pretty picture," Basil drawled as he sauntered into the room.
Isabella bolted upright, nearly knocking the earl off the sofa in the process.
"We could ignore him," Lord Hartleigh muttered, disentangling himself from her gown. "Perhaps he'd go away."
"Certainly not," said Basil. He dropped his elegant form into a chair opposite, then pulled out his glass and calmly surveyed the scene before him. "Good heavens, Edward, your cravat is a disgrace. I suspected my fiancée had a passionate nature, but I did not think she had no respect for a man's neckcloth."
"She is not your fiancée," Edward growled.
