"So, we have established that you do not find me unattractive," said Lord Francis, his voice seeming just slightly smug to Isobel’s ears. "What shall we do about getting to know one another better? I think perhaps you do wish to marry me after all."
Isobel gazed up at him, still tingling from the kiss. His caresses were certainly stimulating, she reflected, and she was sorely tempted to accept his proposal. At the same time, however, she wished to make him realize that she was not to be toyed with. He thought that her desire for him would overpower her common sense, and she determined to show him it was not so.
"As I am a woman of three-and-twenty, and in no man’s care, I believe we could become better acquainted without marriage," she said.
Lord Francis looked at her quizzically. "What do you mean?"
"Why, that we should conduct an affaire," said Isobel airily. "Miss Wollstonecraft speaks approvingly of such arrangements in her letters from the Scandinavian countries."
Lord Francis released her abruptly, and stepped back from her, and she smiled at him pityingly. "Are you shocked, Lord Francis? Surely you did not think that I would marry any man without full knowledge of every part of him."
"Miss Paley, this is most immodest of you," he said in a low voice. "I knew you read these books, and was willing to accept that eccentricity because I know you are more learned than most women, but I hardly thought that you would act upon them."
Isobel raised her eyebrows, pleased to see that she had rattled him. "What good is reading and understanding these works if you do not take them to heart? I see no reason why we must marry to see if we are compatible. I believe that an affaire, conducted honestly, would be a fine test of whether we should consider any sort of permanent connection."
Lord Francis glared at her. "Do you mean to say that you have shared your favors with other gentlemen?" he demanded.
"That is not something I choose to tell you," responded Isobel. "Would it make a difference to you if I had?"
His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Two bright spots of pink had bloomed on her cheeks, and her chest rose and fell rapidly with her breath; he realized that she was not nearly as calm nor as blasé as she wished him to believe. Very slowly a smile spread across his face.
"No, not at all," he said. "It would doubtless be none of my business."
Isobel gaped at him for a moment, and then recovered herself. "I’m glad to find you so reasonable."
His grin broadened. "As I am you," he said. "It is rare to find a woman of such rationality. I had not previously considered an affaire, as I thought you to be a woman of more conventional beliefs, but, given your offer, I can hardly refuse it. I would be delighted to have a closer relationship with you outside the bond of matrimony, Miss Paley."
"You would?" said Isobel.
"Certainly. After all, ‘when women are alluded to, virtue is too often considered in a very limited sense,’" quoted Lord Francis.
Isobel’s eyes widened when she realized he too had read Miss Wollstonecraft’s works.
"Oh. Yes. Certainly, I agree wholeheartedly," she said, a bit faintly.
"Then, since you are an old hand at this, how do you recommend we proceed?" asked Lord Francis cheerfully.
"Proceed?" asked Isobel.
"With our affaire," said Lord Francis. "Perhaps you would care to plan it? As you are a modern and independent woman, with experience in this area, perhaps I should allow you to take the lead."
"Oh." Isobel wondered frantically how one went about planning such a thing. "Thank you, Lord Francis, but I believe I will allow you to do so. It is often easier, unfortunately, for a man to make the arrangements."
Lord Francis bowed. "I am honored that you trust me," he said. "I will send a note to you soon to let you know how my plans are proceeding."
"Thank you," said Isobel blankly. She stared up at him. "Are you sure you wish to do this? After all, I thought—"
"You thought what, Miss Paley?" asked Lord Francis.
"Nothing, nothing at all," she replied. "Yes, do let me know what you have planned."
"With great pleasure, ma’am," he replied. "And now, I think we really must do more than shake hands on this matter."
Before Isobel realized what he was doing, he had drawn her to him again, and his hands circled her waist. His firm mouth hovered over hers.
"Kiss me Isobel," he whispered, then took her lips with passion, his mouth pressing hers open, and his tongue slipping inside to taste her. She gripped his broad shoulders and stood on tiptoe to better fit her mouth to his, their tongues tangling as she gave herself up to him. She felt her breasts grow tight and heavy, and when Francis pressed her to his chest, she stepped closer, longing to press her aching nipples against him. He moved one foot forward, forcing her to spread her feet a little, and then pressed a muscular thigh against the foaming muslin of her dress. His other hand crept downward to the gentle curves of her hip, then slid lower. She was shocked to feel him cupping her bottom with both hands, and pressing her hips forward, and still more astonished when her pelvis met his and she felt the unmistakable evidence of his arousal, long and hard against her. She attempted to step back, but Lord Francis stayed her.
"No, don’t pull away, I want to feel your softness all over," he said. His other hand crept up her ribs to just cup one breast, a thumb rubbing gently against the aching tip. Isobel pushed forward into his touch, seeking more to ease the ache in the puckered buds.
"We shall deal extremely well together, I can tell already," he whispered against her lips, and lifted his head to look down at her. Isobel was silent a moment, and then pulled herself together, looking up at him.
"I think you were just leaving, " she murmured. She felt a bit foolish but found herself at a loss for other words.
Lord Francis’ answering smile held a touch of amusement. "Until tomorrow then, Miss Paley," he said and, bowing politely, let the room.
Isobel heard the click of the door closing behind him, and stared at it, unseeing. Her lips and skin still tingled from Lord Francis’s ardent touch, and she quivered when she recalled the way he had pressed her against the unmistakably large and male bulge in his breeches. She felt her nipples pucker as she relived the startling sensations. She was a bit bewildered; how had she ended up both proposing and agreeing to an affaire with Lord Francis? His initial shock had given her the satisfaction she craved of startling him, but she had not expected him to then accept so readily. Though, she realized, she had led him to believe that this was not the first such affaire she had conducted.
Knotting her fingers, she paced the room. There seemed to be no way out without an acknowledgment that his lordship’s strategy had been superior, and he had won this particular clash between them. She set her lips; he was not to know that she was outmaneuvered. Surely Lord Francis, who was such a considerate gentleman, would rethink his acceptance. And if he did not—Isobel admitted to herself that their recent interactions had whetted her appetite.
Chapter 19
Lord Francis Wheaton in contrast, left Clarges Street with a jaunty air, smiling gently. Miss Paley’s spirit and independence, he realized, were two of the things that he admired about her. Though she had clearly not expected him to take up her challenge, she had, bravely, not backed down. Her confusion at his acceptance he found amusing and adorable, and had only served to make him more determined to wed her. He would send a note to her soon with arrangements for them to meet; he had every expectation that she would cry off, and then be delighted when he once again proposed marriage. A delay in his plans of a few days would hardly make a difference, and very soon Miss Paley would be Lady Francis Wheaton.
In the meantime, he had to determine quickly how to arrange their first assignation. It would not do for Isobel to think he did not appreciate her offer, but it was clearly impossible to have her come to Strancaster House, as it was full of servants. He very much doubted that she would keep the appointment, once made, but, on the chance that she did, he would have to h
ave an acceptable place to meet her. He walked towards the end of Clarges Street, and hailed a hackney when he neared Piccadilly, taking it to Pall Mall, where he strolled towards the newly opened Guards Club, a place where he could be sure to hear of the doings of many of his acquaintances. Scanning the rooms, his eye soon fell on Mr. Horace Worth, enjoying a glass of brandy with several other gentlemen.
"By Jove, it’s Francis Wheaton," Horace said. The group of men greeted him heartily, and the talk for some moments revolved around events unfolding in Europe.
After some time, Lord Francis caught Mr. Worth’s eye. "A word with you, Horace, if I might," he said.
"Certainly," said Mr. Worth. The two stepped away from the group, and Horace clapped Lord Francis jovially on the shoulder. "You never did come stay with me. Are you still rattling around that house in Grosvenor Square?"
"That was precisely what I came to speak to you about," said Lord Francis. "My brother and his wife were visiting, but they’ve returned to Strancaster. I’ve a mind to take you up on your offer."
"I’d enjoy your company," said Mr. Worth. "And, truth to tell, my pockets are to let these days, and so your presence would be doubly welcome."
Francis laughed. "I don’t mind helping you out, Horace. Especially if you’re willing to help me; there are times I might want some, er, privacy, if you take my meaning."
Horace gave him a knowing look. "Ah, you’ve found a paramour, have you? Is it Mrs. Dudley? She’s made it quite clear that she’d be pleased to try your paces."
Francis smiled easily. "Now, why do you think I would share the lady’s name with you?" he asked.
"You’re a devilish closed-mouthed fellow, Wheaton. But I won’t tax you further. And here we all thought you were going to offer for Miss Paley! I can’t say I’m sorry to see you having fun, though. Come by tomorrow and I’ll show you the place. I leave the next day for a week or so; I have to pay my respects to my mother and father. I haven’t seen them in months, and I’m hoping they might help me out of my difficulties."
"If you don’t mind me staying there in your absence, I’ll bring a bag," said Lord Francis.
"Lord no, perfectly happy to have you. And you’ll have plenty of time to entertain Mrs. Dudley." Mr. Worth leered at him, obviously hoping for details.
"You are incorrigible, Horace," said Lord Francis. "I will see you tomorrow." He shook Mr. Worth’s hand and departed, laughingly turning away his other friends’ entreaties that he share a glass of brandy with them. A smile curved the corner of his lips; he was well pleased with this afternoon’s work.
Two mornings later Isobel was at breakfast with Harriet, attempting to consume her toast with some façade of calmness. It had been nearly two full days since she had proposed an affaire to Lord Francis, and yet she had not heard from her. Her common sense told her that it would be difficult to arrange a meeting with an unmarried woman in enough privacy to allow the sort of behavior she had proposed, but her shock at her own conduct made her wonder if he had retreated from her in disgust. Of course, she told herself, it would not matter to her if Lord Francis were not interested in pursuing an affaire; it was merely curiosity that had prompted her to offer. If he was too conventional to take it up, that was hardly her concern.
A footman entered with the day’s correspondence on a silver salver, and Isobel glanced up, extending her hand.
"Thank you, Thomas," said Harriet, as he placed the elegant pile at her elbow.
Isobel eyed her cousin nervously as she sorted through the envelopes. "Is there anything for me?" she asked.
Harriet glanced up, surprised. "They’re all for you, dearest," she said, slicing a missive open with an ornate silver letter opener. "Only fancy, Mrs. Holmwood is holding a rout," she announced. "Perhaps we should attend."
"Perhaps," said Isobel, eying her cousin nervously. "You should eat your breakfast, Cousin. Would you like me to open the mail?"
"There’s no need for you to worry about it, dear, I don’t mind," said Harriet. She speared another envelope as Isobel watched her anxiously.
"Oh my, it is a letter from my aunt, Stella Parris. She’s the widow of Charles Parris; you will recall that he died in a carriage accident some years ago. I wonder how her children are?" said Harriet.
"You must read the letter and tell me," said Isobel, rising and coming around to the other side of the table. "I’m anxious to know how her daughter, Selina, is. She must be nigh on seventeen now and ready to come out."
"No, I don’t think she is seventeen, Isobel," countered Harriet. "She was born the year after her father died, and that was the year after my brother was married, and so—"
As Harriet performed her mathematics, Isobel whisked the envelopes away from her elbow, and returned with them to her place. "Do read the letter, and let me know," she said encouragingly.
"She would be fifteen this year," said Harriet triumphantly. She looked around to see Isobel opening an envelope, and with a small shrug began to peruse the letter.
Keeping one watchful eye on Harriet, Isobel sorted quickly through the mail, separating those that were clearly invitations or business. Near the bottom there was a plain, thin envelope, addressed to Miss Isobel Paley in a fine hand. She hastily sliced it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper. She read it hastily, and, folding it again, tucked it into her bodice.
"Selina is learning to play the pianoforte, and speaks French, but not so well as Stella would wish," Harriet informed her.
"What a pity," said Isobel. "But then, she may improve with time. Cousin, you must excuse me. My friend Lady Hartwell begs me to visit today. She has something she wishes to speak to me about."
"Dear Margaret," said Harriet vaguely, one eye on her letter. "Do say hello for me."
"I will," said Isobel, and slipped out of the dining room. She hurried to her bedchamber and opened the note again, reading it one more time before tucking it into her reticule. It was brief and discreet.
"If the lady would meet the gentleman to whom she entrusted her errand in Cavendish Square, near the entrance to the Mountjoy Buildings, at half one in the afternoon, he will engage to provide the requested services."
As Isobel contemplated the services Lord Francis would provide, she felt a distinct flush of heat and anticipation. She suppressed it firmly, and rang the bell for her maid.
As she waited for Babbidge, she confronted the vexing question of what to wear to an assignation. It must be a gown flattering enough to appeal to Lord Francis, yet unremarkable enough for her to enter and exit the Mountjoy Buildings unnoticed. A rather plain walking dress might do, she thought. The door opened, and Babbidge entered.
"Good morning Babbidge," Isobel said. "I must go out. Bring the dark green twill spencer, and the dun sarsenet walking dress with the matching braid trim around the hem. I’ll wear my chip hat with a ribbon to match."
"Miss Paley, that dress is almost three years old, and that bonnet hardly answers for Town. I’m not even sure that I brought it from Kitswold," answered the maid in a shocked tone.
"Lady Hartwell’s youngest is sick and she doesn’t trust the physician. I am going to see if I can help her with one of my remedies," Isobel lied baldly. "I don’t want to wear a newer dress, lest it be ruined if the child becomes ill on my clothing."
Babbidge looked unconvinced, but disappeared into Isobel’s dressing room to search for the requested garments.
"I think the chip hat is still in the country, Miss Paley," she said as she returned a few minutes later. "But, I did find this straw bonnet with a deep poke, and the ribbons and silk flowers on it will do nicely with that dress and spencer."
Isobel regarded the charming, and very modish, bonnet with some misgivings, but she hadn’t worn in it in the Park recently, and she decided that once she had covered it with a veil, it was unlikely to be recognized. "Very well Babbidge, that will do."
It was nearly an hour before Isobel emerged from her room, her hair done to her liking in a topknot with loose curls that
would not be disturbed by her head gear, and garbed discreetly in the out-of-date dress that had clearly caused Babbidge some agony to allow her mistress to wear out in public.
Isobel left Clarges Street in her own carriage, and was set down in Curzon Street near the house Lady Hartwell had taken for the Season. She hailed a hackney carriage, and proceeded to Cavendish Square, covering her bonnet during the ride with the veil she had concealed in her reticule. She had taken only a few paces towards the Mountjoy Buildings after she descended from the cab, when she saw Lord Francis Wheaton. A sudden surge of panic rose in her throat, and for a moment fleeing seemed an attractive option. She was still uncertain as to precisely how she had gotten herself into a situation that could be ruinous for an unmarried lady of fashion.
Chapter 20
Lord Francis Wheaton stood idly by a window, looking out into Cavendish Square.
Although he was watching for Isobel, he wondered more how she would contact him to tell him she would not be keeping their appointment. Despite her adventurous spirit, he had no doubts that she would balk at actually meeting a gentleman alone in his apartments, and that at their next meeting, he would be able to charm her out of her embarrassment and into an engagement. As he gazed abstractedly at the street, his mind on his approaching nuptials, a hackney drew up a few paces away from his building. A lady dressed well, if not in the first stare of fashion, emerged her face concealed by a heavily veiled bonnet. With a start, Lord Francis realized that it was Isobel. He bolted from the room and down the stairs to the street.
A Lady of Passion: Isobel's After Dark Regency Romance Page 15
