Besides, he didn’t think that her voice would sound like a siren’s sweet song. Though he knew that if he did involve himself with her, he could possibly face the same fate as all of the men that were lured by the siren’s song. Instead of him ruining Isabella, she just might be the death of him. But hell, at least he would die a happy man.
Chapter Eleven
Isabella bolted out of the bed, and stood unsteadily on her feet. She leaned her knees against the mattress, and stared angrily at Christopher.
“You, sir, are worse than the men at Napoleon’s court,” she said, razing him with her acerbic tongue, and her glowering look.
This time, however, she realized that she had let her tongue wag too far. The glare he was serving her was downright murderous. Realizing that he still had that blasted pistol of his tucked safely underneath his pillow, her eyes darted toward the door. She edged away from the bed, and tried to keep herself from panicking. Without her magic, she was the helpless little lamb, and he, the hungry wolf.
He wouldn’t actually do her in, would he? He’d changed drastically in the time since she’d known him. He’d hardened.
She had nearly reached the latch, when his hand reached out for her. He encircled her waist in an impressive grip, and she was brought back up to his chest. The movement was so quick and powerful, that her teeth rattled inside of her head, and her insides turned to fire. His strength sent her senses reeling.
Dear God, he could react quicker than any other man she had ever known.
“You are very fortunate, that I am so fond of you.” He nibbled the edge of her earlobe, and she nearly fainted away with the excruciating ecstasy of it all.
Blast the bloody man!
Dear God, she wished that he’d show her all of the delightful things that mouth of his was meant for.
“You should learn to treat me with some semblance of respect,” she spat out, while she dangled uselessly in mid-air. She’d never really noticed how tall he was, until this moment.
“You are right,” he paused, and she grunted her frustration, as he breathed against her neck.
“I usually am. You will learn that lesson well in the days to come,” she said quickly, earning a half-hearted chuckle from him.
“’Course that means that I shouldn’t be holding you in such a familiar manner,” he said traipsing over to the bed, and dropping her onto it. “In the future, if you believe that I am treating you with disrespect, you need only say. I wouldn’t want you to go and tattle on me to your relatives. And, let’s just make one other thing clear, Bella, I will not be the one forcing you to do anything…so you needn’t look at me with fear in your eyes. I don’t care for that look.” He turned his back on her. “I’ll leave you on the bed, perhaps you should lay down on your back, I’m sure that you’ll feel much more comfortable in that familiar position.” Her eyes widened incredulously, as her breath caught in her throat. “After all, I have no doubt that you spent most of your time in France on your back, with your legs…” Her heart stopped at his malicious words. He wanted to hurt her with his words. He’d made it clear to her that he wouldn’t even consider hurting her physically, but the word game seemed to be his chosen poison of the day.
Within one whirling head spinning moment, she had recovered herself, and she was on her feet. She opened her hand, just as he said the word, legs, and belted him solidly across the cheek.
“Watch your tongue, Lord Wyndham! You are not only a Wolf…you are a monster! You, sir, disgust me! To think I once called you a Saint!” He flexed his jaw, and raised his hand to it, as disbelief flooded his eyes. His mouth was gaping open, and she was trembling with the might of her fury.
“Raising my ire twice in one morning is a feat of great tenacity and courage. Even my fully grown subordinates, have never tried anything so foolish,” he said coolly, raking her with his smoldering midnight black eyes. When he was furious his eyes deepened to opaque, and she resisted the urge to shudder.
This man was by far the most dangerous man, she had ever met. If she weren’t careful, he would strip her down, and make her fall to pieces.
He clenched his hands at his sides, and her eyes fell to them, as she tried to think of something to break the awkward silence.
“I shall not tolerate such slanderous, belittling, and mean spirited words. My lord, I am a virtuous woman, of noble birth, and royal blood, however much it may be diluted. You shall in future remember that and you will think before you speak.”
“I always think before I speak. Perhaps, I should follow your rules and act the part of a total lack wit.”
“I despise you, sir, and I revile myself for ever putting you up on a pedestal. I can’t believe I adored you so…I can’t believe I was that foolish!” He had swaggered over to his desk, and was at this moment angrily putting his quill to paper. “Believe what you choose to. But no matter how you may think of me, I am an honourable lady, and I have become the woman that my family always hoped I would be.”
“Oh, you have become a woman all right. But don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You by no stretch of the imagination resemble my kind hearted aunt. Besides, you may not have your magic right now, but I’m sure you could still mesmerize any man into sharing your bed. But heed this warning, I am not any man. I will not be taken in by your charms without a fight.”
His words stung her to. How could he continue being so cruel to her when he had known her in another life?
She let out a long-suffering groan, and flopped down into the Jacobean style chair.
“Christopher,” she mused, tapping her finger thoughtfully against her temple. “I know you are a lord,” she said, seeking to have some fun with him, “but what exactly is your title? It’s a courtesy one if recollection serves me…”
She watched with delight as he turned his attention to her. Irritation lit his glorious eyes, and she wanted to dance around the room with her joy.
“I shan’t play this game with you,” he muttered.
“Let me see…does your Papa let you use a barony as your title, or are you a baronet? Or…could you be a viscount?”
She watched as his ire rose. “Of course…that’s it. You’re a Viscount.”
She waited, with bated breath for his outcry. And blessed be, he wasn’t going to disappoint her.
“I am not a Viscount,” he said. A muscle was twitching in his jaw now, and his writing had become somewhat forced.
“Are you quite certain you’re not a viscount? I seem to recall dear Merryville saying that he was a baron or something like that… Oh, dear me, I have quite forgotten. Anyway, he’s Lord Merryville, isn’t that right?”
“I am not a viscount, and yes, Merryville is a viscount by courtesy. His father is an earl.”
“Yes, that’s it,” she said, not missing one beat.
“If I refresh your obviously dotty memory, will you stop pestering me? I’m being sorely taxed by your infernal blabbering. Will you vow to leave me alone, if I do clear a few things up for you?”
“That depends.” She smiled sweetly at him.
“On what?” he asked, pushing his chair back. The early morning sunlight glinted through the window, and haloed his dark mop of waves in a breathtaking light. She had momentarily forgotten to breathe, and then she felt the heat of his gaze on her, she flinched slightly. She loved his eyes, God help her. But what she didn’t like about his eyes was the uncanny effect they had on her when he pinned them at her.
“It depends on whether or not I like the answer,” she said cheekily, as he began stalking toward her.
“Now listen up, my little Duchess,” he said, wagging his index finger at her, as she subtly lifted one eyebrow.
“I am all ears. I like it when you call me a duchess…now there you have it. My title is higher than yours.”
His face flushed, and for one brief second, she believed that she’d finally succeeded in her quest to unnerve him. He was an implacable man, and the only time he showed any human warmth or passio
n, was when he was trying to get up her dress. Really, the man needed to be around women more often. She could tell that he was working his fingers to the bone. Even now, he had slight shadows beneath his eyes. It was as if, he thought he was on a one-man mission to rid the continent of Napoleon. Silly man, if he had personally met Napoleon other than their little escapade in the carriage with him, he would realize that the little Corsican’s will matched his perfectly.
“You should know exactly what my title is. It hasn’t changed in the time since you were a lass. I thought that you were brighter than what you seem to be…but then, I guess your time with the French has addled your brain, and your dunking in the English Channel couldn’t have helped. Water isn’t good for witches, or something like that, eh?”
She sighed. “There is nothing addled about my brain. I know that you hold a marquessate. You are Christopher Brandon, Marquess of Wyndham. It is a courtesy title from your father who is the Duke of Covington,” she said succinctly, smiling when he drew in his breath sharply. “I could never forget you, Christopher. You are…nay, you were the hero of my dreams, and know you seem to be the monster of my nightmares.”
“I think you’ve said quite enough.” His voice was remarkably calm. She knew though, that it was only the calm before one hell of a storm came her way.
She stared at him in stony silence. She lost interest in his constipated expression after a short while and stared down in consternation at the brown wrapped package she held in her hands.
“Why did you have someone else bring me clothing?” she asked, turning her gaze toward him. She could only imagine how common these ready-made gowns would be.
“Because you can’t go trotting around town in that,” he said pointing to his dressing gown, which she wore. “And the dress you nearly drowned in has definitely seen far better days.”
“Your forced civility humours me, Christopher,” she said, through clenched teeth. She carefully took the wrapping off the package. She gaped at the dress that was staring out at her, and had to pull her gaze away, lest it make her feel nauseous.
“Whatever is the matter now?” he asked, shoving her aside. “It’s a dress,” he said gesturing to it. “I know that it might not be up to your fashionable tastes, but alas we are not in London or Paris, my lady. You will take what has been graciously fetched for you.” He dropped into a mocking bow, as she stamped her foot angrily.
“Listen to me you idiot.” She pointed at the foul dress and stood but an inch away from him. “That is garish and revolting. I do not know where Merryville managed to procure that from, but I wouldn’t be caught dead in that frock!” She nearly shrieked. She finally noticed how close she was to him, and backed away, even though he stalked toward her as if he were the predator and she was the prey.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she watched as he picked up the package, and moved to shove it into her open arms.
“You will wear what Merryville bought for you, Isabella!” he ordered, his face reddening with anger.
“I do not see why I couldn’t have chosen my own wardrobe,” she said stiffly, as the package weighed heavily in her hands. “Surely, something better than that could have been procured.” She decided there and then that she wouldn’t wear it…Christopher would be wearing it over his bloody head before she wore it on her body.
“I will not wear it.” She pushed the package toward him.
“Yes, you will,” he said pushing it back toward her.
“I won’t,” she insisted, shoving it back toward him.
“You will.”
“I won’t.” She stuck out her lower lip, into a pout that had always broken Pierre.
“Then, you may strut naked through the town for all that I care,” he said steadfastly.
“You are revolting, much like this dress. I can’t wear this colour. It will clash with my hair.”
“I don’t think that Elphinstone, or anyone else for that matter will give an Emperor’s fat arse what you are wearing,” he grumbled, turning away, but not before she caught the hesitation in his eyes.
Grumbling in French, she flounced behind the large dressing screen and decided to give it a go.
“I take it that you’re wearing it, then?” he called after her.
“I shall, but mustard is not my colour, and the pink on it…it is not pleasing to the eye,” she ranted, scowling as he chuckled softly.
“Right. I’ll try to remember that for future reference!”
She slumped against the wall, and rested her head in her hands. She could still hear him moving about in the room, and muttering in gibberish low enough that she couldn’t hear one bit of it. After a while, she heard the door open and close.
She straightened up, still staring at the ugly frock she held in her hands. Summoning her courage, she walked to the edge of the long screen and checked the room and found that he had indeed left.
Now she felt sulky. How could he have left her, without even asking for a by your leave! Well, the man was more arrogant than she had originally given him credit for. Her stomach growled, as her eyes dropped back down to the dress.
As much as she hated to admit it, Christopher had been right, when he had said that she didn’t have anything else to wear. The dress wasn’t that bad, aside from the colour it seemed to be somewhat in style.
She undid her dressing gown, and slipped out of it in a blink of an eye. She had a little difficulty managing to get the dress on without Daphne’s assistance, but when she did, she felt enormously proud of herself. She twirled in front of the cheval mirror, and then raised a hand to her hair.
She had no comb or brush, and she’d have to make do with her fingers. She scrunched her face up, as she began moving her fingers through her hair.
There was a tentative knock at the door, and she turned her head, wincing when she hit another snag.
“Come,” she called out, as she began trying to work a knot out of her thick hair.
A short thin maid entered the room, carrying a tray brimming with food. She was balancing it precariously, and nearly had a mishap before she managed to settle it down onto the table.
“Lord Wyndham asked that breakfast be served promptly at nine o’clock,” The maid said curtsying quickly.
Isabella’s stomach rumbled again. The pixie faced maid stared in awe at her.
Feeling uncomfortable beneath the maid’s blue gaze, Isabella turned away.
“Thank you. That will be all,” she said, as the maid set out the plates, and the silverware.
“You don’t sound French, my lady,” The maid mused tilting her head to one side. Then her eyes widened as she realized that she might have unconsciously committed a social faux pas.
“What is your name?” Isabella asked, sighing with relief as she worked out the stubborn knot.
“Betsy, my lady,” the maid said, blushing from ear to ear.
“I’m part French. But that is all you need to know. It isn’t healthy for one’s constitution to listen to vicious gossip,” Isabella advised. She sat down and flung her thick loose hair over her shoulder.
“No, my lady, you are right,” Betsy muttered ducking out of the room.
Isabella grunted, and reached for some ham and eggs. She had just tucked into her food, when the door opened. She dropped her fork and stared up into Christopher’s smiling eyes.
Oh aye, this was definitely not going to be good for her digestion.
His eyes were twinkling with a joke that only he could understand, and though she still held her knife in her other hand, it was frozen in mid-air. She knew she was gawking like a besotted young girl, but if she’d thought he was handsome yesterday, he had certainly outdone himself today.
His thick wavy black hair was delightfully windswept, and his dark eyes glittered with good humour, instead of the usual discontent. He was wearing a similar outfit to what he had been wearing yesterday, and her mouth became dry, as she quickly licked her lips.
He swaggered into the room, and she kn
ew her eyes were glued to him, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She brought herself to her senses long enough to gingerly reach for her freshly poured cup of tea. She nearly sloshed it down the front of her dress, and smiled ruefully as she decided that it wouldn’t have been such a bad idea to do.
“The food looks delicious,” he said, washing his hands in a nearby basin, and then settling into the chair opposite her.
Finally, she forced her eyes to stare down at her eggs and ham. Carefully, she cut a mouth-sized piece of ham, and delicately slipped it into her mouth.
He piled a heap of it onto his plate, and then began to tuck into it as if he hadn’t eaten in days. She didn’t know what to say to him. He had been to the shops that much she could tell just by looking at the several packages he’d been carrying. Her hair flopped into her face, and she nearly chewed on a strand when it slipped into her open mouth. Grimacing, she pulled it out of her mouth, and sighed impatiently. This just would not do. She’d have to find something to tie her hair back with.
After a few moments of feeling distinctly ill at ease, she looked up, and discovered Christopher staring at her thoughtfully.
“You were right.” He spoke as if he hadn’t wanted to make the admission but did so grudgingly. “That dress certainly does nothing for you. In fact you’re quite an eye sore in it.”
“Upon my word, Christopher, with those kinds of compliments you are certainly on the road to swelling my head to oversized proportions.”
I…none of the shops I went to had anything ready to wear…I thought I might be able to buy something that had been made as a sample, alas, there was nothing. So I went to Mrs. Cornwell, and she had a few frocks that she was able to part with. She is more or less your size, so they should fit you.”
He set his knife and fork down and then reached for a couple of the parcels. “These should wrench you out of your persnickety mood,” he said, thrusting them at her.
“Thank you, Christopher.”
He smiled at her. “Mrs. Cornwell, also had a redingote for you as well that she says you can keep. We shall have dresses made for you once we reach London.”
The Duchess and the Spy Page 14
